The Pool of Two Moons (47 page)

Jaspar slept, one arm flung over his head, his dark curls damp with sweat. Dughall wrapped his robe more tightly about him and sat in the chair by the bed. The fire was sinking into embers, and it was growing cold as the night swung toward day. He watched his cousin's face, illuminated only by the flicker of the dying fire, and castigated himself for being a fool. There was no danger. Jaspar slept. The palace was quiet. He should be in bed, sleeping the dreams of a man who had no greater worry in life than how to pay his latest gambling debts.

Dughall felt ice slide down his spine again, and he clenched his fingers. It was no fancy, this presentiment of danger. Dughall had felt it many times before, and always that chill finger had preceded pain and loss and sorrow. He propped his head in his hands, and prepared to watch the last few hours of the night away.

The Bright Soldiers had spent the afternoon exploring the fabled blue city of Dun Gorm. Bride, the capital of Tirsoilleir, was large and grand, but not near as beautiful as this dreamy and ornate city built from blue-gray marble. As they walked the streets, never faltering from their rigid formation, they had passed other Bright Soldiers and touched their fists to their hearts, murmuring, "Deus Vult." That night, as the inns in the city filled with dissatisfied merchants, rowdy squires and riotous sailors, the Bright Soldiers had knelt in their cabins and said their prayers. When they had finished—some time later—they had lain down in their bunks with their swords by their side, and slept. In the dark before dawn, when even the most determined reveller had finally stumbled into sleep, they rose, washed their bodies in cold water, dressed in their chain mail and prayed again. "Deus Vult!" they whispered. "Deus Vult!"

There were now fifteen Tirsoilleir ships at rest in the Berhtfane. Six were galleons, with four masts and yards of furled sail. Six were three-masted caravels, faster and more maneuverable but dwarfed by their ponderous cousins. The rest were merchants' carracks, with two square sails and a mizzen. From each ship small boats were lowered, some filled with soldiers that rowed with muffled oars to shore. The others were piled high with straw and manned by one man only, bare-chested and bare of foot. The straw-filled dinghies drifted across the harbor, flowering into flame. As sparks began to drift into the rigging and flame crept up the anchor ropes, the men dived under the water and cut the Eileanan ships' rudder ropes so they could not be steered.

Great tongues of flame began to billow from one merchant ship, and there were cries of confusion. Showers of sparks flew into the night like fireflies. Within twenty minutes most of the Eileanan ships were funeral pyres, the screams of those on board filling the night. The city was awake now, lights springing up all along the harbor wall, and somewhere an alarm bell was ringing. The men on board pulled back tarpaulins to reveal great breech-loading cannons on the ships' deck. Signals were sent to the other ships to do the same, and the caravels began to maneuver closer to shore. The cannons had only a short range and they wished to do as much damage as possible to Dun Gorm.

The admiral of the Tirsoilleirean navy was waiting for daylight before firing the cannons. They were difficult enough to load and aim without attempting to do so under the cover of darkness. He was also waiting for the signal from the shore that would tell him his soldiers had disabled the Red Guards' military headquarters and taken over the harbormaster's tower. Outside waited another fleet of Tirsoilleirean ships, heavy with soldiers, and the gates needed to be opened to allow them into the Berhtfane. At last it was light enough for him to see the streets were filled with fighting. He frowned. Obviously the soldiers had failed in their surprise attack. He was surprised to see many of the men resisting the Bright Soldiers were not dressed in the red uniforms of the Banrigh's Guards, and he wondered who they were, to fight so fiercely. He raised his hand, then dropped it sharply.

From every ship the cannons boomed, pelting the city with solid bronze balls. He coughed, enveloped in clouds of foul-smelling smoke, and wiped his streaming eyes. When the black smoke cleared, he was pleased to see the city had suffered a great deal of damage.

Again and again he ordered the cannon to fire, not only on the city fortifications but also on Rhyssmadill itself. It was a difficult target for the ships, towering so high above their masts on its great finger of stone, but anything the Admiral could do to ensure the palace fell quickly was worth the attempt. The fire had sunk to ashes, the darkness and silence in the chamber complete, when Dughall lifted his head. The urge to pick Jaspar's wasted figure up in his arms and carry him away was almost overwhelming. Suddenly the fear that Jaspar had died in his sleep surged through him, and he felt around on the pillow until he found his cousin's frail wrist. A pulse still scurried there. It quickened at the touch of his fingers, and a feeble voice said, "Who's there?"

"It is I, Dughall." He felt the wrist slacken in relief.

"Ye come to watch me sleep, Dugh?" The Righ's voice was sleepily affectionate. "Ye are afraid I shall die in the night?"

"I am afraid," Dughall answered hesitantly. "I fear for your safety, Jaspar, though ask me no' why."

"My death is close," Jaspar whispered. "I can feel it."

"Obh obh! The cracked cup lasts longest, ye ken that!"

"They said, when I was but a bairn, that I had Talent," Jaspar mused in the darkness. "Give me this, Dughall—if any Talent be left in me, it is to ken the coming o' my own death." Dughall was shaken. "I hope no', Jaspar, for these be times when we need a strong Righ."

"I want to return to Lucescere. I miss the Jewels o' Rionnagan gleaming in the light, I miss the Shining Waters, I miss the gardens and running through the maze. Do ye remember how we used to play chase-and-hide in the maze? They say it disappeared the day the Tower burned." Jaspar sighed.

"Sometimes I still think I can hear the Lodestar calling . . . My babe will need to be bonded to it, it canna be the first MacCuinn in four hundred years no' to touch the Lodestar . . ." His voice came in spurts as his energy failed him.

The sense of danger was now so close Dughall felt it at his shoulder, breathing a polar wind down his spine. "Jaspar," he said urgently. "Something is wrong! I can feel it."

"It is almost dawn. I would like to see the dawn again before I die."

"I could help ye to the window," Dughall said eagerly.

"I canna walk. My legs shake, and my heart pounds like a drum."

Dughall bent and gathered his cousin's form to his breast, frightened at how light he was. Jaspar had never been tall, like most of the MacCuinns, but he weighed no more than a child now.

"Take me to the west window," Jaspar begged. "I want to see the dawn on the Whitelock Mountains. I do no' want to see the sea." He gave a superstitious shudder, and pressed his arm closer about Dughall's neck.

Dughall carried him across the suite and set him down so he could draw back the curtain and open the long windows. Jaspar leant against him, shivering in the cold. With an exclamation, Dughall stripped off his bedgown and wrapped it around the Righ's emaciated form. He helped his cousin over the doorsill, and they stepped out on to the small balcony.

In his luxurious suite of rooms in the royal wing of the palace, Baron Neville of St. Clair leaned on his window sill and watched the first bright blossoming of flame with austere pleasure. "Deus vult!" he cried, and rubbed his hand lovingly over the sword-hilt.

The guild-master of the Ancient Guild of Firework Magicians had been useful indeed. With a little persuasion, he had surrendered the secrets of making gunpowder, and now the Bright Soldiers were assured of victory.

The recipe for gunpowder had been carefully guarded by the Ancient Guild for over a thousand years. The guild sold their magical substance to the prionnsachan at a very high price for blasting, quarrying and metal smelting. The secrets of making the explosive powder had been brought from the Other World, but the white crystalline substance used to make it was rare here— found only in the northern countries of Siantan, Carraig and Tirsoilleir.

For many years saltpetre had been among those countries' most lucrative exports, for all Eileanan loved fireworks and all the prionnsachan needed explosives for their industries. The Ancient Guild of Firework Magicians had been one of the wealthiest of all the guilds, and the most secretive about their activities. The fireworks powder had always been used in weaponry, but both muskets and cannons were slow to load and fire, prone to exploding at the wrong moment, and completely useless in damp weather. With saltpetre so rare, its use had primarily been reserved for industrial reasons, particularly in the past four hundred years. Since Aedan MacCuinn set himself up as Righ, there had been none of the civil war which had divided Eilea-nan for so long, and so the use of such high-powered weaponry had fallen out of use. Tirsoilleir had been no exception. Although its many limestone caves were rich in saltpetre, there had been no civil war in the Bright Land since the last attempt of the MacHilde family to regain their throne. The dour soldier society did not approve of fireworks, and so the Ancient Guild of Firework Magicians had only a small factory in Bride. After the Fealde, God bless her soul, decided to rid the world of the heretical, witch-loving Eileanans, they had tried to buy the secret from the guild, but they had all preferred to die rather than give up the recipe.

This had presented only a temporary hitch to their plans, fortunately. There had been enough stocks of the gritty gray powder at the Bride factory to allow the legions to be trained in the use of the harquebus, and to allow the military engineers to design a more efficient cannon that could be bolted to the ships'

decks. By the time their gunpowder was running out, they had signed a treaty with the Banprionnsa of Arran. She had no gunpowder herself, nor saw any need for it with her foul sorceries, but she commanded the Mesmerdean, who could infiltrate any stronghold. The marsh demons had led a company of Bright Soldiers into the heart of Dun Eidean itself and had helped carry away sacks of gunpowder, as well as the slack body of the guild-master. With the Mesmerdean's hypnotic talents, they had easily beguiled him into giving up the recipe, and killed him afterward, along with anyone else who knew the secret in Blessem.

It had been a clever plan, this surprise attack on the Righ, and had been carefully coordinated. The treaties with Margrit of Arran and the pirates of the Fair Isles had allowed them to attack Dun Eidean and Dim Gorm simultaneously. The diplomatic party had flattered the Righ's conceit and paved the way for the fleet of merchant ships at a time when all of southern Eileanan was hungry for trade. The galleons, welcomed in the Berht-fane with open arms, had concealed soldiers and siege machines. The stealing of the gunpowder recipe gave the Bright Soldiers the weapons with which to fight off the superior force of the Righ.

It had been a stroke of genius to strike in the aftermath of the Lammas festivities. The barracks were all nursing hangovers, and Rhyssmadill was stuffed with the riches of the land which the prionnsachan had paid in tithes. Already the Fealde was planning a cloth-of-gold tapestry to drape the altar of Bride's cathedral and a jeweled cross to hang above it.

The rich lands of southern Eileanan would be theirs! The corn and barley fields, the saltpans, the abundant forests, the mountains rich in ore and jewels, the life-giving river, the huge harbor and gentle shores would all be theirs. Baron Neville's austere lips almost smiled. "Deus vult!" he murmured. His lieutenant, Benedict the Holy, stood by his side, the only sign of satisfaction on his impassive countenance the faint gleam of his eyes. "Time, do ye think, my laird?"

"Aye, time indeed," Baron Neville replied and picked up his helmet, fitting it over his cropped gray hair with finicky care before striding from the room.

The upper floors of the palace were very quiet. A few lanterns glowed in the corridors, but otherwise all was dark. Baron Neville loosened his dagger in its sheath. If he felt any compunction about the task he was about to perform, no sign of it showed on his ascetic features. His grim mouth was folded firmly, and his fingers were steady. The twelve other Tirsoilleirean who had been quartered in Rhyssmadill itself would now be creeping toward the drawbridge, prepared to do what they could to speed the fall of the palace. Even if they were unable to damage the mechanism to open and close the bridge, they could kill or wound many of the guards on duty and perhaps wedge open the portcullis to the inner bailey. Their white cloaks streaming behind them, Baron Neville and Benedict the Holy climbed the grand staircase to the highest floor, where the Righ and Banrigh's personal quarters were. The guards at the top of the stairs jumped to attention, their spears crossing smartly. If they thought it odd to find the leader of the Tirsoil-leirean diplomatic party creeping through the palace in the wee small hours, they had no chance to express their puzzlement. Both died quickly and silently, their bodies hidden behind the tapestries that hung over the stairwell.

The guards outside the Righ's door died as quickly, though their bodies were left to lie where they had fallen. The baron's fingers trembled with excitement as he eased open the door of the Righ's suite of rooms. It was dark inside. The fire was dead, the only light sliding through a crack in one of the curtains. He tiptoed across the rug, the knife in his hand slippery with sweat, Benedict at his back. The baron had never before been in the Righ's own quarters and so had to guess where the bed was. His fingers encountered the soft plushness of the velvet coverlet, and he followed it higher until he felt the swell of a pillow beneath his fingers. His heart hammering, the baron and his lieutenant raised high their daggers. With loud cries of "Deus vult!," they thrust their knives deep into the yielding softness of the bed. Again and again they stabbed, shouting, "See how witch-lovers die, MacCuinn?" To the west, the outline of the mountains was just beginning to lift from the darkness. The moons were setting, round as wheels of cheese and near as orange. Even Gladrielle was bright hued, while the shadows on Mag-nysson's rump were heavy, like the marks left after the slap of a hand. Dughall was filled with ice inside and out. He smelled burning, and from the corner of his eye saw the ugly stain of smoke against the paling sky. Together they watched the mountains spring to life before them, and breathed in the smoke-tainted air. Danger was cold steel against the nape of his neck. From the Righ's bedroom, they heard exultant voices crying: "Deus vult! Die, witch-lover!" Immediately all Dughall's misgivings crystallized and he knew exactly what he had feared. Jaspar turned his head, his body rigid. "Bright Soldiers."