The Pool of Two Moons (18 page)

Within a few minutes Isabeau was up and dressed in the same outfit as the maid—a gray bodice with a wide skirt over voluminous petticoats, a white pinafore tied over the top. Used as she was to breeches, Isabeau felt like a swaddled babe. Jerking her chin round with one rough, chapped hand, Sukey swiftly tied the white cap on over her shorn head and under her chin. Isabeau put her hand up to her head and felt another pang of grief.

Before she came to Rhyssmadill, her hair had been a mass of fiery ringlets that fell all the way to her feet. However, Latifa had cut it all off in an attempt to bring down her fever. Without the weight and mass of her hair, Isabeau's fever had broken, but she found it hard to forgive the old cook for the loss of her only real beauty. She looked at herself in the mirror and could not see herself in the thin, hunched figure with the pinched face and white cap.

Still talking, Sukey led the way down stone corridors and stairs until they reached the kitchen, which was built in a long low wing away from the main structure of the palace. The massive kitchen took up most of the first floor, surrounded by storerooms, larders, the buttery, the brewery, the curing room, the wine cellar, the cheese room, the herbary where flowers and seeds were hung to dry, and the ice room where jellies and sherbets were made and fresh meat hung. Scullery maids hurried through the corridors, carrying piles of clean linen or steaming pails, and two men staggered past with a great barrel of ale. Sukey led Isabeau inexorably to the kitchen, which was filled with people tending smoke-blackened ovens, stirring steaming cauldrons on the fires, washing dirty dishes or slicing up vegetables. One was energetically plucking a bhanais bird, the long iridescent tail-feathers stretching across the table. Isabeau's legs were shaking and she was glad to sink down onto a stool in a corner. She was aware of curious glances from the servants working near her, but all were too busy to pay her much heed, and soon their thoughts returned to the task in hand. Her cheeks stung red at some of their thoughts, but they were no worse than what she had thought herself at the sight of her reflection in the mirror. She leaned her head against the warm stone and closed her eyes.

"Och, guid, ye're up and about." Latifa stopped by Isabeau's corner. "Come, ye can stir a sauce for me and watch to make sure the spit-dogs run smoothly."

Isabeau had never seen anything like the little dogs which trotted incessantly forward in their wooden wheels, turning the great roasts on their spits. She was unused to dogs, having seen only the rare shaggy sheepdog in the mountain villages. These two dogs were not much bigger than cats, with flop ears and motley-colored hides. One had a wiry coat, all brindled, with a black patch over one eye, giving him rather a rakish look. The other was mainly white, with silky ears, and short, spotted legs. Latifa passed her a thin, supple cane and told her she was to whip them if they slowed or stopped to scratch or salivated too eagerly at the ever-present smell of meat. Isabeau took it reluctantly and tucked it out of sight as she approached them. Heads hanging, they trotted forward, never varying their pace; their thin flanks were cut and scarred all over.

As Isabeau came near, the little dogs cowered away from her, and she put the switch down. "What are your names, laddies?" she whispered. They cast a glance at her out of dim eyes, and she patted them gently on the head, anger mixing with her pity when they cringed away. Conscious of the other servants watching her, she took up her place on the stool and slowly stirred the creamy sauce in a large, flat pan tucked on the side of the massive fireplace. The heat and the smell of the cooking meat sickened her—it was all she could do not to retch—but Latifa was right, Isabeau had already drawn too much attention to herself with her delirium and her crippled hand. Isabeau was meant to be masquerading as a simple country lass, sent to the city by her grandmother to take up service. The sooner she started acting the part the better. Still, as she stirred and the dogs ran on, heads hanging, a tear slipped out from under her lashes and trickled down her cheek.

The smell of burning penetrated her dazed senses just seconds before a sharp slap across her ear brought her back to earth with a snap. Tears stinging her eyes, Isabeau jerked upright to see one of the lackeys standing over her. Beside her, the sauce had caught, and one side of the great boar was smoking, the black-patched terrier having taken the opportunity for a vigorous scratch.

"Ye simple-minded fool!" the lackey shouted. He went to strike her again, though Isabeau escaped the blow, tumbling off her stool and to her feet iii ungainly haste. The other servants gathered around, exclaiming and commiserating, and one of the maids went running to fetch Latifa. Isabeau slipped away, holding her hand to her cheek, the other clenched to her breast. As she escaped out through the massive arch and into the herb garden, she heard the dogs whimpering as the lackey whipped them. The long, walled garden was empty of all but a hunched old man tending the beehives lined against the far wall. Isabeau was able to hurry unseen to the shelter of the apple trees espaliered along the wall's length, all budding with new leaves. She crouched on the muddy path behind the hedge of rosemary, her hand to her burning cheek, her head pressed against her knees. They were trembling. After a while, the sun on her back, the contented hum of bees in the flowers, the familiar and comforting smell of earth and crushed herbs, all combined to soothe her. She wiped her wet cheeks on her apron and sat back against the trunk of an apple tree.

"Ye've got your skirt all muddied, lassie. Latifa will no' be liking that at all." Startled, Isabeau looked up and saw the bow-legged old man leaning on his spade in the herb bed a few squares away. Then she looked down and saw that he was right. Her gray skirt, so fresh and clean only an hour ago, was now bedraggled with mud.

"Ye've got mud on your cheek too, lassie." Involuntarily, tears sprang up in Isabeau's eyes again. "Now, now, lassie, no need to be greetin'. Come and wash your face, and I'll lend ye my clothes brush." He led her through the garden and out through the arched gateway into a wide paved courtyard. She had dim memories of coming this way when she had first arrived at Rhyssmadill, but the fever had had her in its claws and all she could remember was the endless stone walkway she had had to traverse to get to the kitchen from the bridge over the chasm.

From the left came the sounds of the stables and kennels—laughter, shouts, the whinnying of horses, the sound of a blacksmith hammering steel, the clang of buckets, the barking of hounds. Just as Isabeau shrank back, the old man took her hand kindly. They passed through a narrow doorway into a little suite of rooms, quiet and dim. He had once been head groom at Lu-cescere, he explained to Isabeau. He had come to Rhyssmadill with the young Righ, and had been given this wee corner of the stables to himself, so he could potter around as he pleased.

A small walled enclosure lay beyond. There another garden flourished, though in old tubs and buckets rather than beautifully set out in squares and triangles like the kitchen garden. Although herbs were grown here too, the tubs mostly held riotous growths of wild flowers. Isabeau gave a tremulous smile, for here were many of the flowers she knew, the small, fragrant blossoms of the meadows and forests.

"This is my secret place," the old man said rather apologetically. "I miss the highlands, and so have taken to buying roots and seeds from the pedlars when they pass. My name is Riordan Bowlegs, while I can see ye canna be anything but the Red."

"I be named Isabeau," she replied shyly.

In the courtyard was a pump, and he worked it for her so she could wash her face and hands. She unhooked the skirt so she could more easily brush off the mud, sitting on a barrel in her underdress and bodice and pulling off her cap so her shorn head could feel the sun. She had tucked her crippled hand under her apron all the way from the garden; now she carefully concealed it by her side, hoping Riordan Bowlegs had not noticed.

If he had, he ignored it, bringing her a cup of water to drink. It was warm and tasted of earth.

"There be a natural spring o' water under the rock," the old man explained. "That be another reason why the MacCuinn moved his court here. They pump up the water from the very depths o' the rock. In the royal suite ye have the choice o' seawater or fresh, they say, and ye can even have it warmed for ye, which is too uncanny close to witchcraft for my liking."

"Why would ye want to bathe in seawater?"

"Bloody guid question, lassie, I often ask it myself. They say it be healthful, and an aid to beauty, and indeed ye might believe it, with the Banrigh so bonny and fresh still. Though if so, our puir MacCuinn should be bathing in it, for he grows thinner and more pinched-looking each day. They say he will no'

though, having a healthy misliking for the sea, as a MacCuinn should." Isabeau sipped her water thoughtfully, filing away this odd fact for future reference as the old man chattered on. "There was an auld castle built here, o' course, before the MacCuinn brought the court down from Lu-cescere. It was the MacBrann's castle, built in the days when he commanded the harbor. It's too guid a position, here on this great rock, and surrounded on all sides by the firth, for there no' to have been a stronghold here. With its own water supply and escape routes out the sea-caves, 'tis near as strong as Lucescere. Indeed, if it had no' been, I doubt many o' us auld ones would have come with him from the Shining Waters, for RhyssmadiU is far too close to the sea for our liking. I canna see how the folks o' Dun Gorm can stand it, living down there on the bare shores o' the firth. Ye canna call those puny walls much protection from the Fairgean."

Riordan Bowlegs paused in his slow weeding and pruning to say thoughtfully, "I mean no disrespect, Red, but had ye no' better be hurrying back to the kitchen? I have known Latifa for a long time syne, and she does no' like to be kept waiting."

Isabeau jumped to her feet in a panic, having completely forgotten her mishap in the kitchen. "Thank ye," she gasped, hooking up her skirt. "I'm sorry to have bothered ye."

"No, bother, lass. Glad to have been o' service. Here, do no' forget your cap." Isabeau took her muslin bonnet gratefully and tied it on again in haste. Riordan said softly, "Some advice, Red. Latifa does no' like to have lassies under her that do no' own up to misdoing. Face her square, and she'll no' be too hard on ye."

Isabeau found this advice sound, and although she endured a tongue-lashing, it was pithy and to the point. Her punishment was then to be tucked up in bed with a hot herb posset and some final admonishments, and allowed to sleep. For the first time in weeks Isabeau slept soundly and without nightmares, dreaming instead of a golden-eyed man who wrapped her in the soft darkness of love. A week after Beltane, Iseult and Lachlan came hand in hand through the moss-oaks to find Meghan bowed over, her face hidden in her hands. The discarded crystal ball lay on the grass, pearly white. Gita was standing on his hind legs, his paws resting on Meghan's hands, chittering in distress. Iseult's pace quickened. "Auld mother, what's wrong?"

Meghan's sunken cheeks glistened with tears. "Isabeau . . ."

Iseult's eyes flew up to meet Lachlan's. "What's happened to Isabeau?"

"She's safe, she and the Key ... all safe." She wiped her cheeks impatiently. "I'm sorry. I am just so relieved that Isabeau is safe. She's been sick indeed with the fever—Latifa was feared she would no' pull through, but she is young and strong, and the fever has broken." She took a few deep breaths. "I knew she would succeed. The Key is safe! We have all three parts now, and all we need do is join them again. Somehow I must get back the two parts she holds, but how?"

"Why is this Key so important, auld mother?" Iseult got up the courage to ask the question that had been on her mind a long time.

Meghan looked a little surprised. "Remember I told ye how I had used the Key to hide something I did no' want Maya to get her hands on? That was the Lodestar, a magical sphere that responds only to the hand o' a MacCuinn. I hid it at the Pool o' Two Moons and locked away the maze that surrounds the pool with the Key. I then broke it and gave one-third to Ishbel and one-third to Latifa. I never imagined it would take me sixteen years to find Ishbel again! For all that time the Lodestar has been lying there in cold and darkness, its powers slowly ebbing away. Until we join the Key, we canna rescue it or use its powers to aid us in our struggle."

She sat silently, staring into the ashes. "There is more news, and it is no' good. What the dragons told me about the spell cast on the night o' the comet is true. It
was
a Spell o' Begetting, for Latifa tells me the Banrigh is with babe . . ."

Lachlan went white. "The cursehag is pregnant? I canna believe it! Sixteen years she's been as barren as

-a mule! We had banked on there being no heir—I had thought I was the only one. What does this forebode?"

"A new thread has been strung," Meghan replied. "What it means for us, only time will tell."

"She means to be Regent and rule in the babe's name!" he cried. "We have to stop her. A Fairge babe to inherit the throne o' Eilaenan—I will no' allow it!"

"So ye have information I do no'?" Meghan asked sarcastically. "Ye ken the ancestry of Maya the Unknown, when for sixteen years all our inquiries have come to naught?" Lachlan's cheek darkened, but he continued stubbornly. "If she is no' a Fairge, then I am no' a MacCuinn! Ye have heard her sing, have ye no'? Ye have heard the stories o' how she sneaks out at night to ride down to the blaygird sea? No Islander would swim in the sea for pleasure, or even walk on its shores, in sight o' the waves. She must be a Fairge! She ensorcelled her way into Jaspar's heart using her foul Fairge magic—it is all part o' a plot to overthrow the MacCuinns and win back the coast for the Fairgean ..."

"Happen that is true, and Maya is a Fairge. How does she stay so long in her land shape? Ye ken the Fairgean die if away from salt water too long. How can she possibly manage with just the occasional swim? And though her beauty is unusual, and her eyes as pale as any Fairge, she looks as human as any lass I've ever seen. Even in their land shape, the Fairgean do no' look human."