The Pool of Two Moons (13 page)

Someone dragged him along the floor, and he curled around his ropes, fear freezing his blood. He was tossed in a heap, then the ropes were mercifully cut free. Douglas was able to struggle free of the sacking, gulping great mouthfuls of clean air and rubbing the grime from his caked eyelashes. With an effort he got to his feet and stared at his captors with mingled dismay and horror. They were tall, winged creatures with huge clusters of eyes, out-thrusting proboscis, and three pairs of multi-jointed, clawed arms.

"So, another pupil for our Theurgia," a female voice said. "And a Talented one at that!" Douglas spun round, staggered and almost fell. With his jaw clenched, he stared defiantly at the woman reclining on a great throne before him. She wore a heather-purple plaid over a black silk gown, with a silver brooch in the shape of a flowering thistle at her breast.

"Who are ye?" Douglas demanded, his voice cracking. "How dare ye bring me here against my will. Ye have no right!"

She laughed, a sweet, silvery sound that brought ice trickling through his veins. "I am the Banprionnsa o'

Arran, and I can do whatever I like, my young cockerel. Ye are in the Tower o' Mists now, surrounded on all sides by the Murkmyre Marshes. Ye can no' escape."

"How dare ye kidnap me! My father will be angry indeed. I am the Prionnsa Douglas MacSeinn, and ye have no right bringing me here against my will. Take me home at once!"

"To Carraig, my loud young laird? I have no desire to lose yet another bright Talent to the wicked, murdering Fairgean. Nay, nay, ye'll be safer here than in Carraig."

"I want to go back to my father!" Douglas shouted, his fists clenched. •

"Come, Douglas," the banprionnsa smiled, "where are your manners? Do ye no' realize ye are come to the last Theurgia in the land? Here ye will be taught to use all that Talent I sense in ye. Indeed, ye are o'

the best and noblest o' blood and should have a rare potential for witchcraft and witchcunning. I have the best teachers in the land, and my library is incomparable. Ye shall be a great warlock and learn to wield the One Power—"

"No," Douglas cried, "I canna stay here, my father needs me."

"Ye have made dangerous enemies for one so young," Margrit smiled, causing Douglas's heart to sink. With a chill he remembered his hasty words at the Righ's high table. Was that what the Banprionnsa of Arran meant? He had criticized the Righ's Decree Against Witchcraft which had led to the death of so many witches, among them the Sea Witches of Carraig. Many of the sea witches had had the ability to bewitch the Fairgean with song, and their death had meant the most potent weapon against the sea people was lost. He knew his ill-considered words had caused a minor scandal, for the whispers had raced around the great hall faster than a bumblebee could fly. His own father had berated him later, reminding him they were being housed and fed by the Righ and it was rude as well as stupid to castigate him while living under his roof. Douglas had blushed and apologized and thought no more about it, but now he began to wonder.

"Ye must take me home, my poor father will be frantic! I do no' want to join your Theurgia. I demand to be taken back to Rhyssmadill!"

The Banprionnsa of Arran threw back her head and laughed, sending icicles creeping down his spine. A young man standing irresolutely against the wall made frantic silencing motions with his hands. Douglas stared at him angrily. He was shabbily dressed, with ink stains on his fingers, so that Douglas thought he must be some sort of scribe. He put his finger to his lips again, gazing at him so pleadingly that Douglas swallowed the indignant words he had been about to shout.

"Ye will learn, my foolish lad, no' to make demands^ o' Margrit o' Arran," the banprionnsa said kindly.

"Khan'tirell! Take the lad away and give him a good whipping for his insolence. Then lock him up with naught but a heel o' bread and a flagon o' water until I see fit to release him." Douglas tried to escape, of course. Over the next few days he twice evaded the relentless observation of the banprionnsa's servants and was dragged in from the marshes by a Mesmerd, muddy, cold and, although he would never have admitted it, frightened. The first time Margrit showed him three small skeletons hanging from the lintel of the Theurgia's tower. They had been executed by the banprionnsa's chamberlain after staging a rebellion.

"Bright as your Talent is, I shall no' suffer any defiance," she said, smiling kindly. "Do no' try and escape again."

Perhaps it was the smile that had deceived him. Douglas tried again as soon as he was allowed out of solitary confinement. That time Margrit left him for a day and a night in her oubliette, a lightless hole sunk twenty feet below the ground. Before he was lowered into that dark, terrifying closeness, she had nodded to Khan'tirell. The horned man had drawn his dagger and with easy economy slit the throat of one of the other students, a sturdy little crofter's daughter. She had been the one with the least Talent.

"Defy me again and another child shall die," Margrit said. "Ye see, I sense power in ye, lad, and will no'

lightly let ye slip my fingers."

Douglas was not deceived by the smile that accompanied her words this time. When he was at last drawn up out of his cramped, dark prison, his face was set as if carved out of white marble. Both hands were crabbed all over with black trickles of blood from where he had dug in his nails. Yet Khan'tirell drew his angular brows together and said to the banprionnsa, "He is still only a youth, fifteen o' the long darkness, if that. He either had help through the night or is a dangerous youth indeed. Older and stronger men have been broken by the pit."

Margrit grasped Douglas by his thick black hair and pulled his head back until he was on his knees, back arched, eyes upturned to hers. She stared deep into his sea-green eyes and saw pain enough to please her. She drew her thin brows together, quirked her mouth and let him go. "He is a MacSeinn," she shrugged. "I would have expected inner reserves. His apprenticeship has begun. Feed him, wash him and let him lie in quietness for a while. When he wakes, remind him the Mesmer-dean fly the marshes, the bogfaeries guard the fens, the golden goddess blooms in glorious death, and my eyes are everywhere. He shall submit to my will."

Douglas had not endured the night altogether alone. He had been crouched in shuddering silence when he had heard the faint sounds of the iron cover being hauled away. He'd tensed and looked up; someone was leaning over the dim hole far above.

Do no' be afraid . . .
Words had slipped into his mind as a bulky package was lowered to him on a long piece of string. He scrabbled at it with urgent fingers and found the waxy texture of a candle. He kept searching but to his dismay there was no tinderbox.

Immediately, the candle lit with a blue spark, startling him so he dropped it. He cursed, and in his mind heard someone say,
Sorry. I forgot ye probably did no' ken how to conjure fire. Hold the candle
still, 1II light it again.

The candle flickered into life again, and by its light Douglas saw a hunk of fine bread, some fish, a fresh bellfruit and, best of all, a bottle of goldensloe wine, all wrapped in a thick but faded plaid. "Who are ye?" he whispered. There was no way the person leaning over the manhole far above could have heard him, but he was answered.

Hush now. We can talk later. I could no' leave ye there in such distress. If anyone comes, do what
ye can to hide the plaid, for they'll ken it is mine
...

Then the manhole slammed shut, leaving Douglas to the precarious flicker of the candle. He sat shakily and s drank some wine, then wrapped the plaid about him. Later he was able to eat, and the occasional small sip of wine was like a mouthful of summer light. The candle dwindled quickly, but after it sank away he slept. When he woke to stiffness and fear and pain, the memory of the voice in the darkness was there to give him hope.

His unknown friend had returned later to draw up the bundle.
Do no' defy the banprionnsa,
the mind-voice had whispered.
Speak with courtesy and scheme in silence. It is the only way . . .
Douglas had many long days to wonder about the identity of his secret friend. Their lessons ran from dawn to dusk, with only a break for a meager lunch at noon. The twenty-seven students of the Theurgia were kept within one tower—four rooms built one on top of the other and connected by rickety wooden ladders that could be drawn up when not in use. Their rooms were cold and damp, the mist rising off the Murkfane seeming to seep into their very bones. The banprionnsa was prone to unexpected visits and exams; their teachers were in turns morose, sarcastic and wrathful, and there was never ever enough food.

Douglas was the eldest of the children, and his courage in outfacing the banprionnsa had made him a hero among them, so he easily ruled them from the very moment he arrived. Closest to him in age was Gilliane Nic-Aislin, who had been stolen with her little sister Ghislaine while traveling to Dun Eidean to stay at the prionnsa's castle. They were the nieces of the MacTha-nach of Blessem himself and were able to trace their lineage back to Aislinna the Dreamer, mother to daughter for a thousand years. There was a boy from Ravenshaw whose grandmother had been a NicBrann; the daughter of a thigearn stolen from Tireich's shore by pirates; three children from Ri-onnagan whose apprentice-witch aunt had died in the Burning. Another student came from Aslinn and showed clear signs of faery blood in her angular face and long, multijointed fingers. Yet another had only one eye, centered in features as blunt as if hewn from stone, all scaled with silvery lichen. He had been born of a rape on the Day of Reckoning, his corrigan mother left for dead by the soldiers. Of all the children he was the most sincere in his protestations of gratitude, for the Mesmer-dean had saved him from being stoned to death. Most came from Blessem, the children of lesser lairds and barons, rich merchants and tradesmen. One was the child of a crofter, born of a long line of cunning men and village warlocks. It had been his sister who had died under the chamberlain's knife, and he was frozen still in grief and horror. Quite a few came from Tirsoilleir, where witchcraft had been banned for so long it was a wonder Margrit of Arran had been able to find any with Talent. They were wary, sullen children, quick to take offence, and scorning the others for their heathenish ways.

Douglas had only the occasional mind-conversation with his secret friend to sustain him through his homesickness and fear, as well as unexpected relish in the lessons in Craft and Cunning. He learnt faster than even his teachers suspected, urged on by the unknown voice.

It did not take long for Douglas to realize he was not the only one receiving comfort and hope from his mysterious friend. Every few nights someone penetrated the tower while the children slept, hiding small gifts of food and toys. The gifts were always tucked out of sight where none but the children would find them—in the woodpile, under the bundle of rags the girls pretended was a doll, behind the atlas. This was the most popular book in the schoolroom, for not only was it one of the few to have brightly colored pages in it to amuse the smaller ones, but even the eldest children hung over the maps of their countries, dreaming of home. It had seemed clear to Douglas that only someone who watched the children with sympathy would have seen these things, and he was sure it was the same person who had given him the candle and wine.

One night Douglas waited until the tower was still and dark, then he hid in the schoolroom. After more than an hour he was just deciding to go to bed when he heard a faint noise. He crouched low and heard the door open. Someone came silently in. Unsure whether to light his candle or not, Douglas paused, his thoughts hurrying. The quiet footsteps stopped, then the voice said in his mind,
Hush, make no' a sound,
she will be listening . . .

Trying not to even breathe, Douglas crouched obediently still. There were one or two muffled sounds, then a long silence. He was all pins and needles when at last a flame flickered up in the hearth. It was then that he realized his secret friend was the thin, stooped, stammering young man with the ready blush and uncontrollable Adam's apple that ,had gestured to him in the throne room. Douglas had often seen him wandering the grounds with a book tucked under his arm and had envied him his freedom. Douglas opened his mouth to speak but the gangly young man held up a hand, quickly drew a shape about the hearthstone with an ash-smeared finger and beckoned Douglas forward. Stumbling with cramp, the boy obeyed. He sat cross-legged where directed, staying silent as the other scribbled some more in the ashes and sprinkled what looked like salt about.

At last the young man turned about, smiled shyly, rubbed his grubby hand down his shirt and offered it to Douglas, saying, "We can t-t-talk now, the circle is c-c-closed and ashes, salt and earth well-scattered. I am Iain. Be careful n-n-no' to let any part o' your b-b-body pass outside the circle and star, else the s-s-spell will be b-b-b-broken."

They talked half the night that first meeting. The next day, though his jaw cracked with yawning, Douglas listened with even greater concentration to the dried-up warlock teaching them. He had decided his only chance to escape was to listen to Iain, who told him he would need to know much about magic and its applications before he could hope to escape Margrit of Arran.

They had met seven or more times before Douglas thought to notice the heather weave of Iain's shabby kilt, or his distinctive thistle badge. Only then did he realize his dreamy midnight visitor was the Prionnsa Iain MacFoghnan of Arran, heir to the Tower of Mists.

His first reaction was one of shock and suspicion, but as Iain pointed out, if he had wanted to trap Douglas into indiscretion, would he have worn his kilt? Or brought him goldensloe wine?

"In f-f-fact," Iain said, "I want t-t-to escape this place as m-m-much as ye do." He tried to describe to Douglas what it was like to have grown up alone in the middle of the Murkmyre, with no companions but the endless procession of tutors. If it had not been for his books and the mysterious beauty of the marshes, Iain thought he might have tried to kill himself. He had tried to run away several times, but he was closely watched and guarded. Then he told Douglas that his mother had found a bride for him, against his will, and had already poisoned her mind against him.