The Pool of Two Moons (39 page)

After an hour of such slow walking, the smell of peat smoke mingled with the stench of the bogs. Gwilym quickened his pace, leading the way to a hut built into a low mound. If he had not pointed it out, Dide and Lilanthe would have walked straight past it for the hut's roof was thatched with peat and grew as thickly with sedge and mosses as the bank behind it. The door was only four feet high and made of weathered driftwood the same gray as the marshes. Gwilym rapped upon it, and a gruff voice called out,

"Aiieee?"

Quirking his mouth into a smile, Gwilym nodded at his companions and pushed the door open. They all bent their backs and entered, only the cluricaun short enough to stand freely in the dark, smoky room within.

It was a tiny room, furnished roughly with benches and a table made from driftwood and decorated with frail marsh-flowers. A small creature was stirring a pot over the peat fire. She turned as they came in and bared her fangs in a smile. She had purplish-black skin rippled with dark fur, and wore a brown dress with a shawl wrapped around her sloping shoulders. She had only four fingers and four toes, and large, black eyes of great luster.

She was a bogfaery and her name was Aya. She spoke very little of the common dialect, but her wizened face and the sounds she made were amazingly expressive. Aya had been nanny to the banprionnsa's son and heir most of her life. At last she had got so old the many stairs were too much for her, and Iain MacFoghnan had arranged for her to return to the bogs, as she so fervently wished. She threw up her dark, wrinkled paws and moaned when Gwilym said he had need of information from her. Each time Gwilym tried to speak, she covered her ear-holes with her paws, rocking back and forth.

"Bad man ban no' like," she moaned. "Bad man go, bad man no' say goodbye, no' even to my little man, ban very mad, my man sad."

He grasped her paws and pulled them down, saying harshly, "Aya, I am sorry indeed I had to go the way I did, without any farewells, but what else could I do? Iain knew I had to go."

"Ee-an want go bad."

Gwilym turned away, his wooden stump dragging on the floor. "The Mesmerdean would no' have let her only son pass unchallenged." He made an impatient gesture, and turned back. "Aya, tell me what has been happening since I left?"

"Bright men."

"Bright men?"

"Sun shine on arms, legs." She struggled to express herself, waving her paws over her limbs, then pointing to the silver daggers at Dide's waist. "Bright. Shine. In sun. Clank,"

"Silver men?" She nodded vigorously, and they stared at each other blankly. Brun repeated softly, "Bright men, silver men, bright in the sun they shine."

The bogfairy nodded enthusiastically, and Gwilym asked, "I'm sorry, Aya, I do no' understand. What else can ye tell me?"

"My man, little man, married man."

"Iain?"

"Ee-an."

"What has that cursehag been doing to him?" Gwilym dug at the mud floor with his stump. They stared at him, and he clenched his hands and said, "It's no use, I have to speak to Iain. He's the only one who will know anything o' any use."

"But . . . are ye no' talking about the prionnsa? The Thistle's son?" Gwilym nodded and sat down with a jerk on one of the sedge-strewn beds cut into the bank. "Iain hates the cursehag as much as I do," he replied heavily. "We have to get a message to him somehow. It will be dangerous indeed. I'd bet a half-crown that Margrit has no' taken her blaygird Khan'cohban with her—he'll be lurking around somewhere, no' to mention the Mesmerdean and bogfaeries and wisps, all o'

which report all they see. Ugly, ye fool, what are ye doing here?"

"Ugly is here because he knows it is the best and truest thing to do," Dide said firmly. "Ugly is here because he is at heart a good man, if a trifle jaundiced. Ugly is here because he wants to help his friend the juggler."

"Ugly's here because he is a fool," Gwilym replied, smiling into his beard.

"I go my man, I go ask my man," Aya said, her anxious, seagrape-black face upturned to theirs.

"Aye, take a message to Iain," he agreed. "We shall have to try and meet with him, if at all possible. The Mesmerdean elders may all be with Margrit—though it is turning cooler and soon they will be growing their winter husk and looking for mud in which to lie ... Iain will ken. Somehow we must arrange a safe meeting."

Iain bent down and hugged his old nanny with delight. "More bog-cookies, Aya! For my pretty wife?

Come and give them to her yourself, she was hoping ye would come and visit soon." He did not miss the imploring glance the bogfaery cast him from her huge, black eyes or the tentative point of her knobbly finger. Tucked beneath the cookies was a note, and with a quickening of his pulse Iain thought he recognized the scrawl.

Ten minutes later he was heading toward the Theur-gia's Tower, trying hard to hide his excitement. He could feel his eyes shining and his cheeks burning, but he relaxed his shoulders as much as he could, feeling the Khan'cohban's eyes on him.

"Truly the Spinners are w-w-with us!" Iain whispered as soon as the clatter of the other children getting their tea rose around them. "I have a m-m-message from a friend—he wants to m-m-meet with us and t-t-talk. Douglas, this is our chance! It canna be coincidence that Gwilym the Ugly should return to Arran at just this t-t-time. He always said we would one day escape from here—he must have returned for me!

And M-M-Mother away and the M-M-Mesmerdean sulking because o' the massacre o' their egg-brothers—it's the Spinners watching over us, for sure."

Douglas's eyes were gleaming bright. "At last! I felt I would run stark staring mad if I could no' warn Papa somehow about the invasion. I could no' stand it any more! Knowing they were threatening to strike into Eile-anan and no one but us knowing anything! We have to get out and warn them!"

"This m-m-may be our only chance. It is time to put our plan into action!" That night, as Khan'tirell served him his evening meal, Iain said casually to his wife, "Elf, ye are 1-1-looking a wee pale. How are ye feeling yourself?"

"I am feeling a wee pale too, I must admit."

"Ye are spending too much t-t-time within, why do ye no' go and sit in the garden tomorrow? Ye need some sunshine and fresh air, and ye ken M-M-Mother wishes ye to keep well for the babe."

"O' course, Iain. It is just that it is so hot in the garden."

"I should t-t-take ye rowing on the loch," Iain cried. "It is always cool on the loch—we could take a p-p-picnic."

"Could we?" Elfrida cried, clapping her hands.

"Khan'tirell, would ye order a p-p-punt for tomorrow?"

"Very well, my laird. Where do ye plan to row?"

"Perhaps we'll go n-n-north to the forest. My lady will like to see the g-g-golden g-g-goddess blooming."

"Oh, yes!" Elfrida said.

"I think perhaps too dangerous for . . ."

"Nonsense!" she cried. "Am I no' NicHilde?"

"Yes, my lady," he bowed, eyeing her slim form spec-ulatively. Iain wished she had not reminded him that she came from a long line of warrior-witches, but she drooped a little and toyed with her food, sighing,

"Besides, it is no' as if I wish to go too close, what with the babe and all. I would like to see them though, I have heard they are bonny indeed."

"The cygnets will all b-b-be swimming, ye will like them, Elf."

"Oh, how lovely! Iain, why do we no' take the children with us? They will love the cygnets too, and we can make a feast day o' it!"

They could feel Khan'tirell weighing up the idea. Elfrida said cooingly, "I find I love the sound o' children's laughter about me at this time."

Iain flashed her a warning glance but the horned man made up his mind and nodded. "Very well, my laird, I will order boats for ye all and bogfaeries to row and two Mesmerdean to scout the way for ye."

"Oh, do we have to have those awful blaygird creatures!" Elfrida gave a not entirely artificial shudder. Iain said casually, "Surely, Kh-Kh-Khan'tirell, that is no' necessary? I do no' need M-M-Mesmerdean to scout the path to the glade o' the golden g-g-goddess. I have been m-m-many times, and it is a simple matter o' sculling up the river."

Khan'tirell said nothing, just snapped his fingers at the servants to pour more wine, and they knew he had not changed his mind.

The next morning they set off in the pearly hour after dawn. One of the six long punts was loaded with hampers and blankets. Elfrida sat propped in silken cushions in the prow of another, with Iain facing her, and the other children were crammed in the other punts, a warlock in every stern. Little Jock, the crofter's boy, was crammed in with the wicker baskets and the bogfaeries.

Khan'tirell himself jumped lithely into Iain's punt and the prionnsa's spirits sank. He had hoped the Scarred Warrior would not feel it necessary to accompany them, and had even chanted a goodwish upon it as he dropped off to sleep. It had not worked, and now their escape would be much more difficult. By eight o' clock the mist had burned away and a bright summer sky stretched overhead. Sunlight danced on the water of the loch behind them, but under the overarching water-oaks it was cool. The bogfaeries poled slowly, so the passengers had plenty of time to exclaim over the wildlife. Fluffy pink cygnets played in the shallows, the swans drifting nearby. An iridescent green snake coiled on a low branch; birds rose crying from the rushes, while the black, wrinkled paws of bogfaeries bent aside the bulrushes to peer at them. Occasionally one called to the bogfaeries poling the punts and were answered in the same high, wailing, "Aiieee!"

By noon they had rounded a corner to see a low hill crowned with tall trees rising to their left, while before them stretched the glittering waters of the Murkfane. A rich, exotic scent was beginning to drift through the air. Elfrida lifted her face, sniffing luxuriously. Iain leaned forward to touch her knee: "Try no'

to breathe in the smell, Elf—it is the lure o' the g-g-golden g-g-goddess and will cause ye to become d-d-drowsy."

Khan'tirell directed the bogfaeries to pole the boats in close to the shore. As they scrambled onto solid ground Iain pulled aside the hanging branches of a willow, and all the children cried aloud in astonishment. Before them a flower rested on the ground, taller than their heads, lily-shaped and yellow as summer sunshine. Its outward curling petals surrounded long stamens bending under the weight of thick pollen. Purple-red spots scattered the lower petal, like a path leading to the crimson bed of the pistil. Deep within was a round globule of golden honey. The air was heavy with the delicious smell. The great, green stem, covered in sharp bristles, writhed out from the same source as a hundred more. Each stem, as thick as a man's body, carried one of the drooping yellow flowers, while huge green leaves thrust up overhead.

"They're beautiful!" Elfrida cried.

"And d-d-deadly," Iain replied grimly. "She's carnivorous—her b-b-beauty and scent is designed to lure the unwary in. She is most dangerous in the late afternoon— the potency o' her perfume increases t-t-toward sunset, as she likes to d-d-digest overnight."

Elfrida recoiled. "It eats meat? Would it eat us?"

"If she could," Iain responded. "My ancestors used to f-f-feed anyone who disagreed with them to the g-g-golden goddess."

He picked up a handful of pebbles from the ground. "Watch!" he called. "The g-g-golden goddess will sn-sn-snap shut if she feels more than two or three t-t-touches in quick succession—like something walking down her spotted path."

Iain threw some of the pebbles down the throat of the flower, and instantly the petals furled shut. The other flowers about it stirred and rustled, their stems twisting toward them as if scenting them. "They can feel our warmth," Iain said and directed them all back a few paces. He bent his head and stammered softly to Elfrida, "The mead we drank on our w-w-wedding night was m-m-made with the honey o' the g-g-golden g-g-goddess— they say it is a p-p-powerful love potion."

Elfrida lifted her gray eyes to his and blushed. She remembered well the passion she had felt after drinking the honeyed wine. Iain smiled at her and squeezed her hand. "The honey is much prized," he said again in a louder voice. "Along with m-m-m-murkwoad and rys seeds, it is one o' Arran's premier exports. It is very dangerous to c-c-collect, however. We have m-m-many bogfaeries trained to pluck the honey globule, and every year we lose q-q-quite a few."

He took a long stride forward and the flower shifted slightly, opening her petals to better display her crimson heart, studded with the gleaming ball of honey. Carefully Iain placed one foot on one of the rich red spots and leaned forward, his head and shoulders disappearing from view. Elfrida gave a little cry, but just as the petals closed Iain stepped out again. He opened one hand to show the students the globule of honey he held within. "Ye only g-g-get one chance," he explained, "one touch and the petals will c-c-close. Timing is important." Slipping his other hand into his pocket, he then carefully poured the thick honey into a jar and snapped the lid tight. "We will d-d-drink it together 1-1-later, my love," he said to Elfrida, who colored again and laughed.

The bogfaeries poled the boats along the willow-hung shore of the loch till they came to the low water-meadow that spread along the western shore. There the boats were tied up, the bogfaeries scurrying to unpack the picnic. They climbed a gentle slope, the ground firmer with each step, and came to a grove of tall trees.

To the north they could see the beginning of the forests, backing to the purple smear of the Great Divide. It was only half a day's journey beyond to the border with Aslinn and Blessem. Iain felt his pulse quicken with excitement, and he glanced at Douglas, who grinned in return.

They sat on blankets and cushions laid out by the bogfaeries and ate the sumptuous feast they served. To Iain's anxiety, Khan'tirell refused any wine, which they had laced with a sleeping potion, prowling the hilltop with tireless grace instead.

The bogfaeries were bringing out fruits and sweetmeats when Douglas suddenly bounded to his feet. "I'd like to propose a toast! Ladies, gentlemen, charge your glasses." The bogfaeries hurried around with the bottles of wine. Douglas waited until every glass was brimming, then called, "A toast to the babe! Heir to the Tower o' Mists and all o' Arran!"