The Pool of Two Moons (22 page)

By sunrise Iseult's pulse had steadied and color had returned to her scarred cheeks. Meghan went scouting through the forest and found thirteen little piles of ashes that smelt of the bog. She carefully scraped up every last mote of dust into a pot, which she corked and buried deep. Feeling sick and shaky herself, she then drank several mouthfuls of her precious heart-starting
mithuan.

"We're in trouble now," she groaned. "If they sent that many in revenge for the one that died in my tree-house, what will they do in reprisal for thirteen?"

"How will they know?" Lachlan replied, stirring the oatmeal in the heavy cauldron hanging over the fire.

"They share a memory," Meghan said. "The only way to rid yourself of a Mesmerdean vendetta is to kill each and every one o' its relatives—egg-brothers, I think they are called. No, if there are any egg-brothers left, they will ken what has happened and they will want me dead. Ye and Iseult too, now." She sighed. "Still, what am I to do if ye never obey me?"

Trials of the Spirit

The week before Midsummer's Eve the palace began to fill with guests, throwing the servants into fevered activity. Isabeau was wide-eyed and overawed, for she had never realized how much work a banquet of this magnitude involved. All day and half the night Latifa bustled to and fro, ordering chandeliers to be unhooked so the thousands of crystals could be washed, preparing hundreds of sweetmeats, cakes and jellies and plucking dozens of bhanais birds, saving their gorgeous tail feathers to decorate the roasted meat later. Because of her crippled hand, Isabeau escaped much of the heavier work but Latifa kept her on her feet from dawn to midnight. She was so busy she had no time to wonder about the Banrigh's mysterious powers or to worry about the apparent loss of her own. Each morning she was up well before dawn to meet Latifa in the kitchen, then she spent all day on the run, ordered here and there by impatient lackeys. If she was lucky, she could stumble to her bedchamber by around midnight. More often she was still awake in the wee small hours, following Latifa as the old cook jingled from one storeroom to another.

She kept her thoughts to herself, finding it easier every day to lock away her inner self. She put on the character of a simple country lass, and each day it grew mare comfortable. Meanwhile she listened and watched as Meghan had told her to, and found much to puzzle her.

The maids' favorite topic was the Banrigh. They discussed the cut of her sleeves, the way she wore her hair, and how wonderful it was that she was at last with child. Their devotion was in such contrast to all Isabeau had ever heard of Maya the Ensorcellor that it aroused in her an intense curiosity to see the Banrigh. Isabeau had always heard Maya described as evil, manipulative, dangerous and cruel. It was disconcerting to hear instead how kind, generous and considerate she was.

Two days before Midsummer's Eve, Isabeau asked Latifa when she would have a chance to see the Banrigh. The shyly asked question earned her a sharp slap. "And who do ye think ye are, to be wanting to rise so high so fast, and ye just a wee snippet o' a lass from the back o' yonder! Why, ye must be able to carry a tray without spilling the gravy before ye'd be allowed to serve anywhere near the Banrigh, especially now she's with babe, Truth bless her. So get ye back to your spitting stool before I box your other ear!"

Her cheek burning, Isabeau stumbled back to her corner. So shocked was she by Latifa's slap that she wept most of the afternoon, trying to conceal her distress in her apron. Later that evening, when the kitchen was empty, the cook gave Isabeau one of her gingerbread men, hot from the oven.

"Stop your greetin', lassie, your apron is sopping wet and your eyes look fit to start from your head. Ye should no' be such a silly lass, asking me such a question in front o' the whole kitchen! Be patient, I tell ye. Now, I think ye're in need o' some fresh air and some solitude. I forget ye're no' used to all this. Take the day off tomorrow. I can say ye've made yourself ill with your sorrow, so eager were ye to see the bonny Banrigh."

Isabeau's heart leapt at the thought of finally being able to leave the confining walls of the palace. She had felt as if the blue-gray walls were closing in on her. Her immediate thought was of Lasair. Would the chestnut stallion still be near the palace? Would she be able to find him?

The next morning she packed up a napkin with some bread and fruit and made her way to the bridge over the ravine, lined with guards. She kept her head down as she crossed, shy of the soldiers, but once she was on the other shore, she leant her elbows on the railing and looked about her with pleasure. The firth shone in the sunshine, the spires of Rhyss-madill soaring above. The water creamed white on the rocks at the base of the cliff and rushed through the ravine separating the great finger of rock from the mainland. On the opposite shore was the city, all built from the same blue stone as the palace. Hundreds of ships bobbed at their berthing. At the far end of the firth she could see the river-gate which marked the first of the series of locks that controlled the entrance to the harbor. Beyond was a blue shimmer that could only be the sea.

The sight thrilled her to the core. The beautiful, dangerous sea that she had read so much about was only an hour's walk away, pressing up against the seawall the witches had constructed so many years ago. She longed to have a closer sight of it—Meghan said the waters stretched as far as the eye could see and even further.

Today, though, Isabeau intended to trek into the forests of Ravenshaw where she had left Lasair. The Ra-venshaw woods pressed up close to the rolling parkland which surrounded the palace, forming a thick barrier along its boundaries. To the north were the rolling hills of Rionnagan, to the east the gatehouse and palace gates, opening into a city square.

Isabeau walked down the long avenue of trees, then cut across the open lawn toward the woods. As soon as the palace walls were safely out of sight, she began casting out her senses. Two boys were fishing on the firth's edge; a gamekeeper was strolling the park, a crossbow slung over his back and two hounds at his heels; and the palace goats were grazing under the trees, minded by two girls in huge white caps. Far overhead a hawk flew, crimson ribbons dangling from its claws. Otherwise there was not a living soul for miles.

Lasair . . .
Isabeau called rather tentatively with her mind-voice. There was no response. She reached the edge of the park and slipped through the little gate set in the wall, and into the forest. It was very quiet in the wood. Isabeau walked slowly but steadily. She had been sick for so long that her strength was much diminished. She did not want to exhaust herself by traveling too far or too quickly. From long habit, she looked out for herbs or flowers and gently pulled up several which she thought Riordan Bowlegs would like for his little garden.

At last she came to where she had hidden the magical saddle and bridle. To her relief they were safe still in the hollow tree, guarded by a magical ward. Wrapped in its blanket, the saddle had remained dry. No mouse or donbeag had tried to make a nest in its stuffing. She gave them both a good rubdown with an oil-soaked rag she had taken from the stable when no one was looking.

It was just before noon, and Isabeau was tired. She sat in the shade of the tree and ate her repast, enjoying the dappled sun on her back. There had been no sign of Lasair and she wondered anxiously if she would ever find him again.

Isabeau was just deciding whether to walk to the seashore when she heard a long drawn-out whinny. Leaping to her feet she called
Lasair, Lasair!
and saw the chestnut galloping toward her through the trees. He came to a snorting halt before her, and she flung her arms around his neck. He pushed his satiny nose into her shoulder and blew affectionately, then rubbed his head against her. Tears stung her eyes. "I missed ye so much," she told him, and he stamped his foot and whinnied. Using a fallen log as a mounting-block, Isabeau vaulted onto the chestnut's back and together they galloped through the woods to the gigantic bulwark that kept the ocean away from the land. Perched on its summit, Isabeau had her first good look at the sea.

Between her and the waters was a stretch of bare sand strewn with shells and dried seaweed and ridged with the ancient patterns of tides. Far away the water glittered in the sun, aquamarine and opal near the shore, violet-blue near the horizon. Here and there white-winged birds floated in the salt-scented air. She sat and watched the gentle waves for a long time, knowing why the first humans to Eileanan had called it Muir Finn, the Fair Sea.

The shadows were growing long when the stallion took her back toward Rhyssmadill, leaving her close to the forest's edge so he would not be seen. She wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her head against him for a long time. Then he galloped off into the trees, and she began the long trudge back to the palace. As she wandered through the woods, Isabeau automatically bent and harvested the fruits of the forest, as she had done all her life. Soon her apron was brimming with flowers, leaves and roots, and she had to tie up the edges and carry it like a sack over her back. Berating herself for not acting like a mere country lass, she nonetheless carried the sack through the park, sure Latifa and Rior-dan Bowlegs would be pleased.

On the opposite shore Dun Gorm was beginning to prick with lights, and the waters of the Berhtfane shone with sunset colors. Blue and transparent, Gladrielle floated just above the horizon, alone for once as the second moon had not yet risen. Somewhere far above, a hawk gave a hoarse cry, sending a shiver down her arms.

In Riordan's cramped quarters Isabeau washed the horse smell from her hands and face. She untied the apron, and the old groom picked through the flowers and roots with exclamations of delight. Isabeau thought ruefully that she must have been more absent-minded than ever—the apron was over-flowing with groundsel. Although a useful herb, it was a weed that grew in every ditch and field and was usually rooted out by gardeners.

Many a cottager used groundsel tea to relieve a tightness of the bowels, yet too strong an infusion caused great discomfort indeed. She shrugged but wrapped the yellow buds up again nonetheless. The fresh leaves were useful for relieving the pain of mother's milk, and the Banrigh's maid had been seeking such a remedy only yesterday. Her unconscious mind must have prompted her to gathering it while her conscious thoughts wandered.

The old groom was so pleased with the roots and flowers she had brought back for him to plant that he asked her no questions about where she had been or why she was dusted in horse hairs. Instead they talked about plant lore, and Isabeau promised to bring him new plants every time she was allowed out. It had been in Isabeau's mind that gathering wild herbs for Latifa would make sure her outing would be repeated. The cook was always bemoaning the difficulty in gaining precious ingredients for her delicacies, what with the trade ships no longer running. Isabeau had been raised by a wood witch, and she knew as much about the properties of plants as any forest skeelie. She had dug up many small herbs and plants that did not grow in the kitchen garden and which she knew Latifa would be pleased with. The old cook beamed with pleasure when Isabeau presented her with the massive cluster. "Och, ye're a guid lass!" she cried. "How did ye ken I've been in need o' eyebright? No' to mention the antler mushrooms! I'll serve them up to the Banrigh tonight and see if they tempt her appetite, the puir lass, so picky she has become with the babe turning in her womb."

Isabeau indicated the groundsel with one finger, and Latifa nodded, her black eyes glinting, her jaw set. Then she beamed again, chattering, "Come, ye mun be slavering with hunger. I have a nice pot o'

vegetable soup simmering on the fire. I am glad to see the roses have come back to your cheeks. If ye bring me back such a fine bouquet each time ye go out, I swear I'll be sending ye out each day!" Isabeau slid into an empty chair at the table. Some of the scullery maids nodded, and one of the footboys winked at her. Then she was ignored again as talk turned to the upcoming Midsummer celebrations. Loyal to the Truth as they were, the servants were all very careful not to give the feast any sacred significance, referring to it only as a much anticipated social event. This seemed shocking to Isabeau, who had been taught Midsummer's Eve was one of the most magical of days. Meghan had spun many of her spells and charms on the summer solstice, and it was the most common time for lovers to jump the fire and pledge their troth.

This was one custom that had not changed, she discovered, for there was much teasing and laughter around the table as the servants speculated who would jump the fire together this year. A bonfire had been laid in the great square before the doors of the palace itself, and all the servants would be allowed in the Righ's gardens where the feast was to be held. There would be dancing and mummery, with minstrels and jongleurs from all over Eileanan performing. From the embers of the bonfire, torches would be lit and carried in a procession all through the palace, lighting the fires and lanterns within. The Midsummer Eve festivities would be mimicked down in the city, though there a poor warlock would die in the flames. Isabeau shuddered at the thought and wondered if the city folk would light their lanterns from the ashes of a fire that had consumed a fellow human. She did not understand how they could. All the servants had to work at some point in the evening, and there was much lobbying for shifts outside the time of the feast and celebrations. Isabeau, as a very lowly scullery maid, had no choice in the matter, of course. She heard from Sukey that she had won one of the worst jobs of all—serving the lower tables during the feast. Not only would she not be able to do more than snatch a mouthful here and there, but she would be serving many of the lairds' squires, who were prone to pinching the maids' bottoms. One small consolation—she would be serving in the lower hall, adjacent to the great hall where the prionnsachan and upper nobility sat. Although she would be in great trouble if she was caught, it was usually possible to peep through the curtain and see the great lairds feasting and carousing. "Ye might even see the Banrigh," Sukey said with excitement in her voice. "Doreen was telling me ye were greetin'