The Pool of Two Moons (28 page)

The door of the tower swung open and a soldier came stumbling out, clutching his stomach. They retreated before him till he was deep in the shadows, then came up to him, grasping his arm. "Wha' is it, soldier? Are ye ill?"

"Eaten . . . something," he retched. "We need . . . relief guard. The whole lot o' us be taken ill ... or poisoned. Must go and get . . . assistance."

Dide hit him lightly on the back of the head with his sword hilt, and he fell back into one of the rebels'

arms. "Stow him safely," Dide said grimly, "then wait. In ten minutes or so we shall go in." When they reported for duty, the guard in the outer room was greenish and sweating, and he kept his hand pressed to the back of his mouth. "Thank the Truth ye are come! That last batch o' ale must have been made with tainted hops, for I tell ye, man, it is sick as cursed cats we all are!" A convulsion ran over him and he ducked for the inner room, from which they heard the unmistakable sounds of retching. Dide suppressed a smile. He did not know how she had done it, but the old cook up at the palace had come through as promised. No questions would be asked about the relief guard; the soldiers were far too relieved to be free to report to the infirmary. All twelve of them staggered away, handing over the keys to Dide and warning them to steer clear of the beer. As soon as they were out of sight, Dide set guards, beckoning some of his men to follow him as he hurried up the stairs to the cells above. The jongleur was taking no chance that someone would come and disturb him. There was only one prisoner in the tower this year, but he was important enough for a full battalion of guards. Dide was anxious to free him and be away.

The prisoner was a warlock called Gwilym the Ugly. He had once lived at the Tower of Mists, having escaped there after the Burning, seeking refuge in the only country to still celebrate magic. Ten years later he re-emerged from the mists and joined the rebels to fight against the Awl. He never spoke about his time in Arran, but it was common knowledge among the rebels that it had been the Mesmerdean that had trapped him and brought him to the Red Guards. One did not touch the thistle without pain. Dide had liked the swarthy young warlock and had found his magic of great use in the past. He had been horrified to hear Gwilym the Ugly had been betrayed and was in prison, waiting to be fed to the Midsummer bonfires. Even if he had not felt drawn to Gwilym, and even if he did not want information about Arran, Dide would still have persuaded Enit to plan his rescue.

The warlock had been cruelly treated. One leg had been crushed in an iron device they called "the boot," which smashed the bone of the foot, ankle and shin. The terrible wound had not been treated, and he was barely conscious. Bruises and cuts marred his face and body, and only one hazel eye snapped open as the door of his cell swung open. He smiled when he saw Dide, wincing as the movement tore a cut at the side of his mouth.

Dide smiled back, wishing fervently that the Awl had not chosen the boot as their torture instrument, for it would make their escape almost impossible.

"Well, ye were never pretty, Gwilym, but truly ye earn your nickname now," he said, working quickly to relieve the warlock's pain. He had known the warlock would have been tortured and so had come prepared. He gave him water to sip and some syrup made from wild poppies and valerian, and bid his men to hold the warlock steady. He then gritted his teeth and used his dagger to sever Gwilym's leg below the knee. Summoning fire, he cauterized the wound and wrapped it well in bandages torn from his shirt.

"Good lad," the warlock said hoarsely. "Help me up, quickly."

"How did they do it?" Dide asked, trying to hide his anguish.

"The Mesmerdean breathed on me but chose to give me a lingering, agonizing death rather than the sweet bliss o' their kiss," Gwilym said wryly. "I can see Margrit o' Arran's fair hand behind it all. I woke when they closed the boot upon me. It was no' a happy wakening."

"Did ye speak?"

Gwilym shook his head. "Nay, I had that satisfaction at least. They have promised me the rack if I do no'

tell them my rebel contacts, but it be only a few hours till I am scheduled to burn. They will have to try and screw the information out o' me soon if they are to do it at all." .

"We had best get out o' here then," Dide replied.

They had brought Gwilym a soldier's uniform to wear but the kilt showed the dreadful, bloodstained stump and his face was too badly bruised to pass even a casual scrutiny. There was no way they could disguise him as a soldier. They were just discussing what to do when Dide heard his lieutenant's voice, raised in anger.

"Someone is coming." Dide drew back behind the door, gesturing to the other rebels to follow suit. Gwilym sat wearily on the straw pallet, heavy lines of pain graven from his hooked nose to his mouth. He looked down sardonically at his butchered leg before hiding the stump under the rags of the blanket. The cell door swung open and a red-clad seeker stepped within the cell, a tall, cadaverous man with greasy black hair combed straight off his pale brow. "Ah, ye are awake, witch," he said. "Ready for your next meeting with the Questioner?"

Gwilym said gruffly, "Why do ye bother? Ye tell me I am to be the entertainment for the Midsummer crowds—surely they would prefer to see a whole man burn, no' just parts o' him?"

"Ye think they care? Besides, it will make them think twice about helping the rebels, seeing the great warlock Gwilym the Ugly begging for mercy . . ."

"Och, I will no' beg," Gwilym responded, as Dide's dagger hilt hit the seeker on the back of the head.

"But I think ye will."

He raised his hand and pointed it at the slumped figure of the seeker, two fingers extended. Frowning in concentration, he muttered a spell and the seeker's features blurred until they had taken on Gwilym's pox-pitted skin and hooked nose. "Smash his leg, laddies. I think he shall see how it feels to die in agony."

"Ye mean him to burn in your place?" Dide asked, feeling a little sick. Gwilym nodded, a bleak smile flitting over his harsh features. "It seems befitting, do ye no' think so? He was the one to close the boot."

Dide nodded. The men stripped the seeker of his clothes, throwing the bundle to Gwilym. Grinning savagely, they then jumped on the unconscious seeker's right leg with their heavy boots until blood and bone marrow were seeping from the crushed limb. The pain stirred him in his unconscious state, but they hit him on the head again and he lapsed back into oblivion. Hurriedly they dressed him in the warlock's torn and bloodstained clothes and cleared away any signs that they had been there. This meant Gwilym's severed limb had to be wrapped up and taken away, a task which made them all feel rather queasy. They locked the seeker in the room, and half carried Gwilym down the stairs and into the guard room where the other rebels were waiting nervously. "How shall we get him to the cellar?" one of the rebels asked anxiously. Dide shook his head. "We canna take him past the practice square like this," he said.

"We shall have to try trickery. We can say the seeker was overcome with the same illness as the guards. If that were so, what would we do? Get him a litter, carry him out? Gwilym! That spell ye placed on the seeker—to make him look like ye. Can ye do it to yourself?"

"Ye mean, to make me look like him?" the warlock said warily. "Och, aye. I did no' spend years with the mistress o' illusions herself for naught. I can make myself look like anyone I please. It's called the spell o'

glamourie. The illusion does not last long, but it'll be long enough for our purposes."

"Cast the spell then, while we organize ye a litter. We shall carry ye out under their very noses!" Isabeau returned rather wearily to the kitchen, helped herself to vegetable soup and bread, and sat at the far end of the long table. Servants were milling everywhere, and the kitchen buzzed with talk. Isabeau paid very little attention, eating steadily as she thought about what she had learned that evening. The knowledge that Riordan Bowlegs was a witch was near as astounding to her as the realization that she had carried a third of the Key right to the very door of the Banrigh.

A flock of serving maids came fluttering in, twittering in excitement. Seeing Isabeau sunk in a dream, they surrounded her with their bell-shaped skirts and high, shrill voices. "Have ye seen them yet, Red?" freckle-faced Edda asked.

"They came on a great boat, with big white sails marked with a red cross."

"They refused to open the river-gates to them at first."

"The hull o' their boat is covered in holes where the Fairgean tried to sink it. They had to plug the holes with oilcloth before they could sail on."

"Fighting Fairgean the whole way!" Elsie cried.

Isabeau said, "What are ye all raving on about now?" She was answered with a babble of voices.

"The Tirsoilleirean . . ."

". . . came in a boat . . ."

". . . even the women wear armor, and carry swords ..."

"They want to open trade again . . ."

"... and fight together against the Fairgean."

"... Mistress Sani had to go down to the docks, for the harbor authorities wouldna let them in without an authority from the Righ, yet the puir man is sunk in a fever and couldna be disturbed!"

". . . there's a priest with them, and ye should smell him! Urgh!" Edda finished triumphantly. Isabeau was as excited and intrigued as they were. This was the first contact between Tirsoilleir and the rest of Eileanan in over four hundred years, a truly historic event. She had often wondered about the forbidden land, which she had been able to see from some parts of her valley home. It had looked much like any other land, except for the tall spires of the kirks which rose from every village. Rumor had it that the Tirsoilleirean had to worship in their kirks as many as three times a day, and anyone who refused was disciplined severely.

Isabeau knew the Tirsoilleirean had rejected the philosophies of the witches, believing in a stern sun god that punished them mightily for any digression. Unlike the witches, who thought that all gods and goddesses were different names and faces for the one life-spirit, the Tirsoilleirean believed in one god with one name. They thought their beliefs were the only true faith and that other people must be forced to worship as they did. Many times they had tried to convert their neighbors. When missionaries and traveling preachers failed to win the people to the religion, they tried force. Meghan had considered them the greatest enemies of Eileanan's way of life, for there was no force as unstoppable as that of fanatics. "It is no' just that they think they are right," she had said. "They are so filled with certitude and religious zeal that they canna or willna allow the possibility o' a different view. To them, there is only one truth, while anyone with wisdom kens that truth is like a multifaceted crystal." It occurred to Isabeau that the philosophical differences which had once divided Tirsoilleir and the rest of Eileanan were no longer so rigid. Magic and witchcraft had been outlawed in the Bright Land for hundreds of years. The Day of Reckoning and its fiery legacy must have been viewed with approval in Bride, capital city of Tirsoilleir. After that the witches' belief in freedom of worship had been replaced by the Banrigh's vague but strictly enforced Truth, which also believed in only one path. Perhaps the Tirsoilleirean had come from behind the Great Divide because they hoped to renew their crusade?

The whole court was rife with speculation. The dignitaries remained closeted with the Righ who had risen from his sickbed on the news. Soon the whole court knew that the Bright Soldiers had come seeking help against the rising of the Fairgean. The sea people had raided the northern coast of Tirsoilleir just as they had Carraig and Siantan. Raised as warriors, the Tirsoil-leirean had fought them off for five years, but each spring and autumn the rising tides brought them in ever greater numbers. Now the tide was rising again with the coming of autumn, the Fairgean were looting and burning coastal towns and villages as far south as Bride itself. The Tirsoilleirean were suffering terribly from the attacks and had decided to send a fleet of ships around to Dun Gorm to ask for help and advice while the southern seas still remained free of the fierce, barbarous sea-dwellers.

Isabeau alone seemed to find it strange that the Tirsoilleirean should decide to seek help now, after centuries of isolation. Although the diplomatic party seemed full of smiles and smooth words, Isabeau wished she could talk it over with Meghan, who would have found their sudden friendliness peculiar too, she knew.

She had little time to wonder, though, for as soon as her soup was eaten, the chamberlain's lackeys were vying with each other to find work for her to do. She tended the spits, gathered herbs for Latifa, helped carry food out to the minstrels and jongleurs, and replaced the half-used candles in the great hall. Crowds of gaily dressed courtiers and ladies began to throng all through the main part of the palace, and Isabeau was wide-eyed as she trotted to and fro in her white cap and apron. She could not help wishing she was a finely dressed banprionnsa, like the six daughters of the Prionnsa of Blessem. They wore silk dresses printed all over with roses and lilies, and their golden hair was intricately braided with flowers. None of them noticed Isabeau as she hurried past, too busy laughing and dancing and flirting with their father's squires.

A stir was caused by the entry of the Tirsoilleirean, who came in under the hanging banners as a closely knit group. In their silver armor and white surcoats, they stood out from the bright silks and velvets of the court, as their stern, wary expressions differed from the idle pleasure on the faces of all about them. Even the pretty banprionnsachan of Blessem stopped their giggling and gossiping to stare at the strangers. The Tirsoilleirean were to eat at the high table, a mark of high favor, and much jiggling of the table places had had to be done on very short notice. This meant many of the nobly born squires were squeezed out into the lesser hall where Isabeau was serving. Although a long, high room of grand proportions, the lesser hall was already overcrowded and Isabeau spent much of the evening on the run from one packed table to another. She could not carry the heavy trays with only one hand but she could serve, and so to her dismay she found herself trapped in the lesser room with little excuse to leave. Isabeau hated having to serve at the tables. The squires were forever pinching her bottom as she poured more wine into their glass. It was Isabeau who would be blamed if she dropped the jug, yet there was little she could do to extract herself from their clumsy embraces without mishap, particularly with the use of only one hand.