The Pool of Two Moons (49 page)

"Guid lassie! Did ye bring your herbs?"

Isabeau shook her head, trying to control her ragged breathing.

"Never mind, we can use the Righ's medicines for now. Come help me, the laird has been stabbed. An attempt was made on the Righ's life, but he is safe now, thank Ea!" In her perturbation, Latifa did not realize she had used a witches' oath and Isabeau cast a scared glance at the Righ's face. He was pale but composed, and gave no reaction to the cook's words. He held Dughall firmly against his shoulder. It was an ugly wound. After they had cleaned it thoroughly, Isabeau carefully stitched the ragged lips of skin together and dabbed it with a herbal potion to quicken the healing.

Isabeau was just knotting the makeshift bandage together when feet hammered up the stone stairway. They all tensed and looked to the door. Latifa got to her feet and stood tight-fisted before the bed as if ready to guard the Righ with her own body. It was a brigade of palace guards, swords drawn.

"We are under siege, Your Highness!" the leader cried. "The Tirsoilleirean have attacked the city! Dun Gorm is lost, and the soldiers are at the palace gates!"

The Righ began to issue quick orders, his eyes feverishly bright.

"We must get ye to safety before they break through the gates!" Dughall cried. The Righ began to make objections, but his cousin cried frantically, "Think o' your unborn babe, Jaspar, think o' Maya! Ye canna stay with the Bright Soldiers at your very gates."

"Rhyssmadill will no' fall," Jaspar said, surprised. "Rhyss-madill has never fallen."

"The river-gates have been destroyed, Your Highness," the soldier said desperately. "All o' Clachan and Blessem lie open before the Tirsoilleirean army, and Dun Eidean's beacon has been lit—-we can see its glare from the highest tower. We should retreat and regroup, prepare to defend the highlands."

"Lucescere!" Dughall cried. "We must get ye and the Banrigh to Lucescere! Ye will be safe there."

"Lucescere," Jaspar repeated dreamily. "Very well, we shall go to Lucescere. Latifa! We must make ready. Start packing up—take only what is needful for the journey to Lucescere. Guards! Call the chancellor! Rhyssmadill must no' fall!"

The green meadows around Dun Eidean were churned into mud, stained with blood and littered with the bodies of the slain. Many wore the silver mail of the Bright Soldiers; most wore the brown homespuns of crofters.

On the city ramparts an old woman stood, wrapped well in velvet and furs against the wind. Tears ran down the wrinkles of her face. She shook her fist at the battle that raged around the base of the ancient walls.

Suddenly there was a massive explosion that shook the city walls. Black smoke mushroomed above the walls, and the Dowager Banprionnsa coughed and covered her mouth with her hands. When the smoke drifted clear, she realized with horror that a hole had been blown in the outer wall. The Bright Soldiers were cheering, and the defenders broke and ran, scrambling to get back as the invaders charged in a silver-glinting wave.

"Damn ye!" she shouted, but her words were caught by the wind and tossed away. She watched helplessly as the enemy prepared to fire again, and an idea came to her. She had been born in Siantan, home of the mighty weather witches. As a girl she had spent eight years at the Tower of Storm, as had all the children of the great lairds. Although witchcraft and witchcunning were not taught until a child had been accepted into the Coven as an apprentice, she had learned many a trick from the older students, including how to keep rain away from picnic days.

The Dowager Banprionnsa did not know what evil sorceries the Bright Soldiers used to so destroy the ancient wall of Dun Eidean, but clearly the element of fire was involved. She shut her eyes, clenched her fists, and chanted under her breath:

"Come hither, spirits of the west, bringing rain,

Come hither, spirits of the east, bringing wind,

Come hither, spirits of the west, bringing rain,

Come hither, spirits of the east, bringing wind,"

until she felt a fine mist of rain dampen her face. She opened her eyes and saw a gray deluge sweeping across the loch toward her. Far below, the Bright Soldiers manning the cannons were desperately trying to cover their fuses but the rain was soaking into everything. She saw them curse and throw down their flint boxes in anger, and smiled wearily. For the first time in decades she gave thanks to Ea, standing on the city walls with the rain pelting her gray head. The cannons did not fire again. The palace was thrown into turmoil as the retreat was ordered. Latifa the Cook sent servants scurrying into every storeroom and larder as she packed provisions for the journey. Out in the courtyard, horses neighed, rearing in terror at the smell of smoke and fear. The servants of the prionnsachan still in residence scurried to pack their fine velvets, while screams of hysteria rose from every fine suite of rooms. The palace seanalair was shouting orders, while grim-faced soldiers ran to arm the walls. The carriages of the aristocrats were the first to leave, guarded heavily. As they rumbled over the bridge, the guards on the outer walls shouted in dismay. The gates into the city had fallen, and fighting was spilling into the park. The coachmen whipped up their horses and the gilded carriages swayed wildly as they raced down the road toward the back gate.

Isabeau was frantically helping the other servants pile the wagons with barrels, baskets and parcels. She could hear the sound of fighting very close, and the screams of pain and hatred sent adrenalin pumping through her veins. "Quickly, Isabeau!" Latifa cried. "The enemy are upon us—we must flee! They will close the gates and raise the drawbridge any moment now!"

Another fully laden wagon thundered out of the courtyard, piled high with bags of gold, precious plate and jewels, the tiny form of the Chancellor of the Exchequer perched amongst the trunks and sacks like a bird. There was only one wagon left, the great bulk of Latifa already perched on the seat with the driver. Isabeau threw her satchel up, then suddenly remembered the little spit-dogs still tied to the spit-wheels in the kitchen. She raced into the kitchen, untied them in haste and ran back, a dog under each arm. She managed to scramble onto the wagon just as it wheeled around, the driver whipping the horses frantically. She would never have managed it if it had not been for Sukey, who reached down and seized the dogs so Isabeau could vault onto the laden back. Sukey's tight grip saved her from tumbling off as the wagon thundered out of the palace gates and across the narrow bridge. Behind them the gates slammed shut and the drawbridge shuddered upward.

"Ye fool!" Sukey said, her round cheeks for once without any color at all. "Must ye be always risking yourself for a dumb animal!"

Isabeau could only hug the spit-dogs to her, breathless. As the wagon swung onto the road, fighting surged up against it. One division of Bright Soldiers had managed to strike through the defending soldiers and was trying desperately to stop the Righ's retreat. She saw soldiers, their faces distorted with the lust of battle, press close to the side of the wagon, and she shrank back with a cry. Their silver mailshirts flashed in the sunshine, their claymores and maces clotted with blood and flesh. Ahead a line of white-clad soldiers lifted harquebuses, resting them on wooden stakes driven into the ground. They exploded with a loud bang and a cloud of foul-smelling smoke, and many of the Red Guards fell. Again the harquebusiers fired, and the driver of Isabeau's wagon tumbled off his seat, a red flower blossoming between his eyes. The horses plunged madly, and Latifa seized the reins and urged the terrified horses into a gallop. They surged over the line of harquebusiers before they had had time to reload, knocking them beneath the iron wheels of the wagon. As the Bright Soldiers screamed, Isabeau covered her face with her hands.

The wagon thundered on, the Red Guards forcing the Bright Soldiers back. Isabeau looked back at Rhyssmad-ill. Its delicate spires were half obscured by thick billows of black smoke as the city beyond burned. Desperately she wondered if Lasair would know to flee, or if he would wait for her along the fringes of the park. She sent a frantic mind-message, but there was no response. They reached the backwoods gate, the soldiers securing it behind them to slow any pursuit by the Bright Soldiers. The forest pressed in, so that branches scraped the side of the wagon, the wheels rattling with broken twigs. One of the outriders trotted up close and held up a hand to Isabeau. With a glad cry she recognized Riordan Bowlegs and called to him. "Guid to see ye, Red," he called back. "Do no' be feared now, will ye? Riordan Bowlegs will look after ye!"

Isabeau sat back, feeling much happier. A stir of excitement quickened her blood. For weeks she had been worrying about the Key and how to get it to Lucescere. Yet here she and Latifa were, traveling to the old palace in the Righ's own party. Indeed, the Spinners had taken a hand in the weaving.
On the Road

The wolf ran swiftly, her nose to the ground, her long, lean body bounding over rocks and bushes. Far below the Muileach River thundered through its gorge, and the faces of the men riding close behind were wet with its high-flung spray.

Anghus was white-faced and tense-shouldered, his face still raw and bruised from his tumble down the hill. He had woken more than a day after the departure of the winged prionnsa, feeling as if he had drunk a dram too many. His head aching, his throat parched, he had opened his eyes blearily as the wolf had nudged him with her nose. Disorientated, he had stared up at the canvas overhead. "Where am I?"

"We be at the rebels' encampment," Donald had said soothingly, holding a cup of water to his lips. "Lie still, my laird, ye've taken a nasty knock."

Anghus had swallowed water obediently, trying to make his brain work. The roof of the tent was wavering, coining toward him, receding. He closed his eyes, set his hands flat to the ground, trying to regain his equilibrium.

When he opened them again, a stranger was standing against the tent flap, a tall, lithe man with daggers bristling in his belt and boots. "So, ye've woken, my laird," he said very politely. "And how are ye feeling yourself?"

"Like I fell beneath a stampede o'
geal'teas,"
Anghus had replied. "What happened? What am I doing here?"

"A very guid question, my laird," the man answered suavely. "A question I'd be liking an answer to myself."

"Who are ye? Where am I?"

"I, my laird, am Cathmor the Nimble, son o' Desmond Cobbler. Ye are in the heart o' the rebel camp, and I'd be warning ye, my laird, no' to make any hasty moves for there are close on five hundred men surrounding this tent . . ."

"By the Centaur, do ye think I feel up to making any hasty moves!" Anghus had snapped. "Where's my daughter?"

"I'd like to ken how ye knew where to find us, my laird?" There had been a silky undercurrent of menace in the rebel's voice.

"I followed the MacCuinn lad," Anghus had replied, shading his eyes with his hand. "Where is he? I saw him riding out . . . Where's my daughter?" The quality of the silence made Anghus uncover his eyes, and he saw Cathmor had unsheathed his dagger, frowning fiercely. "For Ea's sake, man, I'm no enemy o'

yours or o' the MacCuinn."

"Are ye no' in Maya the Ensorcellor's service? Did ye no' capture Meghan NicCuinn and give her into the hands o' the Awl?"

"Well, yes, but she understood . . . Put the dagger away, lad, ye're unnerving me. I see I shall have to tell ye the whole story, and then ye'll understand." Briefly and hastily Anghus had explained the events that had led him to the rebel encampment. "So ye see, I just want to find my daughter. Meghan said she thought she was here."

Cathmor had stared at him calculatingly. "She's no' here, my laird. There was a young lassie named Finn, but she rode out with the prionnsa."

"Where have they gone?"

"That I shall no' tell ye, my laird. The prionnsa recognized ye, put ye into my care and told me to keep ye safe." There was a slight stress on the last words.

"Have a heart, lad. I swear to ye I care no' what ye are planning."

"So ye say, my laird. Indeed, it does no' matter for soon we shall be gone. We shall keep ye here until ye can do us no harm, then ye shall be free to go. For some reason, His Highness did no' want me to silence you permanently." Cathmor had caressed his dagger, adding, "Do no' think I shall no' kill ye if ye try anything, though, my laird. We have all fought too long to risk our plans now." Nothing Anghus said had changed the rebel's mind. To his frustration, the prionnsa and his gillie were confined to the one small tent, Casey Hawkeye and the young piper to another. Tabithas paced the floor restlessly, whining, but each time they even looked outside they were menaced with claymores. The next day they had heard the unmistakable noises of a large body of men packing up and moving out. Their guards kept them incarcerated for another day and night, then drugged their food so all four men and the wolf fell into a heavy sleep. When they had woken, the corrie had been empty. At Anghus's command, Tabithas had put her nose to the ground and led them on the trail of Fionnghal's party. Through the valleys and gorges the wolf tracked her, the men riding close behind, until they came to the raging torrent of the Muileach River. They had been following the jagged course of the river's gorge for several days now, but had not been able to catch up with the winged prionnsa's party. Although Anghus was lightheaded and sick still, he spurred his horse on relentlessly, certain now that the beggar-girl they called Finn was his missing daughter.

They rounded a great boulder and came to an instinctive halt, staring ahead with fascinated eyes. Before them loomed a towering cliff, its craggy surface slick and black with the spray flung back from the river, which burst out of the cliff face several hundred feet above their heads. Boiling and frothing with the power of its escape, the waterfall poured down the cliff face in a white torrent, plunging into the gorge below.

Tabithas ran back and forth at the edge of the cliff, whining, gazing up at Anghus with troubled eyes.

"How can Fionnghal have just vanished into thin air? Find her, Tabithas!" The wolf whined again, running back and forth, her nose to the ground. Then she looked up at the prionnsa, wagged her tail briefly, then ran and jumped off the edge of the cliff. She fell down, her dark body twisting, and hit the water with a splash. "No!" Anghus screamed, as she disappeared under the foaming torrent. "Tabithas, no!" But it was too late. The wolf had gone.