The Pool of Two Moons (38 page)

On the opposite side of the firth began the Strand, a long expanse of sand that curved around into the salt marshes of Arran. The Strand extended the entire length of Clachan, undulating with dunes where sand lions hunted and sea-stirks roared and fought each spring.

Before humans came, the Fairgean had ridden the spring tides each year to bear their young on the soft dunes of the Strand. The male Fairgean had hunted the sea-stirks for their rich meat and thick coats; the females had taught their babes to swim in the calm waters, and harvested the seagrapes to store for the winter.

It was at the Strand that most of the battles against the Fairgean had taken place. It was here Parteta the Brave had died, three years before Isabeau was born. There the young Jaspar had raised the Lodestar against the Fairgean and driven them back into the seas.
Never to be seen again,
the tale had always ended.

The thought of the Fairgean made Isabeau's stomach twist, for the sea-dwelling faeries had been seen again in the waters to the north. A cloud crossed the sun, turning the water to steel-gray. She turned and hurried back the way she had come. Her footsteps were already blotted out by the rising tide, and her wet legs were cold.

It took a long time to climb the rusty ladder again. Isabeau looked up to see how much further she had to climb, and froze. Someone was watching her. They leaned over the bulwark, the sun behind them so all Isabeau could see was the dark shape of their head and shoulders. Her blood began to drum in her ears. She could not decide what to do. With the tide on the turn, it might be difficult to find another breach in the bulwark, designed specifically to keep people out. She really had no choice. Her legs heavy as lead, she began to climb again.

The watcher said in a deep feminine voice, "Ye're brave, walking the seashore. Are ye no' afraid o' the Fairgean?"

Isabeau replied carefully, "To tell ye the truth, I'm a wee disappointed."

"Oh? Why? Ye did no' see any Fairgean? Ye were wanting to?"

"I have never seen the sea before. It's so calm. I have always heard it is dangerous, and filled with strange, marvelous beasts. I must admit I was hoping to see
something
—a sea-serpent perhaps, or a flying fish. But I only saw birds."

"It was unusually calm today; it's been such a still, warm day. It's still summer, so the tides are low." The woman had one of the most compelling faces Isa-beau had ever seen. Her face was square, the line of her jaw strong, her skin a clear olive. Her silky hair was cut straight across her brow and again near her ears, curving in two black, glossy wings against her wide cheekbones. Every time she moved her head, blue lights darted over its inky surface. Her eyes shone a silvery-blue between thick, dark lashes. A dark plaid was wrapped loosely around her.

"Do no' let the sea deceive ye," the woman said. "Even in summer, the sea is dangerous. That is when the sea-adders teem, and the young sea-stirk bulls begin to test their strength. Besides, the sea and the sands are always treacherous. There are poisonous fish that look like rocks, and doom-eels, and sand scorpions—their venom will kill ye in seconds, so ye must always keep a wary eye out."

"I'll no' be going down there again!" Isabeau wriggled through the railings. The stranger continued teasingly, "I had no' got to the reefs and whirlpools and swordfish and sea-serpents ..."

"Enough, enough!" Isabeau dusted off her feet and put her boots back on. "What a fool I am! After all the lectures, still I go paddling the first chance I get!"

The stranger gave a low, infectious chuckle. "Ye can still go paddling, as long as ye ken what ye are doing."

"Which I do no'! Ye seem to, though. Were ye born near here, to be knowing so much about doom-eels and sand scorpions?"

"Nay. I would stay away from the sea if I were ye," she said, her voice suddenly changed. It had grown cooler, more reserved, as if she, like Isabeau, had remembered she should be more cautious. "It be dangerous, and besides, people do no' like it. I gather ye are a stranger here, but ye should know the Clachans are superstitious indeed about the sea. Ye should no' walk through Dim Gorm with sand on your skirt." She stopped and held out her hand. "I must be going. Remember what I said—stay away from the sea. Goodbye."

Isabeau grasped her hand and thanked her. In the shadows under the trees, she could hardly see the other's face. She saw a flash of teeth as the other smiled, and then she was gone. Only then did Isabeau call Lasair.

Even though they galloped all the way back to the palace, Isabeau was still late. She hurried around to the stables, knowing she had to clean herself up before showing her face in the kitchens. If the servants saw her water-bedraggled dress, they would be suspicious indeed.

Riordan Bowlegs was smoking a long clay pipe and cleaning a harness. He took one look at her and grew very distressed. "Ye've been to the sea," he accused. "Look at ye! Red, ye canna be paddling and playing about in the sea. Do ye no' understand? Look at your dress!"

She tried to make light of it, but he seized her chin so she had to look him in the eye. "Red, no one but witches and faeries dare look upon the sea. Ye do no' want the Awl asking questions about ye! Stay away from the sea!"

She nodded, saying, "I understand." Riordan's agitation was valid, she knew. She certainly did not want to draw
the Awl's attention to her again. Nonetheless
she was conscious of deep disappointment. Her stroll along the seashore had fascinated her, for there was something about such a huge mass of water, shifting and murmuring, that enchanted the eye and the mind. She had also been strongly attracted to the dark-haired woman. All the way home she had wondered if she would ever see her again. It seemed unlikely, and Isabeau was sorry for that.

Late that night Isabeau was sweeping out the dairy room, trying to stifle the yawns that cracked her jaw, when she heard an urgent squeaking. She glanced up and saw a huge black rat perched on the top of the butter churn. It ran back and forth, its long tail twitching restlessly.
Must come,
it said to her in its high-pitched squeak.
Big mother rat want.

Careful, little one,
she said, covering a yawn with her hand.
They have a cat here who would eat you
in one gulp!

The rodent squeaked in dismay and ran round the rim of the great barrel.
Must come,
it said again, standing on its hind legs, its beady eyes bright with fear.

Not now,
she squeaked back, thinking it wished to show her its nest of babies.
Must sleep.
And she put away her broom and trudged up the many stairs toward her room, rubbing her heavy eyes and wishing she had not walked so far that day. The rat followed her some of the way, but bolted at the sight of the kitchen cat sitting on the landing, washing its striped golden head with one paw. His flight led him into the granary, where a careless maid had left the lid off one of the grain bins. All thoughts of his message were lost in the delight of a feast of uncracked wheat.

Out of the Mists

The closer to Arran the jongleurs traveled, the wilder and more infertile the landscape became. To the east the land sloped down into stagnant salt marshes, here and there broken by shallow salt-water lochs and firths. At the horizon was the gray shimmer of the sea. Lilanthe stared at it as she walked, having never before seen any water greater than a forest pool. It dipped in and out of sight as the road meandered through the wild grasses.

It had been a busy few months. They had traveled the length and breadth of Blessem, even dipping down to Diln Gorm for the Midsummer festivities. Since the Red Guards had their headquarters in the blue city, Lilanthe and Brun had spent two weeks at a rebel safe house in Blessem. The old lady who owned the safe house had a beautiful garden where Lilanthe had been able to sink her roots in peace. When Enit returned to pick the faeries up, another caravan was traveling with them—a friend they had met at the Summer Fair who was as shy of crowds as Lilanthe and Brun. To the tree-shifter's dismay, Dide spent a great deal of time with the stranger—a dark, short man with a hooked nose, a sardonic smile and a wooden leg.

Despite herself, Lilanthe was jealous and withdrew into a cold silence. After two weeks away from her, she had been hoping for some indication that the young jongleur had missed her, but he seemed hardly to notice they were together again.

The jongleurs had gathered a great deal of interesting information during their travels in Blessem. The children's disappearance was being blamed on strange winged creatures that hypnotized their parents into immobility. The same gray ghosts had been seen just before the headquarters of the Ancient Guild of Fireworks Magicians had exploded with an amazing display of skyrockets, shooting stars and flaming wheels. The guild-master's body had not been found among those in the charred ruins of the factory, and one of the town drunks swore he had seen him being carried away by the ghosts, along with many bulging sacks and barrels. Since the same winged creature had saved an
uile-bheist
from an angry mob some months ago, they were thought to be in league with the rebels.

Dide had frowned, whispering in his grandmother's ear, "Surely we have no such creatures working with us?" Enit had shaken her head, her eyes hooded, and Gwilym had snorted with bitter humor. "A gray ghost that appears silently out o' mist and enraptures its prey? Mesmerdean for sure! That means the Thistle's fair fingers are dabbling in this pie. I daresay she wanted the
uile-bheist
for her Theurgia—it must have had some magical power that she wants to harness for her own use." Enit had decided to head toward Arran itself, to visit a friend of Gwilym's who might be able to help them understand the reasons behind Margrit of Arran's bizarre activities. With the rebels' plans in such delicate balance, Enit Silverthroat wanted no surprises.

By sunset they had reached the edge of the marsh, which rustled mysteriously with rushes, sedges, bulrushes, and cattails. Blue-legged herons flew overhead, croaking their hoarse song. A thick blanket of mist hung over the road ahead, bare tree branches writhing free.

Morrell put Nina up on the seat beside her grandmother. He walked at the mare's head, one hand resting on the hilt of his dagger. Mist floated toward them, the sky behind darkening to a strange green color. Their shadows before them were long and flat. Though the sun still struck at their backs, storm clouds were ominous on all sides. They all looked at the mist trailing over the road, then up at Enit. She smiled at them encouragingly, and said, "Fear no', I have no intention o' tackling the marshes at night. Let's make camp, and we'll push on in the morning."

Gratefully they set up camp, the horses cropping distastefully at the thin grass. When Lilanthe sunk her roots into the soil, she found it sour and unsatisfying, quite unlike the rich loam of Blessem. The next morning the caravans were wreathed in mist. All of them felt uneasy, remembering the tales they had heard of Arran. Gossip said it was a brave man who dared travel into the Murkmyre without permission. Many tales were told of men who went in and never came out, or stumbled out years later with mad eyes and stuttering tongue, unable to describe the horrors or marvels he had seen. Gwilym the Ugly was the only man they knew who had ever seen the Tower of Mists but he was reluctant to talk about his time there and had grown moodier as the fenlands approached. He had not agreed to return to Arran easily, but Enit's spies had told him that Mar-grit of Arran was traveling to RhyssmadiU for the Lammas Congress. Only then did he succumb to their arguments, but it was clear he did not relish the prospect of entering the marshes again.

Over their porridge they argued about the best course of action. Enit had to stay with her caravan, unable to walk more than a few steps without pain; Nina also should stay. "To keep Granddam company," Dide said hastily when the little girl pouted her lip. He thought Lilanthe should also stay, though he agreed with Enit that the cluricaun could prove useful, being impervious to magic and the marshes of Arran steeped in it.

Lilanthe said in a stifled voice that she wanted to go. Gwilym said harshly that she was a fool. "I have no wish to step one foot—or even a wooden stump—over the border o' Arran. No' even if Margrit NicFoghnan is away. If ye had any sense, lass, ye would no' either." Lilanthe said nothing. He laughed sardonically. "I, curse the Spinners, have to go, being the only one to ken the paths through the marsh."

"Someone needs to stay behind and help guard the caravans," Dide argued. Morrell snorted. "As if a tree-shifter is any more use than an auld woman an' a bairn. One o' us should stay, ye ken that, lad." Dide hesitated, not keen to give up the chance to see Arran, and Morrell guffawed. "I have no desire to tickle the banprionnsa's nose, Dide, ye can go. I shall stay and catch up on some well-deserved rest."

"Very well," Dide replied and began to prepare himself for the trip into the marshes. He did not dress with his customary gaudiness, wearing instead a gray tunic over breeches and hose of a soft brown. Gwilym thrust two daggers through his belt and a
sgian dubh
into his boot. He held over his lap a tall staff he had spent the last few weeks carving and polishing.

With a set expression on her face, Lilanthe also prepared herseif, packing food, a warm plaid and a dagger. After a moment's hesitation, Dide dug out one of his golden balls and gave it to Lilanthe. "In case something goes wrong," he said. "Call through the sphere. I will find ye." She nodded and smiled, feeling an odd stiffness in her cheeks. With a subdued Brun trotting at their heels, they bid the others a quiet goodbye and followed Gwilym down the track. On either side the mist swirled over mud and rushes, smelling of decay. Noises were muffled in the fog, and they all turned their heads, straining to hear. Soon they came to a fork, and Gwilym silently headed to the left. For the next three hours they tramped through the fens, trees looming out of the haze. At last they stopped to rest, eating the food they had packed, washed down with well-watered greengage wine. They saw a swamp-rat, large as a cat, swimming through a patch of water. It bared its notched fangs at them, and Lilanthe shrank back with a cry she could not suppress. Soon after the track petered away and they had to pick their way through squelching mud and floating islands of grass and soil. Gwilym led the way, prodding the ground before him with his staff, finding it difficult to keep his wooden peg from slipping in the mud.