The Pool of Two Moons (45 page)

Then Margrit of Arran and the leader of the diplomatic party from Tirsoilleir were both admitted. The NicFoghnan came with protestations of friendship, offering to help Eileanan with men and supplies in its fight against the Fairgean. Jaspar thanked her and accepted her help rather warily. Baron Neville of St. Clair made a long and flowery speech about their common ancestors and their need to join together in this time of trouble. He described how the Fairgean had attacked their northern coast in the past few years. The Fealde had tried to make a treaty of peace with the Fairgean, but their messengers had returned with their hands and tongues cut off.

He touched delicately on the Righ's own losses, then, with many flourishes, asked for permission to bring in a flotilla of merchant ships to trade with Dun Gorm. He talked about their need for grain, wine, salt and glass.

At that point the MacThanach's constant objections began to die. The prionnsa of Blessem was very suspicious of the Bright Soldiers and had been vocal against them. As soon as Baron Neville began talking about trade, however, his interjections dried up, though he did mutter in the Righ's ear something about his cousin having had nightmares. "Happen we'd best be careful," he murmured. He obviously did not want the other prionnsachan to hear him, though Latifa and Isabeau heard him clearly due to the cook's sound-enhancing powers. The sharp-eared Sani also heard him and hissed, "Ye would endanger an important trade agreement because your foolish cousin had a few
dreams?"

"She's a NicAislin," the prionnsa muttered meaningfully, but the Righ either did not hear or did not care, for he said nothing. The MacThanach sat back in his chair with a shrug. Isabeau wondered if the prionnsa's cousin had had the same nightmares that she had— towers in mist, flowers of flame, silver soldiers shouting, "Die! Die!," blood in fountains.

When Baron Neville at last came to an end, the Righ sighed and said, "Thank ye, my laird. This is, o'

course, something we shall all need to ponder on. Perhaps ye will wait for us in the lobby while we hear what our prionnsachan have to say."

Rather unwillingly the Baron Neville and his followers left the room, and those left behind all argued in circles, Sani's hiss gradually silencing any that stood against the Tirsoilleirean. When the Lammas Congress at last broke up, differences between the prionnsachan and the Righ were deeper than ever. The only clear action decided on was allowing the fleet of ships from the Bright Land to come through the sea-gates into the Berhtfane. Isabeau wondered why she was the only one to find the Bright Soldiers'

protestations of friendship false. Even Latifa was excited by the idea of the trade fair, wondering if they would bring any scorchspice with them.

"I've no' been able to make scorchspice stew in decades!" Latifa said as she harried Isabeau back down to the kitchen, "If that do no' quicken Jaspar's appetite, nothing will!" The Lammas festivities lasted for a week, culminating in the Common Ridings, when all the townspeople poured out to ride the marches, beating the boundary stones with willow switches to fix them in the communal memory. This was a riotous parade accompanied by much laughter and drinking, and it ended with a feast in Dun Gorm's great square. The Righ was usually lightly beaten with the willow switch at the end of the Common Ridings to remind him he was a servant of the people, but this year he was too ill to leave the palace.

Isabeau had thought she would be too busy to get away but, two days after Lammas, Latifa realized she had run out of stonecrop, used in the Righ's medicine. No one knew how to find wild herbs like Isabeau, and so she was sent out to find some in the forest. She did not tell Latifa that she knew exactly where to find the rare plant, wanting as she did to have a few hours to spend with Lasair. She rode first to the clearing where the plant grew among the stones of a ruined cottage and carefully tucked it within her pocket. Then she and Lasair cantered on through the forest, enjoying the warmth of the day. She tried to stay away from the sea, but Lasair turned that way naturally and she thought, a little guiltily, that it would do no harm to have a look. Soon she was breathing in the fresh saltiness of the sea breeze, then she could hear the tumult of waves on the rocks. She rode up to the headland where the sea rushed up through a hole in the cliffs, fountaining into the sky and making an eerie noise. Lasair found the sound unsettling, and so she let him graze as he liked. She lay on the edge of the cliff, looking down at the sea below. She was just about to head for home when she heard a soft footstep behind her.

"I see ye did no' take my advice and keep clear o' the sea," a husky voice said.

"Nay," Isabeau said, "though I have no' been down on the sands again."

"Too frightened o' sand scorpions?" the black-haired woman asked. Isabeau nodded, and the woman said with a flare of her nostrils, "Och, the sand scorpions only come out at dawn and dusk, there be no need to fear them now."

"Does that mean we can go down?"

The woman frowned, then shrugged and said, "Why no'?" She balked at climbing down the ladder, however, saying, "Nay, I ken a much better place for getting down to the sands. Come and I'll show ye." Isabeau was torn. She was eager to pursue her acquaintance with the black-haired woman, but did not want to reveal Lasair, who was cropping grass in the next clearing. If she told Lasair to leave her, though, she had no way of getting home.

Only a few seconds' thought decided her; she sent a mind-message to the stallion, then followed the woman along the edge of the cliff and toward the river. That way, the woman explained, they could avoid the dangerous rocks and cliffs of the Ravenshaw coast, instead wandering the sand dunes of the Strand. First they had to cross the river, but the woman led her to one of the massive gates that blocked the river. It took them only a few minutes to cross the narrow walkway that ran over the great iron girders. Isabeau stared into the locks, fascinated by the sharp drop between the level of the Berhtfane and that of the firth on the other side.

"What is your name?" the stranger asked.

"Isabeau," she replied shyly. "Though mainly they call me the Red."

"I can see why!"

"What's your name then?"

There was a slight hesitation, then the other replied, "Morag."

Morag was a mysterious person indeed. She kept a plaid wrapped close about her body and did not remove her boots to walk on the sand, nor kilt up her skirt through her belt, as Isabeau did. She told Isabeau nothing about herself, withdrawing whenever Isabeau tried to probe for more information. She gave enigmatic answers to such questions as where was she born or where did she live, and sometimes would not answer at all. Isabeau did not like to press for more information, being reluctant to discuss such matters herself. Isabeau gave no hint of her own secret life, even though she strongly suspected Morag to be a witch.

For there was nothing Morag did not know about the seashcre. She drew a diagram in the sand to explain the moons' pull on the tides. She showed how one could tell how high the tide rose. Isabeau's eyes widened to see seaweed caught on the rocks of the bulwark fifty feet above her head. She picked seagrapes for her and taught her how to tell when they were ready to eat. They prodded a doom-eel with a stick and watched how he lashed out with his fluorescent-tipped tail. Morag even dug up a sand scorpion's nest to show her the tiny, deadly creature, who turned his tail over his head to shield its beady eyes from the sun.

With her plaid fallen away from her body, Isabeau noticed for the first time that Morag was with child. The way her friend unconsciously cradled her stomach reminded Isabeau of a pregnant woman she had once seen in a highland village. That woman had been far closer to her birthing day and so the mound hiding the baby had been considerably larger. Nonetheless, the posture, the fist in the small of the back to ease the ache there, even the dreamy, dazed expression that sometimes crossed Morag's face, reminded Isabeau irresistibly of the highlander.

"Morag!" Isabeau cried. "Ye're having a baby! I had no' realized."

"Aye," her friend replied, her hands unconsciously stroking the bulge of her stomach. "It is no' due for a few months yet."

"Your husband must be pleased!" Isabeau exclaimed, hoping to elicit some more information about her mysterious friend. Morag only nodded, smiled and changed the subject, however. It was a long walk back to the palace from the beach. Isabeau was weary and footsore by the time she trudged across the bridge, though her eyes sparkled bluer than the sea itself with excitement. In that one afternoon she had learned more about the sea than in all Meghan's years of training. Isabeau was scolded thoroughly for her tardiness in returning with the stonecrop herb and was told she would not be allowed to leave the palace grounds again if she was to take such liberties. She sighed and returned to her spitting-stool to dream of the sea. One day perhaps she would see a sea-serpent or blue whale, or even a Fairge. Morag had described to her how the mysterious sea people swam through the waves with their young clinging to their long hair, singing and whistling and diving for pearls. She thought it must be a wondrous sight.

Isabeau had arranged to meet her new friend a week later, so on the appointed day she sneaked out of the kitchen without telling anyone where she was going. Hopefully Latifa would think she was running an errand for one of the other servants and, with the palace still so crowded, would be so busy she might not miss Isabeau at all.

Isabeau had another reason for her trip into the forest. She had been fascinated by the horse lairds from Tireich and troubled by the fact she still had the magical saddle and bridle. Cloudshadow had told her the riding tack belonged to the MacAhern clan and that its loss troubled them greatly. So Isabeau had decided to give it back to them.

As always Isabeau rode Lasair, who had an uncanny sense of when she wanted him. She had only to walk to the edge of the palace park and the stallion would be there, prancing with delight to see her. That morning she directed him to the hollow tree where she had hidden the saddle and bridle, and spent some time polishing its worn leather. She then saddled Lasair, who submitted to the magical bit and buckle as he would never have to any other form of constraint.

Isabeau urged Lasair to a canter down the long forest meadows, her tousled curls as red as his mane. Horse and rider moved in perfect rhythm, fused into one. Never had Isabeau felt the magic of Ahearn's Saddle so powerfully; it was as if they galloped on sparks, as if they would launch away from the ground and climb those streaming rays of sunlight high into the clouded heart of the sun. At last Isabeau reined Lasair in and leaned forward to bury her face in his mane, stroking his damp neck. She regretted her decision now. The saddle had brought her and Lasair from Aslinn to Rhyssmadill in record time and given them the strength to keep moving long after their natural reserves had run dry. Now they were both strong again, the riding tack made the stallion fleeter than a bird and she as expert a rider as any thigearn.

Their swift passage had taken them near the highway that wound out of the western gate and into the forest. It was the main route from Rhyssmadill to the western lands, and was the way the horse lairds must pass on their journey home.

Isabeau removed the saddle and urged the stallion back into the forest, then sat on a waystone and waited. She heard them first, a low drumming that caused the ground to vibrate, leaves beginning to scatter. Then she smelled them, horse and sweat and dust, and then a cloud of fine powder billowed at the turn of the road. She got up, wiping hands damp with nervousness on her skirt. A cavalcade of horses and riders came round the corner, flags and pennants fluttering, metal bits and rings sparkling. At their head pranced a tall, antlered beast, rainbow-winged, with a dull-golden hide feathered with color around its powerful hocks.

Isabeau tucked her crippled hand behind her and gave the most graceful curtsy she could manage. Kenneth MacAhern raised his hand and the parade came to a stamping, jingling halt. The antlered creature shook its delicate head and pranced, neighing in disdain. So fascinated was she by its color-stroked wings that she could hardly pull her eyes away, but she looked up at the MacAhern and said, "Please, my laird, I have something which I believe belongs to ye." He looked at her with shrewd hazel eyes, and she was conscious of at least six arrows aimed directly at her. Her color rose, but she met his eyes steadfastly and gestured to the saddle and bridle perched on the wayside. He glanced at it, then his gaze grew intent. With one easy, graceful motion he dismounted and the flying horse reared, spreading its wings. He strode past her and examined the saddle closely, then lifted it in his arms and came to her side. "How did ye come by this? How did ye ken it was ours?"

"It was given to me. I was told it belonged to ye, and its loss troubled ye."

"Who gave it to ye?"

Isabeau spoke with difficulty. "A friend. She had found it in an auld barn."

"Ye ken what it is?"

She nodded.

"Ye have a horse. Why do ye no' keep it for yourself?"

Wondering how he knew about Lasair, she said softly, ''I want to. When I ride with the saddle, I feel I ken what it is to fly. But Lasair is a free horse—I have promised him never to use whip or spur, saddle or bridle ..."

A smile crinkled his brown cheek, and the riders behind laughed and murmured. "Ye have a heart unto a Tireichan. We too think our horses free," the MacAhern said to Isabeau. "I thank ye for the return o' the saddle. It is one o' the great relics o' our land and it has been missing for many generations. What is your name?"

"Isabeau."

"No family name?" She shook her head, and he frowned, staring at her consideringly. "That is strange. Ye have the look o' the blood about ye."

"I'm a foundling," she told him.

He looked her over slowly and keenly, stroking his beard. "Do ye wish to travel with us? Is that why ye brought back the saddle?"

She shook her head. "I am apprenticed, I canna leave," she replied, though she cast a longing look at the glossy, muscular horses beginning to shift restlessly.