The Pool of Two Moons (51 page)

"Give me your cloak, ye great blithering idiot!" she cried, using it to shelter the groaning woman from the soldiers' eyes. "Your Highness," she said gently, "I need ye to sit up. Come now, that be right." Morag was unable to respond, her breath coining in hoarse pants.

"We canna let her be having the babe here on the road, in the view o' all. Run get me a tent, and build me a fire, as quick as ye can. Isabeau, get your herbs and think what is best to calm the babe for the birth." Isabeau sat stock-still, her mouth agape. She could not believe that Morag was the Banrigh, the woman she had been brought up to think of as her enemy. She could not believe it. She kept thinking there must be some mistake, but surely Latifa would not make such a mistake?

Latifa helped Maya sit up, pressing her fingers on her grossly distended stomach. Maya screamed and beat at Latifa's hands with her own. "Gently, my dear, gently," Latifa chided. She said to Isabeau, "The royal babe is no' due for a month! This is dreadful, indeed. Wha' happened?" Isabeau, trembling with fear and anxiety, tried to tell her. Already in shock at the suddenness of Lasair's attack, she was frightened and dismayed by the realization that her friend Morag was the Banrigh, the most powerful woman in the land. Everything had happened so fast. She stole little looks at the Banrigh's white, sweat-glistened face, as she lit the fire—now so used to flint that she never even thought of lighting it with her mind. This was her greatest enemy, the woman she had sworn to topple. The shift in perception was too much for her to deal with.

Latifa had unbuttoned the Banrigh's dress and was peering at the swelling bruise on her side. "Bring the candle closer, Isabeau," she murmured. "She's bleeding still. We'll have trouble saving the babe ..." Maya heard her and began to scream out. "No, no, ye must save my babe!" she cried. "Ye must save my babe!" Somewhere overhead a hawk screamed.

'Calm yourself, my dear," Latifa said placidly. "I shall do all I can. Ye must be calm, for the babe is distressed enough. Tell me, are ye having contractions?"

Maya nodded, her eyes dark with fear and pain. Latifa laid first her hands then her ear against the Banrigh's belly. "Now, Your Highness, ye mun do exactly wha' I tell'ye."

"No, I canna, no' yet," Maya moaned. "It's too early, it's no' time yet."

'lit may be too early for ye, Your Highness, but this babe is ready to be born." As Latifa eased her into the birthing position, the Banrigh shook her head and resisted, saying, "No, no, this is wrong—I need . . . water." Isabeau tried to give her water to drink, but she only sobbed and pushed it away and asked for Sani. The old woman could not be found, however, and Maya cried again for water, only to shake her head weakly when Isabeau brought the beaker to her mouth. It was a long and difficult birth. Isabeau had never seer a child being born before, and Maya's agony horrified her. She knew a great deal about what herbs to use in childbirth, however, for that was one of the primary skills of any skeelie.

For some time they were afraid both mother and child would be lost. They could not stem the bleeding, despite the infusions, and Maya's breathing was shallow and erratic, her pulse skipping under Isabeau's fingers. Latifa had to turn the babe in the womb and draw it out almost unassisted by the mother. She was a small, red, wrinkled thing, covered with yellow scum. The old cook cut the cord and tied it expertly. Outside the hawk was still screaming.

Isabeau immersed the baby in a basin of warm water, washing away the birth fluids. The little girl's fingers and toes were distinctly webbed, and her skin had an odd, iridescent shimmer. On her neck, just below her ears, were three, flat translucent slits, almost invisible on the pale skin. Isabeau showed Latifa, who frowned and said softly, "Odd. They say babes in Carraig are sometimes born with webbed fingers like a frog's, but I've never seen marks like that before."

Maya struggled to see the baby, but could not find the strength to sit up. Latifa rapidly wrapped her in linen and gave her to her mother. "Ye have a bonny daughter," Latifa said briskly, her face not showing her perturbation.

Bitter disappointment distorted Maya's face. "A daughter! Nay! It canna be."

"Indeed she is, only a wee one still and weak, but she'll grow." Maya pushed the child away. Tears were flowing down her face. "No!" she cried. "I must have a son. I have to have a son. A daughter is no use!"

"How can ye be saying such a thing about your wee lassie?" Latifa said comfortingly. "I be sure daughters are at least as useful as sons ..."

Maya shook her head and began to sob. "A daughter is no use," she repeated. "I must have a son!" She pushed the swaddled babe away so fiercely the wailing little girl almost fell to the ground. Latifa said nothing more, just handed the baby to Isabeau and set herself to soothing Maya. Isabeau sat wearily on the ground, rocking the infant in her arms. The baby punched out with tiny fists, her face red and crumpled. A tide of tenderness welled up in Isabeau, and she touched the soft palm with one finger. Immediately the baby's fist closed upon it. She looked up and saw Maya's eyes fixed on her and the baby. They were dark with fear and dismay, and some other emotion Isabeau found hard to identify. She thought it was hatred.

The Thread Cut

Winter

Lucescere Palace

Isabeau sat by the fire, rocking the wailing baby in her arms. "Shush, Bronwen, shush, my lassie," she crooned. Latifa knelt on the hearth, stoking up the fire. Her small black eyes were red-rimmed, her round, brown face creased with crying. The Righ had almost died in the early hours of the night, and only Isabeau's herb lore had kept him alive. She knew the recipe for Meghan's
mithuan,
a potion that contained foxglove, hawthorn berries and lily of the valley, which could stimulate any heart, no matter how weak.

Since their arrival at Lucescere Palace, Isabeau had rarely left the royal suite. Care of little Bronwen had fallen almost entirely on her shoulders, for Maya was weak and disinterested. The Banrigh had not recovered after her severe hemorrhaging, and lay still in bed, blue shadows under her eyes. Ever since she had been carried up from the carriage, she had lain there, her face turned away. The royal suite was composed of seven long, high-ceilinged rooms, all connected by carved and gilded doors. The Righ and Banrigh's bedrooms each opened into a dressing room and sitting room, with the center room converted for the moment into the royal nursery.

This is where Isabeau now slept, in a cot not much larger than Bronwen's and far less ornate. From this cloud-blue room Isabeau moved between the Banrigh's suite and the Righ's, coaxing them to eat, to drink her teas and to look at their beautiful daughter. Realizing that Isabeau's knowledge of healing was greater than hers, Latifa had handed over much of the nursing of the royal couple to the girl while she tried to get the palace kitchens back into order. Ostensibly the cook was still in charge, but she was so upset by the Righ's rapid decline and so nervous at the prospect of the future, that she was not her usual efficient self. Often as she and Isabeau moved softly about the suite in the hush of the night, the old cook wept a little and wrung her hands. She had helped Jaspar into the world, she confessed to Isabeau, and had never thought he would die before she did.

The responsibility weighed heavily on Isabeau, who was constantly wishing for Meghan's knowledge and wisdom to help her. Of all her charges, Isabeau was happiest about the baby, for Bronwen was growing quickly and seemed already to recognize her step and voice. The Banrigh was exhausted and weak from loss of blood, but nourishing food and plenty of bed rest should soon have her back to her usual self. It was the Righ Isabeau was truly concerned about. His heart was beating erratically, and his breathing was shallow. One could not use the
mithuan
too often, for foxglove was poisonous and could do more harm than good if used too frequently. She had given him a syrup made from wild poppies to help him sleep instead, but was listening carefully for any change in his breathing.

"Happen the babe wants her mumma," Latifa said, heaving her great bulk to her feet. "She's been greetin'

for half an hour or more, should ye no' take her to the Banrigh?"

"The Banrigh is sleeping," Isabeau replied, "and I do no' want to wake her—her sleep has been disturbed indeed these past weeks. I canna think what is troubling her, she does no' seem to want to even look at her daughter, let alone cuddle her or suckle her."

"A new mother often suffers an oppression o' the spirit," Latifa said knowingly. "Once her strength has been built back up, she'll love the wee bairn, do no' worry about that."

"She's barely looked at the babe," Isabeau said, rocking Bronwen back and forth in her cradle. Indeed, she did not like to say so, but it seemed to her that Maya felt nothing but revulsion and resentment toward her little girl. Jaspar had been absolutely delighted with his daughter, and he was far weaker than Maya.

Latifa bustled out, leaving Isabeau and the baby alone. It was a windy, stormy night, and the rain howled around the eaves of the old palace, rattling a loose shutter somewhere. Isabeau gave a superstitious shiver and wrapped her shawl closer about her neck. Two nights ago a hawk had thrown itself against the window of the Banrigh's room, smashing the glass. It had been stunned by the impact, lying on the floor amidst shards of glass. The Banrigh had screamed and cried to Isabeau to get it out. Isabeau had knelt and picked up the bundle of feathers, and it had slashed her arm with its cruelly curved beak, despite her whispered reassurances.

Isabeau could speak the language of hawks and was shocked to be so mistreated. She had thrown the bird out the window and fastened the shutters tight, calling to the guards to find a glazier. Blood from her cut had splattered the floor, red across the broken glass. It had seemed like an omen. Many things were troubling Isabeau. The odd language she had overheard Sani and the Banrigh use in the forest the night of the baby's birth, and Sani's disappearance that night. The bags of sea-salt that Maya tipped into the hipbath before bathing, and the way she insisted on locking the doors, despite their fears for her safety. When at last she let them in, the floor would be awash with water. Latifa could no longer mock Isabeau's suspicions. It seemed certain that the Banrigh must have Fairge blood, and her baby daughter too. "But how?" Latifa whispered, her round face distressed. "How could she hide her true nature from me for so long? My poor Jaspar, it'll break his heart if he knew. Ye mun no'

tell him, Red, he loves his baby so. Promise me ye shall no' tell him."

"We must tell Meghan!" Isabeau cried. "Surely she should know."

"Ye think I have no' tried to reach her? She does no' answer my calls. I think she mun be dead!" Latifa rocked back and forth, her old face screwed up like a child's. "Wha' am I to do, wha' am I to do?" she whispered.

It was over two months since Meghan had escaped the Red Guards and in that time there had been no word of her whereabouts. Isabeau felt as if she had been abandoned or forgotten, and she wished that Latifa had a clearer idea of what Meghan's plans had been. The birth of winter was now only a week away, and Isabeau felt an increasing anxiety. What was she meant to do? All she knew was that Meghan had said she would be in contact, yet there had been no word from the sorceress. Rocking the sleeping child in its cradle, Isabeau fell into a tired reverie. It was very quiet. Isabeau had built the fire up high, for it was cold. Staring into the flames, she thought of her carefree childhood, riding wild horses, swimming with otters and climbing trees with donbeags and squirrels. On many a stormy night like this she and Meghan would be snug in their tree-house, drinking tea as the old witch told her stories of the Three Spinners, or the Celestines. At the thought of the old wood witch, tears swelled up in her throat.
Meghan, where are ye?
she thought.

Isabeau . . .

Isabeau started upright, her foot slipping from the cradle so Bronwen protested in her sleep, tiny fists nudging at her fast-shut eyes.
Meghan . . .

I am here.

Where? Where are ye?

I am no' far. How are ye yourself?

I have missed ye so much. So much has happened . . .

Latifa told me about your hand. I be sorry, Isabeau, so sorry.

Isabeau felt tears sting her eyes. She looked down at her useless hand, bound up and hidden under her apron.

Isabeau, there is an auld saying
—
I
do no' ken if it will mean anything to ye but I remember Jorge
repeating it to me after he was blinded. They say only the lame can love, only the maimed can
mourn . . .

Isabeau said nothing. She scrubbed her cheeks with her sleeve and thought bitterly to herself,
Maimed I
am indeed.

Of course Meghan heard her thought, and her answer came, quick and stern.
All o' us are maimed in
some
,
way, Isabeau. Life does no' leave us unmarked. Ye have lost two fingers. What o' all those
witches who lost their lives? I am sorry indeed that ye have been hurt, but I am glad it was no'

worse.

Where have ye been, Meghan? I have wanted ye so badly . . .
Despite herself, Isabeau could not keep her sense of betrayal from tainting her mind-voice.

My thoughts have been with ye, Isabeau. I have no' dared scry to ye, it is too dangerous. Tell me,
what news?

The Banrigh has had her baby.

I heard. What happened? It is six weeks too soon, surely, even more.

Lasair kicked her horse and she was thrown . . .

Who?

Lasair, my horse. I mean, my friend the horse. The red stallion . . .

The horse that galloped the Old Way. Cloudshadow told me. He kicked Maya?

Her thoughts tumbling over themselves, Isabeau struggled to tell Meghan what had happened.
Well done, Isabeau, very well done. One o' my greatest dreads was the birth o' that child come
Samhain. She may have had powers at her command that we would much