The Pool of Two Moons (46 page)

"Yet ye have the heart o' a thigearn. Your horse runs along the edge o' the forest, anxious for ye—and ye hide him from our view. Ahearn's Saddle makes ye feel that ye can fly. If ye wish to leave with us, we shall take ye."

"Thank ye but I canna leave. I have a task here," she tried to explain.

"So what can I offer ye in return for the saddle?"

Surprise crossed her face. "Nothing. I want nothing. I just wished . . . The saddle is no' mine. It helped me and supported me when I needed strength, but I need it no longer. It seemed fateful that ye were here, and I know no' when I would have the chance again. So I brought it. It's yours."

"Well, I thank ye again, Isabeau the Foundling." The MacAhern's long, brown fingers unfastened the brooch at his breast, and he gave it to her, pressing it into her calloused palm. "If ye change your mind, or if ye need my help, come to Tireich. Give this to any o' my people and they will bring me to ye." She glanced down at it, seeing the design of a rearing horse and flushed. "Is this no' your family crest?

Should ye be giving it to me?"

He laughed. "It is only a trinket, lassie. I do no' wear the heirloom to ride through foreign lands. That is kept safe in Tireich, I assure ye. Nay, I am glad to give it in return o' the saddle, which is a princely gift indeed."

Isabeau was about to protest again, but he bent and said to her softly, "We o' the horse clan do not believe in gifts without reciprocation. That means a debt is owed and we do no' like to be indebted." She closed her fingers over the brooch and nodded. "Then thank ye, my laird," she said clearly, and he smiled and leapt onto the back of the flying horse.

"Then I look forward to meeting ye again, Isabeau the Foundling. I am sure the Spinners will bring the threads o' our lives together again."

It was the first time Isabeau had heard reference to the Spinners in months, and her eyes stung with tears. She nodded and stood back, and the flying horse sprang forward, its rainbow-colored wings outstretched, framing the tall man on its back. With a shout the other riders followed, streaming past Isabeau in a blur of chestnut, bay and black. Dust coated her but she stood watching until the entire cavalcade had passed.

She called Lasair to her and he came galloping out of the trees, his ears pricked with interest. He stared down the road, and she stroked his glossy neck. "Would ye have liked to have gone with them, Lasair?" He neighed and shook his mane and pawed the ground, and she said, "Ye would no' have run quite so free in Tireich, I think."

Hiding the brooch in her nyx-hair pouch, Isabeau swung onto Lasair's back and they trotted into the forest, a squall of rain rattling the leaves above. For some reason Isabeau felt lighter, freer. She was glad she had given back the saddle, and thought it was what Meghan would have wanted her to do. Once she reached the coast, Isabeau dismounted and let the stallion graze as he wanted. She leant against the bulwark and looked at the sea. The sky above the far-distant islands was a clear apple-green. Long rays of sun slanted through the clouds, lighting the beach with warmth. It was cold and windy on the headland. Isabeau began to pace up and down, anxious to get down to the beach. At last, deciding Morag could not come, she scrambled down the ladder and wandered through the dunes. It felt good to be out in the fresh, damp air. Seagulls rose with the wind, screeching with joy. Isabeau lifted her head and screeched back at them,
Yes, wind strong, seagull flies, yes . . .
Far away, silhouetted against the pale green sky, was a flock of white sails like giant seagull wings. Isabeau watched them in fascination, wondering what it must be like so far out to sea. The ships must be sailing in from the Fair Isles, and she wondered if perhaps it was the missing fleet returning to Eileanan. She laughed at her hopeful imagining—more likely it was the fishing flotilla, returning with nets filled with herring. Though she had never seen fishing boats with so many fat-bellied sails. Pink clouds, lit beneath to molten gold, banded the sky from horizon to horizon. Their fiery ardor cooled. Isabeau saw the first shimmer of light from the rising of the moons glide across the rough, gray seas. Suddenly a freezing cold wave wet her to the waist, and she realized she had wandered far along the shore.

Isabeau glanced about her in sudden fear. She realized the tide had turned. Large, foam-flecked waves were galloping toward her. The sun had sunk behind the forest, and the shadow of the bulwark stretched over the sand, dusk turning the dunes to violet and gray. Already waves were splashing the massive wall further around the bend. If she was not quick, the way back to the ladder would be cut off. Isabeau hurried back across the sands. Waves ate at her footprints. The tide was coming in with frightening speed. The sand that had been so warm twenty minutes ago was now scalloped with foam. She began to run.

Water was swirling above her knees when she at last reached the ladder. She had to struggle to climb it with the weight of her dripping skirts. With her feet still bare, the barnacles on the rungs cut her feet cruelly. The boots slung round her neck hampered her every move. Waves sucked at her and for a moment both her feet were swept off the ladder. She clung on and managed to pull herself higher. Shaking with fatigue and cold, she could only climb slowly. It seemed as if the water was reaching for her with clawed hands, so fiercely did it tug her down. She was beginning to fail when a deep, feminine voice called to her from above. "Quickly, lassie, else ye'll be dinner for a sea-serpent. Reach for my hand." With a fresh burst of energy, Isabeau clambered up the slippery steps and managed to grasp Morag's wrist. Strong fingers closed around hers and hauled her up the last few feet. Isabeau clung to the iron poles and looked back down at the sea, now heaving gray and threatening against the stone bulwark. "It rises so far," she gasped.

"O' course it does, that is why the wall was built so tall. Quick, wriggle through. Ye look weary indeed, and I do no' want ye falling back into the sea."

Isabeau's legs were trembling so much she could hardly manage it, but slowly she made her way along the outside of the bulwark.

"Why did ye go down to the shore?" Morag's voice was stern and a little frightened. "Did ye no'

remember the autumn equinox is only a few weeks away? And it's been stormy, the tides are running higher than they have since the spring!"

Isabeau nodded, angry with herself for forgetting. She turned and looked out to sea again. She could not believe how quickly the tide had turned. She gave a gasp. "Look!" In the great swell thundering into shore were a number of sleek, black heads. They rode the waves as easily as any sea-stirk, diving and leaping out of the water as if enjoying the savage surge of the current. They were too far away to see anything of their features, but Isabeau had no doubt they were Fairgean. Morag looked where she pointed and a strange expression settled over her face.

"Come!" she cried. "We must be away from here!"

"Surely we are safe?" Isabeau asked. "They canna breach the wall ..."

"If ye can climb the ladder and squeeze through the fence, what makes ye think the Fairgean canna?" Morag replied gravely. All color had gone from her cheeks, and she had crossed her arms over her breast as if afraid.

Fear flooded through Isabeau, and she took a few steps back from the bulwark. With a fast-beating heart, she stared at the Fairgean still cavorting in the waves off the beach. Her dream of seeing the sea people had come true, but Isabeau could only be afraid.

Morag said, "I must be getting back. Be careful, Red. Do no' go down to the beach with Fairgean in the waters—they will drag ye in and drown ye without hesitation." She heaved herself into her side-saddle, standing on a log so as to be able to put her foot into the stirrup.

Isabeau did not even wait for her horse's hooves to fade away before calling out with her mind for Lasair. He sensed her alarm and came at a gallop, and she swung on to his back without waiting for him to stop. He cantered all the way to the edge of the forest, only her riding skill keeping her on his back as branches whipped out of the dusk and massive tree trunks loomed close on either side. At last, scratched and bruised, Isabeau slid from his back and leaned her forehead against his damp neck. She thought frantically,
Be careful, Lasair.

To her great surprise and joy, she heard faintly:
And ye . . .

Fireworks

Donovan Slewfoot leaned on the railing, watching the pearly dawn tide swell toward him. Behind him the city was quiet and shuttered, but over the peaked islands the sun was easing out of a white mist. He slumped further along, staring with despondency at the rust circling the great bolts. The gates needed a good overhaul, but the Righ would not authorize the expenditure. The bulwark was in even worse condition, and seeing the great stones crumbling stabbed Donovan with anxiety. There were Fairgean in the seas, and the Righ could not see the wall should be repaired? Indeed, there was something strange about the MacCuinn's apathy. For all their faults, the MacCuinns had never been indifferent to the welfare of the people.

Out of the mist loomed the graceful shapes of a fleet of six great ships. The sails drooped from their masts, but the ships sailed in smoothly, carried by the force of the tide. Donovan Slewfoot frowned and packed his clay pipe thoughtfully, cramming the tobacco deep into the bowl with his spatulate thumb. The tobacco used to be given to him by traders from the Fair Isles when they sailed in with their cargo—a gift to speed the process of cargo checking and raising the ships through the locks. The Fair Isles were the only place in all of the Far Islands where the plant would grow, for it liked a temperate climate. Tobacco and snuff were consequently rare and normally reserved for those with deep pockets. Donovan Slewfoot considered it one of the privileges of his position as harbormaster. He lit the pipe, moodily watching the ships sail into the firth. They knew, these Tirsoilleirean ships, that the best time to enter the Berhtfane was on the incoming tides. They seemed to know the times of the tides near as well as he did. And this tobacco he smoked, they had known to slip him a cord of it as they came through his gates. How had they known, and where did they get the tobacco? It surely did not grow on Tirsoilleir's cool plains. He wondered about this as he wondered about many things that had happened these past years. But Donovan took his orders from the Righ, and the MacCu-inns had said, "Let those white-sailed ships in."

One by one Donovan Slewfoot let the ships through the gates and into the locks. The tide lifted them and carried them, one by one, into the peaceful waters of the Berhtfane. Each one of the six gave him a cord of tobacco, with a nod or a stiff smile. Each one seemed innocent enough, the decks clear of anyone but brown-armed sailors and a few soldiers. But the hair on Donovan Slewfoot's neck lifted, and he put the tebacco away with a twist of his lip, and a feeling he should perhaps tell someone his thoughts. But who?

That night Dughall MacBrann was restless and unable to sleep. He was much troubled by the latest letter from his father, who lived in happy seclusion on the family's estates on the far side of Ravenshaw. The MacBrann was elderly now, and so absorbed in his many eccentric inventions and contraptions that he was rarely aware of what went on around him. His letters usually rambled on without much coherence, but this last letter was even more muddled than ever. In between describing his latest flying machine, exultation over a new litter of pups from his favorite hound, and complaints about his son's prolonged absence, Dughall's father had mentioned a visit by a horde of Bright Soldiers. Three paragraphs later, he had mentioned they had come wanting use of Ravenshaw's many hidden ports and bays, and two pages later, he said they had offered a ludicrous amount of money for the privilege. It had not occurred to the Mac-Brann to tell his long-suffering son what reply he had made, though a cryptic postscript that said,

"sent them off with a flea in their ear" could have referred to either the Bright Soldiers or the puppies. Dughall MacBrann could not have explained why his father's letter gave him such a profound sense of unease. It was not the scattered half thoughts, unfinished anecdotes and peculiar expressions which disturbed him so, for that was the usual epistolary style of the Prionnsa of Ravenshaw. It was not the knowledge that the Tirsoil-leirean had asked his father for permission to use the bays, although that was food for thought indeed. It was not his telling of the sighting of strange ships in the seas, nor the stories of Fairgean in the rivers. It was a prickling down his spine that Dughall knew well. He felt danger hovering. It was this that had kept him tossing and turning in his bed, and this which caused him to quit his bed some hours before dawn.

He sat up, pulled on his long velvet bedgown and his fur-lined slippers, and made his way to the door. The palace was dark and hushed. He hesitated for a long moment, then made his way up the grand staircase to the Righ's quarters on the top floor. The bleary-eyed guards nodded to him and let him past, knowing Dughall MacBrann was the Righ's closest friend.

Dughall knew the other prionnsachan scorned him for remaining on good terms with Jaspar, for Dughall's mother, Mathilde NicCuinn, had been killed by the Red Guards on the Day of Reckoning. The shock of her death had caused his father—always an eccentric—to slip into amiable madness. Many of the lairds despised Dughall for his weakness in so meekly accepting his mother's murder, although many had also lost relatives in the Burning. "Young Dughall thinks to restore the MacBrann clan's fortune," they whispered, "by being the Righ's lickspittle . . ."

Dughall ignored the whispers. Indeed, what else could he do? Since Dughall had discovered Jaspar in an agony of guilt after the Day of Reckoning, the cousins had been closer than ever. Jaspar had always been his best friend as well as his cousin, and Dughall knew the power of the enchantment laid upon him. He had decided long ago to stand by Jaspar, and though the decision cost him dear, he had never wavered from the course he had set himself.