The Pool of Two Moons (52 page)

rather she did no'. In one way, it is a shame the babe did no' die . . . I feel your reaction
—
did ye
work to save the child? Well, she is a NicCuinn, no matter her mother, so in that sense I am glad.
What o' Jaspar?

He is fading fast, Meghan, it will only be a few more days, if that.

Ye must keep him alive a little longer!
Meghan's mind-voice was roughened with grief and urgency.
I
canna, Meghan. He would have died weeks ago if it were no' for the potions I have wrought for
him.\

I knew ye would have the skills to help him, it was one reason why I sent ye to Rhyssmadill when I
could no' be going myself. Are ye sure ye canna help him live just a few days longer?

I have kept his heart beating long after it should have stopped, and he has no will to live. Ye have
heard about the attack o' the Bright Soldiers?

Aye, I have. I had dreams o' its coming.

So did I. . .

Indeed? That is interesting. I wonder if ye have the gift o' prophecy . . .
Isabeau felt a thrill of pride. Meghan continued,
It is unlikely though. I have no such Skill, and I dreamed o' its coming. I think
that must mean someone was sending dream-messages.

Did ye send one to me?

O' course I did, foolish lass, more than one. I am glad to see ye heeded them.
Innate honesty made Isabeau admit,
Latifa would no' believe me. I did no' ken what I would have
done if we had no' had to flee the Bright Soldiers.

Ye must keep the Righ alive until after Samhain, Isabeau. We canna rescue the Inheritance until
then.

Ye mean the Lodestar?

Quiet, foolish lass, even if ye have protected your circle there may be others listening who can
penetrate such flimsy wards as yours must be. The Banrigh seems to have a Scrying Pool o' some
sort, so she can overhear
—

Protected?

There was a long silence, then Meghan said urgently,

Have ye found me by accident, Isabeau? Has Latifa no' been teaching ye to scry? Ye have
sprinkled the circle with water and ashes . . .

No . . .

There was no answer. Isabeau fell to her knees before the fire, calling
Meghan, Meghan . . .
Faint came to the answer,
I
shall send someone to ye. Quiet now, lassie, it be too dangerous!

The next morning Isabeau woke scarcely refreshed at all. She had tossed and turned half the night, troubled by uneasy dreams. It had stopped raining, the sun struggling out from behind the clouds. She washed and fed and dressed Bronwen without her usual enjoyment, and took the baby in to see her mother.

Maya had no desire to see her daughter and waved at Isabeau to take her away. She inclined her head and turned to take Bronwen out again. The Banrigh said, "How are ye yourself, Red? Ye look a trifle pale."

"Fine, thank ye, Your Highness," Isabeau responded, still awkward around the woman who had been her secret friend and was now revealed as her secret enemy.

"Ye seem to be here at all hours o' the day and night. Why do ye no' have some time for yourself? Leave the babe with the wet nurse." The Banrigh's voice was so kind that Isabeau blushed and smiled in spontaneous gratitude, and she had to remind herself who Maya was as she changed her shoes and caught up her plaid.

In the neglected garden, leaves choked the fountains and were piled in drifts around the roots of the trees. Hedges ran wild, and the beds were riotous tangles of roses, columbines and nettles. It was in her mind to look for the maze concealed at the heart of the garden. Latifa had told her how Meghan had hidden the Lodestar at the Pool of Two Moons, locking away the labyrinth with the Key. Although Isabeau had no inkling of Meghan's plans, she knew they had to do with the Lodestar and the maze.

After three quarters of an hour, she was tired and frustrated. She sat under a spreading oak tree and stared up at the sky through the gray branches. It occurred to her she was going about this the wrong way. Meghan had said to her many times, "A problem is like a tangle o' thread but what seems complicated can always be made more simple. Find the end of the thread and pull the tangle undone." So Isabeau sat and puzzled it out. After only a moment she smiled and got to her feet with renewed vigor. Kilting her skirts up through her belt, she cursed the impracticality of women's clothes. Soon she was high in the branches and had a view over the length and breadth of the garden. At the far end she saw the blackened timbers and stones of the ruined witches' tower, only one spire remaining to pierce the blue-hazed sky. At the other end were the golden domes of the palace. All around was the tangle of bare branches rising above evergreen hedges and shrubs.

Isabeau smiled in triumph, for through the tree boughs she could see a small golden dome in the deepest part of the garden, much smaller than the domes of the palace but as burnished bright. She swung down to the ground, finding her body stiff after her months at Rhyss-madill, then headed toward the dome. She came to a high hedge with black clusters of berries buried deep in its red leaves. It was too high and dense to see through, so she walked to the corner, the hedge stretching along as far as the eye could see. By craning her neck she could just see the golden dome beyond. So she followed the hedge along, rustling the leaves with her feet and enjoying the crisp smell of the air. Soon she came to a parterre garden with a scrolled stone bench on either side. Lavender hedges grew in knots around rose bushes, tangled and heavy with rosehips. It was enclosed within the hedge, with an archway at one end that led back into the garden. At the other end she could see where the hedge had been trained into another archway, but there was no way through.

Isabeau stood on the bench and tried to see over the hedge. This time the golden dome was in a completely different place—she had been walking away from it, not toward it. Puzzled, she followed the hedge to its end, turned east and proceeded along a high stone wall. She came to a promenade lined with tall cypresses. It led her curving away from the dome, yet when she proceeded the other way the dome sank away behind the trees. When she next caught a glimpse, it was behind her again. Isabeau began to smile. She turned her back on the dome and walked away from it and, sure enough, soon the dome was to the west and she had wandered again into the knot garden.

Now grubby and hot, Isabeau decided to abandon the maze and head toward the ruined tower. She had heard so much about the Tower of Two Moons from Meghan that it was almost a pilgrimage for her. Ten minutes of swift walking brought her onto the wide lawn before the ruin. She stood looking at the charred rafters, the smoke-stained walls, the broken colonnades. Enough of the existing structure remained to tell of its original beauty, and she found she was weeping.

She wiped her cheeks with her hands and cast a quick glance about her. The massive rampart which reared on either side was closely guarded, and she had to wait until the sentries had passed out of sight before exploring further.

She did not want to see any more of the scorched and broken buildings, so she went straight to the one remaining tower. She walked slowly from one hall to another, marveling at the carvings and mosaics. It reminded her of the Tower of Dreams, although before its destruction it would have been much bigger and grander than the small witches' tower in the forests of Aslinn.

She climbed the grand staircase until she was on the top floor, and went out onto a delicately carved balcony with slim columns holding up pointed arches. Staying well within the shelter of the pillars, Isabeau stared down over the garden. As she had expected, there was a clear view of the labyrinth. Grown from yew trees and hedges, the intricate whorls of the maze circled a stretch of green water. Around the pool were tall stone arches and a paved area, with shallow curving steps. At the western end of the pool was a beautiful round building, held up with flying buttresses and roofed in brass-green. She memorized each turn of the maze until she could conjure its shape on the dark of her eyelids, then hurried back down the stairs. She had been gone longer than she had expected, and she wanted no one to wonder what she had been doing.

It was quiet in the palace. Latifa nodded to the guards outside the Righ's door, her arms weighted down with a tray, and they opened the gilt-painted panel. She went inside the dim, firelit room, surprisingly noiseless for her great bulk, and put the tray down on one of the tables. The Righ slept, watched over by Isabeau who nodded wearily to the old cook from her chair by the fire. In her lap she held the sleeping baby, stroking the soft, dark down that covered her head.

"He sleeps at least," Isabeau whispered. "I have given him some more poppy syrup, but I worry for him, Latifa, his heart is erratic and his breathing uneven."

The cook nodded, her brown face crinkled with concern. "Stay with him, Red. It is late, I ken, but I do no' think he should be left alone."

Isabeau nodded, and Latifa went through the nursery to the Banrigh's rooms. All was quiet, and the cook wondered again what had happened to her old enemy Sani, who had disappeared the night Bronwen was born. Despite several days of searching, there had been no sign of her anywhere in the hills around the camp, and when they had told Maya, the Banrigh had half closed her eyes and said simply, "Sani must have decided she was needed elsewhere."

The cook unpacked the tray, refilled the Banrigh's water jug and stoked up the fire, panting a little as she bent over the coals.
I
be getting too fat for all this,
she thought, and suddenly glanced over her shoulder.

In the shadows of the great bed she could see the Banrigh was watching her. Her silvery-blue eyes gleamed a little in the flickering light. She smiled as soon as Latifa turned, and said huskily, "Ye are so good to us, Latifa, where would we be without ye to support us and look after us?" Latifa flushed. "Thank ye, Your Highness."

"Ye're always so loyal," the Banrigh said, her voice huskier than ever. "Ye love the Righ as I do. I am so worried about him, Latifa. These final betrayals have broken his spirit, I fear." She moved her head restlessly so her silky dark hair fanned out on the pillow. "If only I had no' failed him so badly . . ." Her voice broke.

"Wha' do ye mean?"

Maya lifted a hand in a desultory gesture. "I failed to give him an heir."

"But ye have a bonny little girl—she is only a wee thing, I ken, being born so early, but she is strong and healthy ..."

"But she canna rule," Maya replied.

"O' course she can," Latifa cried. "She is only young, I ken, but we've had a Righ that was only a child when he inherited . . ."

"But she's a lass!" Maya cried, temper flashing out.

"That does no' matter, my lady, wha' made ye think it would?"

Maya's face was a study of conflicting emotions. Even in the flickering light, Latifa could see bewilderment, hope, guilt, and something else—almost like triumph. "Ye mean girls can inherit the throne?"

"O' course. We've had many a banrigh rule, how can ye no' ken that? Why, Aedan's daughter Mairead the Fair was the first banrigh, she ruled after him. And there was Martha the Hot Tempered, and Eleanore the Noble—her daughter Mathilde inherited, although Eleanor had four sons. We have no' had a woman inherit for six or more generations now, but that is because the MacCuinns are always overblessed with sons—that must be why ye did no' realize."

"No one ever talked to me about the line o' inheritance because I was barren so long, I suppose," Maya said, and Latifa squeezed her hand in sympathy. The Banrigh said slowly, "So there are cases where a daughter inherited the throne even if there were sons born, other male heirs to the throne?" She spoke as if the idea was completely bizarre and alien to her.

Latifa smiled. "O' course."

The Banrigh sat up. "But she is so young, how can she rule?" .

Intent only on comforting the Banrigh, Latifa said, "But the Righ will name ye Regent, until Bronwen is auld enough to rule on her own behalf. That is the usual custom." The pale cheek curved. Maya sat up straighter, shaking back her glossy hair.

"O' course the heir has always needed to be favored by the Lodestar," Latifa continued. "The Lodestar responds to the inner character o' he who holds it. We had civil war once when the youngest son was named as heir by the Lodestar and the eldest son challenged him for the throne. He was a cold, ambitious man, no' concerned with the welfare o' the people the way the Righ or Banrigh should be—" Maya interrupted her. "So if Bronwen had the Lodestar, there would be no doubt o' her right to rule? But if someone else took it, they could challenge her?"

A wary expression crossed Latifa's face. "The Lodestar is lost."

"But if the Lodestar was no' lost . . ."

"The Lodestar is lost," Latifa said. "Besides, there is no one else to challenge for it . . ." As her words trailed away, Maya said softly, "What about the Arch-Sorceress Meghan, is she no' a NicCu-inn? If Bronwen can rule, can no' she? And what about Jaspar's cousin, Dughall? He is the son o'

a NicCuinn, can he no' wield the Lodestar?"

"MacCuinns have always bonded with the Lodestar at birth," Latifa replied uneasily. "Dughall MacBrann could have been given the Lodestar to hold, but he was no', since he was raised in the MacBrann clan."

"But he could have been?"

"Och, aye, indeed he could have, having MacCuinn blood. I do no' ken whether he could bond with the Inheritance now or no'—it has never been done except as a babe."

Maya was silent for a while, her fingers restless amongst her blankets. "How auld are babes when they are first bonded?" she asked, just as Latifa began to leave the room. The old cook looked back over her shoulder. "A month or so."