Kate Forsyth - Eileanan 02 - Pool Of Two Moons

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The Pool of Two Moons

Book Two of The Witches of Eileanan

KATE FORSYTH

A ROC BOOK

For my dearest mother, Gillian Mackenzie Evans

A witch or a hag is she which being deluded by a league made with the devel through his

persuasion, inspiration, and juggling, thinketh she can design what manner of evil things soever,

either by thought or imprecation, as to shake the air with lightnings and thunder, to cause hail

and tempests, to remove green corn or trees to another place, to be carried of her familiar (which

hath taken upon him the deceitful shape of a goat, swine or calf) into some mountain far distant,

in a wonderful short space of time.

William West, sixteenth-century English lawyer

The Hunchback

It was the darkest hour of the night, when the pulse runs slowest and the tides of energy are at their ebb,

that the three travelers left the woods. They went warily, their heads turning from side to side as they

scanned the shadowed landscape. Although it was a clear night and the snowy peaks of the Sithiche

Mountains shone faintly in the light of the two moons, the valley below was filled with mist so that their

travelers' path sank into a mysterious whiteness.

"Can ye sense anyone ahead, auld mother?" Iseult asked.

"No' on the path, Iseult, though the inn seems quite busy. Let us push on—we can stop and rest soon

enough."

"So ye've been saying all week!" Bacaiche snapped, leaning heavily on his rough club. "I'm sick o'

stumbling around every night and hiding all day like a frightened hare! When are we going to do

something useful?"

The old woman turned and looked up at him. "Come, Bacaiche, ye'll be glad we pushed on when a plate

o' hot stew is slapped in front o' ye. Ye've been complaining o' hunger long enough."

"Considering all we've eaten these last few days is shriveled carrot soup!"

"Better to forage on the way than stop for supplies when we have the Red Guards on our trail," Meghan

replied grimly, beginning to push ahead.

"I shall go first." Iseult held her back with one hand, sliding forward noiselessly. "Bacaiche, stay close."

Soon the starry sky was completely obscured, the mist clinging cold about them. The path led

downward, branches looming up through the grayness like skeletal hands. The hunchback could not help

giving a shiver of apprehension, and Iseult glanced at him disdainfully.

Their feet sank into mud, the still waters of the loch just visible below the drifting mist. To the left, the inn

loomed out of the fog, lit by flaring torches. From within the low building, they heard a burst of laughter.

Iseult said to Meghan, "Are ye sure we should go in, auld mother?"

"It's damp and foul out here, the ferry will no' arrive for another few hours, and we haven't eaten a proper

meal in days," Meghan responded irritably. "Ye can stay out if ye want, but I'm going in!" Pushing open

the door, she warned, "Keep the cloak wrapped tightly about ye, Bacaiche."

"I'm no' a fool," he snarled, lurching after her.

The three companions made their way to the fire, stepping over sleeping bodies and bundles of

belongings. The fire was the only light except for a lamp on a table where four men were still awake,

drinking ale and playing dice for coppers. They looked up, calling, "How are ye yourselves?"

Meghan replied gravely, keeping her cloak wrapped close about her. The innkeeper showed them to a

table. "Is it hungry ye are?" he asked. "We have mutton stew if ye'd like it, or vegetable soup?"

"The soup would be most welcome," Meghan replied. He nodded and brought them thick soup in

wooden bowls with trenchers of dark bread. "It be a full house ye've got yourself tonight," she said.

He nodded and scratched his beard. "Aye, there's been a witch fed to the uile-bheist and so they've

been thinking the ferry run will be safe this morning, with the serpent's belly full."

"Indeed!" Meghan exclaimed. "That be lucky for us then."

The innkeeper laughed. "Och, I'll tether some goats at the water's edge. No use tempting the beastie."

With that he went back to his game of dice, and the three travelers ate their soup and warmed themselves

by the fire.

"Best get some sleep," Meghan said. "There'll be clean straw in the corners."

"Anything will be better than bloody stones, which is all I've slept on in weeks," Bacaiche grumbled. He

wrapped the black cloak tighter around him and lurched to his feet. The flickering lamplight played over

his hunched back, making him look more sinister than ever. The gamblers glanced at him suspiciously,

and he glared back so that they surreptitiously crossed themselves in the age-old gesture against evil.

Soon all was quiet. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the occasional snore or sigh of those

sleeping. Iseult rested her bow on her knees and stretched her back. Tired as she was after the last few

arduous weeks, she had no intention of sleeping. She would stay on guard until they were safely on the

other side of the loch. It was her duty and honor to guard the Firemaker Meghan, and despite the

quietness of the inn, Iseult knew danger was all around.

For almost three weeks she and her companions had been on the run, harried through the highlands by

the Banrigh's soldiers. Iseult had had to grit her teeth to prevent herself from turning and fighting. This

game of hide-and-seek seemed cowardly to her, though Meghan had forbidden her to attack them,

saying, "We must slip away and leave no trace, for we are no' yet strong enough to start a war."

They were heading now toward the Veiled Forest, the great, dark forest that covered most of the

western shore of the loch. There Meghan hoped to meet with Iseult's twin sister, Isabeau, in the safety of

the Celestines' garden, which was concealed deep in the heart of the enchanted forest. At Tulachna

Celeste, Meghan said, they would all be safe.

Light was beginning to seep through the shutters when the innkeeper came clattering back down the

stairs, tying a scarred leather apron over his kilt and rubbing his curly head. Iseult pretended to sleep, not

wanting to draw attention to herself, as he put porridge on to boil and flung open the shutters to the

dawn. All around sleepers began to stir, stretching and yawning, and the fire leapt up under the black pot,

crackling loudly.

Meghan sat up, looking impossibily old and frail in the cruel dawn light, the donbeag peeping his velvety

nose out of her pocket. Iseult helped her up, and Meghan stretched and cracked her back, then gathered

her satchel close. "Ye should have slept," the old witch said reprovingly. "I had told ye there was no

danger here."

Iseult wondered how she could have known, but shook her head anyway. "I will sleep when I have ye

safe, auld mother," she replied.

"Well, prepare yourself for many sleepless nights then, my dear!"

A bell announced the approach of the ferry, and they all went out onto the jetty and watched it cross the

dull silver of the water, a broad-bottomed boat pulled along by a weed-draped cable. The crofters

bunched together at one .end of the wharf, looking askance at Bacaiche's hunched back. He frowned

and glared at them malevolently from his peculiar yellow eyes, his black hair tousled and wild, his jaw

dark with stubble.

As always the loch was wreathed with fog, but in this cold, fair morning it was a light mist which parted

easily before a wayward breeze. As soon as the ferry had nudged against the jetty, the passengers on

board were scrambling off and those waiting were jumping on, sacks of grain and bales of hay hastily

thrown on and off. No one was waiting around for the loch-serpent to rear his long neck. Through the

mist came the nervous bleat of the goats tethered down the shore, and those few animals who were

aboard the ferry were tightly muzzled.

The journey across the loch was made with the same nervous haste, the wiry little ferry-master searching

the mist with anxious eyes. They were more than halfway across, the walls of Dunceleste looming closer

through the mist, when a fat matron suddenly screamed with fright. "The uile-bheistV she cried. Every

head whipped around in horror to see where she pointed.

Through the mist came the undulating body of the serpent, rising in great wet loops above the still loch. Its

long neck and small head rose high above the prow, and it seemed the loch-serpent would encircle the

boat and crush it. Everyone screamed and there was a stampede away from the starboard deck. The

loch-serpent gave a great ululating wail, and rubbed its seaweed-colored length against the side. The boat

tilted, and Iseult clung tightly to the bench to avoid being flung to the deck. Only Meghan did not scream

or fall; she stood straight and still in the prow, looking out into the mist.

The serpent flipped his tail over the prow, doing a complicated rolling maneuver close to the vessel's side

so the ferry rocked wildly and almost capsized. Iseult could see how smooth its scaly green-black skin

was, and how massive its loops. Casting a wild look at Meghan, Iseult saw the old witch was leaning

forward, her gnarled hand stretched out. Briefly a thick loop slid out of the water and rubbed against

Meghan's hand, then there was a flick of the great webbed tail and the loch-serpent sank away.

They heard the strange, wild cry twice again, each time farther away. No one else had noticed the

moment of contact between Meghan and the loch-serpent, though the ferry-master shook his head and

said, "Never ken our uile-bheist to come that close and no' take the boat down!"

The shore slid closer. Iseult could see great shoulders of mountains rising from gray-hued woods. Feeling

suddenly uneasy, she glanced toward the town. The fog wisped apart for a moment and she saw soldiers

waiting by the jetty, their red cloaks lifting in the breeze. "Meghan!" she called softly.

The old woman glanced back at her and nodded, lifting her plaid so it covered the distinctive white lock

at her brow. Bacaiche also tensed, and wrapped his cloak more tightly about him. Carefully Iseult

loosened the weapons in her belt and flexed her fingers, knowing she was cold and stiff after the night's

watch. Meghan looked at her warningly but could say nothing for the ferry was nudging the jetty and the

soldiers were already coming forward.

There were thirteen of them, cloaks wrapped close against the mist. As the passengers scrambled from

the boat, the captain stepped forward, his plumed helmet tucked under his arm. He was a tall, well-built

man with a high-bridged nose and an air of arrogance. He interrogated the crofters, checking their

answers against a sheaf of papers he held.

Iseult noticed Meghan had lost her upright posture and was shuffling along like the old woman she was,

her back bent almost double. The ferry-master assisted her off the ferry and she clung to his arm,

moaning. "It be all right now, ma'am," he said kindly, "the uile-bheist be gone now."

The captain looked at the crowd with displeasure. All of the crofters and their wives looked nervous and

anxious but were indisputably the very essence of respectability. Then his eyes lit on Bacaiche and a

spark kindled there.

"What do we have here?" the captain said jocularly and sauntered over toward them. "A hunchback!

Well, we've been told to keep an eye out for cripples and suchlike near Dunceleste. They call the leader

o' the rebels the Cripple, do they no'?"

Bacaiche said nothing, just glanced at the man out of the corner of his yellow eye, then stared at the

ground. The captain walked around him, jeering. "Freak! Monster! Escaped from a circus, have we?" As

he spoke, he gave Bacaiche a rough shove which sent him reeling back, his cloak wrenched away, its

edge still clenched in the captain's fist.

The great black wings confined beneath sprang free as Bacaiche regained his balance. He looked

magnificent, his bare shoulders straight and wide as he held the immense span of his wings aloft. Sighs

and gasps rang round the crowd.

"Holy Truth!" the captain breathed. "We've got ourselves an uile-bheistl"

The soldiers leapt on Bacaiche, dragging him to the ground. He gave a loud screech and tried to fight

them off. As he disappeared under a flurry of fists and boots, Iseult blurred into action, throwing her

dagger through the throat of the soldier nearest her and spinning on one foot to kick another hard in the

stomach. As he doubled over, she elbowed a third in the throat and then kneed him so he dropped like a

stone.

She executed a flawless backward somersault, kicking another firmly in the back, sending him sprawling

onto the ground. In a flurry of quick, expert movements, she knocked out several more soldiers who

rushed her from opposite directions.

The captain shouted, and some of the soldiers holding Bacaiche down left him to attack Iseult. She pulled

her dagger out of the throat of the first soldier and plunged it into the back of another feebly struggling to

rise, before cart-wheeling out of their range. They spun round to confront her, but she had already pulled

her eight-pointed reil from her belt and, with a flick of her wrist, sent it spinning toward them.

They ducked, and it flew over their heads to neatly slice the carotid artery of the soldier standing next to

the captain. A fountain of blood sprayed the jetty. The captain drew his sword with an oath. Iseult smiled

and called the reil back to her hand. The captain made a quick swing at Iseult, who sucked in her

stomach so the sword whistled past her midriff with barely an inch to spare. Again and again he thrust,

and she smiled as she swayed easily out of reach each time. The captain went scarlet and thrust the

sword forward to impale her. Iseult stepped back at the very last moment, then brought her hand down

sharply on the back of his neck so he dropped, his helmet rolling across the jetty with a clatter.

Immediately three more soldiers attacked her, but she nicked one behind the knee with her reil and

punched the other in the side of the head. Hamstrung, the first fell, howling in agony, but the other merely

shook his head, dazed, and came at her again.

Iseult dodged his short spear and got in a quick thrust with her reil, kicking backward with one foot at

the same time, knocking another back to the ground. The third caught her foot, but she punched him

sharply under the chin, then stabbed him with the reil, held in her hand like a knife.

Another staggered to his feet and swiped at her with his claymore, but Iseult jumped high in the air,

bringing her knees up to her chin, then spun in midair, kicking him in the face. She landed in a crouch

behind his back and punched him viciously in the kidneys then, as he fell, dragged her small mace from

her belt and smashed it into the nose of another as he scrambled round to face her. As he clutched at his

face, she grabbed his spear and ran him cleanly through, turning at the same time so the sword being

swung at her back sliced off his arm instead. She pushed the dead soldier at her assailant, knocking him

off his feet, but another soldier caught her round the legs and dragged her down.

Meghan started forward, but Iseult was fighting so desperately there was no getting close to her. With a

series of kicks and blows Iseult overcame the soldier, rolling out of the way as another spear plunged into

where she had been just seconds before. Then Iseult was on her feet again. Lightly she bounded away,

then unhooked the head of her mace so she could swing it on its leather thong. The soldiers hesitated,

and she taunted them. "Scared, are ye? O' a lassie?"

The dazed captain staggered to his feet and swung his claymore toward her. She kicked him in the

stomach with both feet, then brought the mace down hard on the side of his head. Again she whirled it

around her head, and smashed the skull of Bacaiche's captor. Without waiting to see him fall, she kicked

one of the wounded soldiers back to the ground as he tried to reach for his fallen sword, then danced

again out of reach.

By now there were only three soldiers left standing and they were reeling with the injuries she had

inflicted on them. Iseult was winded, though, and the blood dripping from the wounded made the ground

beneath her feet precarious. For some minutes they feinted, but only one came close enough to tear the

fabric of her shirt. She beat him back with quick, strong blows, stabbing him through the throat.

Leaning on her sword, she kicked out sideways and caught one in the stomach, but when he fell, he took

her down with him. Kicking and punching, she struggled to'be free of his weight, but it was too late, the

one remaining soldier stood over her and, with a triumphant cry, brought down his sword.

Before the blade could pierce her, he stiffened and gurgled, and the stroke fell awry as he toppled

forward, a spear protruding though his stomach. Iseult looked up in amazement to see a stern-faced

Meghan release her grip on its handle. "Ye killed him!" Iseult gasped, wiping the blood from her eyes.

"Aye," Meghan replied grimly. "Come, we must get out o' here." She helped Iseult to her feet, and called

to her nephew, who was crouched against the fence, holding his stomach and half crying with pain and

anger. He staggered to his feet, his enormous black wings trailing behind him. The injured captain tried to

rise, scrabbling for his sword, but Iseult lunged forward and killed him with a single thrust of her sword.

The crofters scuttled out of her way, as if they expected her to come after them with her dripping blade,

but Iseult was exhausted, leaning on the sword and panting heavily.

"Come, Iseult," Meghan said again. "We must flee."

The girl pushed her blood-matted curls out of her eyes and dropped her sword. With slow deliberation

she turned the dead soldier nearest to her down onto his face, his arms spread. As she arranged his

limbs, she dipped her fingers in the blood of his wounds. Slowly, with great ceremony, she then touched

her fingertips to her forehead, her eyelids, her ears and her mouth, deliberately tasting his blood.

"Embrace now our mother death as she embrace ye, and ken the Gods o' White have accepted your

blood in sacrifice," she chanted, then struggled awkwardly to her feet and moved to the next corpse,

removing her reil from his throat and hanging it again from her belt.

Meghan, who had stood silent and still while carnage and chaos ruled around her, drew herself up

straight, raised her hand and began to intone the rites of the dead.

"Meghan!" Bacaiche was white, his yellow eyes blazing. Bruises were beginning to discolor his face and

throat. "We do no' have time."

Meghan turned to him. "Iseult is right," she answered. "We must give due honor to the dead."

So, in the misty morning light, she and Iseult performed the different rites of their countries and religions,

Iseult tasting their blood and turning them to embrace the earth. Meghan chanting the ancient rites. When

they had finished, Iseult's face was liberally striped with blood, her lips and teeth black.

The ferry passengers still lay on the ground in positions of supplication, some gripped with fear and

horror, others with wonder intermingled. Iseult picked up the captain's sword, its hilt intricately cast, its

blade black with blood. "I take this as my spoils o' war!" she announced in a ringing voice. "Take note: I

leave the weapons o' the others, for they fought bravely if unwisely."

The old witch turned and confronted the crowd. "Ye have seen today the Winged Prionnsa," she said,

"Know then that the stories and rumors are true. He does exist, and when Eileanan faces its darkest

moment, he will come and save ye all."

One of the crofters said, "Wha' need have we o' a winged man when our Righ protects us?"

An expression of deep sorrow crossed Meghan's face. "The Righ may no' always be here to protect ye,"

she answered. "The Red Wanderer has crossed our skies and brings with it omens o' war and

destruction. I fear the reports the Fairgean are rising are true, and they say the Righ is no' the man he

once was . . ."

"Treason!" hissed a fat farmer's wife.

Meghan turned to look at her. "I speak the truth, my dear," she said and pulled back her plaid to show

the white lock that twisted through her braid all the way to the ground. "I am Meghan NicCuinn,

Sorceress o' the Beasts, and I do no' lie! A scarlet thread has been strung on the loom o' our lives and

we face danger such as we have no' seen for many years."

There was no doubt the highlanders recognized who Meghan was for there was a collective sigh and

murmur, half fearful, half glad. Many of them looked from her to Bacaiche, and as they noticed the white

streak in his black curls and his aquiline nose, so like Meghan's, another, more excited murmur rose.

"Evil times are ahead, have no doubt o' that!" the sorceress cried. "Know, however, that the Witches o'

Eileanan are no' gone—they watch out for ye and protect ye still. Do no' fear! We are no' your enemies."

With those words, Meghan turned and led the way into the swirling mist, Iseult limping close behind.

Bacaiche wrapped himself in the nyx-hair cloak and again became a hunchback, lurching after. The mist

swallowed their figures and they were gone.

The Spinning Wheel Turns

The Spring Equinox

Song of the Celestines

The Veiled Forest was a dark and forbidding place. Between stands of tall pine were vast moss-oaks

hung with great curtains of spidery gray, giving the forest an unearthly feel. Mist drifted everywhere,

concealing the great tangle of roots so that Iseult had to pick her way warily. She kept her crossbow

nocked and at the ready, for Meghan said many strange creatures inhabited the enchanted forest and

Iseult knew she should not have explored so far.

Noticing how long the shadows had grown, she turned and made her way back to the garden of the

Celestines. There the setting sun still shone red, and the mist was a mere blue haze beneath the graceful

trees. She made her way to the clearing where they had made their camp, and found Meghan pacing in

impatience, her brow deeply furrowed.

"About time ye got back!"- the wood witch said. "Wash yourself quickly! It's the spring equinox at last,

and we must make ready. Tonight the Celestines come to Tulachna Celeste, and happen we shall hear

some news o' Isabeau at last."

Iseult obeyed instantly, knowing better than to ignore that tone in Meghan's voice. The sorceress had

been sorely troubled ever since their arrival in the Celestines' garden, for there had been no sign of

Isabeau as hoped. The garden had been empty of all life but the woodland creatures and, despite scrying

through her crystal ball every day, Meghan had been unable to discover any trace of her missing ward.

After the battle on the jetty, the three of them had hurried as fast as they could into the shadowy gloom of

the Veiled Forest, hearing the alarm bell ringing out behind them. The old sorceress had been white with

anger. "To think I wanted the Red Guards to believe we were still on the other side o' the loch! Now the

Awl will have every seeker in Rionnagan converging on the Veiled Forest! After all these years keeping

Bacaiche's real identity secret, and the elven cat's let out o' the bag by a wee snippet o' a lass that

should've known better!"

"That's no' fair!" Iseult had protested angrily. "It was no' me who attracted the soldiers' attention! It was

no' me who pulled his filthy cloak off!"

"No, that is true." Meghan's tone was only slightly softer. "Both ye and Bacaiche are prime fools! Why

did yet no' leave it to me, Iseult?"

Iseult had looked at her in amazement. What could Meghan have done? Bacaiche would have been

beaten to a pulp if Iseult had not stepped forward, and the lot of them probably thrown into prison. There

they would have been tortured by the Questioners of the Anti-Witchcraft League and condemned to die,

just like her twin Isabeau had been. Isabeau had only barely managed to escape her fate, and she had

been cruelly hurt by the Awl first. If Iseult had not fought and killed the soldiers, their fate would have

been as bitter. Yet Bacaiche had said no word of thanks, just limped forward, his scowl heavier than

ever, while Meghan had scolded her as if she was a child and had acted foolishly instead of saving all of

their lives.

"Well, what is done is done," the wood witch had said. "I shall just have to see what I can make o' it all.

At least the rumors about the winged prionnsa will be spreading fast after this."

Sulkily Iseult had suffered Meghan's cleansing and purification rites, which the sorceress insisted were

necessary before attempting to penetrate the enchanted forest. It had taken them close on a week to

make their way through the gaunt, looming trees, but at last they had stumbled out into the smooth lawns

and sunlit avenues of the Celestines' garden. In the very heart of the garden was a high hill, perfectly

round and symmetrical, with a ring of tall stones crowning its green head.

"Tulachna Celeste," Meghan had said, contentment and wonder in her voice. Iseult was a little surprised.

From the way Meghan spoke, she had been expecting the ruins of a grand city, not this hill with its simple

ring of rough-hewn stones.

They had climbed the hill in silence and soon had risen above the level of the great trees, almost as high

as the hills and mountains behind them. The stones, each twice as tall as Iseult, were topped with other

stones, forming archways. The menhirs were all scratched with symbols of suns and stars and moons and

running water. Compared to the intricate stone carvings of the tower where Iseult had grown up, they

seemed childlike and crude.

Inside there was merely a stretch of meadow, with more tall stones circling a pool of green water in the

center. Fringed with clumps of rushes, the water trailed a plume of lush grass and clover to the west

where once a stream had bubbled from its depths and run down the slope and into the forest. The joy on

Meghan's face had slowly faded as she found no trace of anyone on the hill or in the garden, and gruffly

she had bid them make camp and wait. "Perhaps Isabeau will be here soon," she said. "She may no' have

been able to find her way easily through the forest."

As they had labored together gathering firewood and foodstuffs that first evening, Iseult had noticed

Bacaiche moved more fluidly without the heavy cloak, even abandoning his club. She decided it must be

because he was able to use his wings to balance himself, while they were merely a hindrance when

pinned beneath the cloak. She began to wonder why Bacaiche had been unable to defend himself at the

ietty. He was a tall, strong man with massive shoulders and arms, and a pair of lethally clawed feet. Why

had he not used them?

When she had asked him that night, he had looked away, his jaw set. "I thought the People o' the Spine

o' the World did no' ask questions."

"I offer ye a question in return, o' course," Iseult answered.

He snapped, "I was turned into a blackbird when I was twelve, if ye remember. I had barely begun to be

taught to fight, and although I had to struggle to stay alive while a bird, that is o' no use now."

"I do no' see why no'."

"I was a blackbird for four years, ye fool. I hid among leaves when the shadow o' hawks fell upon me,

and flew away when elven cats were on the prowl. What use is that to me now?"

"But have ye no' been spreading rumors o' the coming o' a winged warrior? Are ye no' expecting war?

How can ye fight to win the throne if ye canna even defend yourself against a pack o' half-trained

soldiers? Ye had to be rescued by a lass and an auld woman . . .."

"Have ye no eyes in your head, Iseult o' the Snows? Life as a claw-footed cripple is no' the path to being

a warrior." Bacaiche scrambled to his feet, the flames casting sinister shadows on his face.

"Why no'? Ye could shoot a bow with those shoulders, and ye are strong. Your talons look formidable. I

would no' like to fight ye hand-to-hand if ye used those the way a hawk does. And ye could attack from

above, which gives ye an advantage."

"How can I attack from above when I canna fly?" Bacaiche flapped his wings derisively so Iseult's red

curls were blown away from her face. "Ye think these wings are o' any use to me except to make me a

prisoner o'

my own body? I, the Prionnsa Lachlan Owein MacCu-inn, son o' Parteta the Brave and direct

descendant o' Aedan Whitelock, am called uile-bheist and monster. I am hunted down like a coney by

my own brother's soldiers, forced to live as a fugitive! Ye think I would no' like to be able to strike back?

Ye think I do no' long to dance with a sword like ye do?"

"I can teach ye," Iseult began.

With a snarl, Bacaiche had jerked away, wrapping the cloak around him again. "Teach a cripple, Iseult? I

thought ye despised the weak and deformed. I thought ye believed helpless cripples should be left out for

your blaygird Gods o' White?" Without waiting for an answer, he had lurched off into the darkness, Iseult

flushing with anger and shame. It was true, weak or disfigured babies were exposed by the Prides, and

those crippled by war or accident pitied and scorned. She was sorry Bacaiche knew it.

The next morning he had limped off into the forest as soon as they had finished their porridge. Frowning,

Iseult had washed herself and the dishes in the burn that ran brown and sun-speckled through the trees.

The stone-crowned head of the high, green hill was framed between the branches of a massive

moss-draped tree. At the sight of it, serenity swept through her. What does it matter if the

bad-tempered, hunchbacked fool is angry and will no' speak with me? He means nothing to me

anyway . . .

Meghan was sitting cross-legged on the ground, pulling a myriad of strange objects out of the small black

pouch she held in her lap. Her donbeag, Gita, scurried back and forth, carrying what he could to lay in

various mounds on the turf.

"Magic pouch," Meghan explained. "It was woven for a MacBrann by one o' the oldest and cleverest o'

the nyx. It's a bottomless bag—very useful for moving house or escaping unexpected attacks.

Unfortunately, ye must take things out in the same order that ye put them in, and so retrieving anything

can be a nuisance."

As the wood witch spoke, Iseult helped the donbeag sort everything into piles, marveling at some of the

extraordinary things Meghan had decided to include. A smith's hammer and chisel were followed by a

broken arrow fletched with white feathers, and then by a wedding veil of lace so old Iseult was afraid it

might crumble in her hands. There were beautifully woven plaids in blues and greens, red running through

like a line of fire, while a dark-brown globe perched unsteadily on top of the tall pile of books.

Iseult picked the sphere up by its ornate stand and spun it. "Where are we?"

Meghan, without pausing in her unpacking, gently floated the globe out of the girl's hands and down onto

the grass. "It is no' a globe o' our world," she said reprovingly. "That is one o' only two globes from the

Other World, and it is irreplaceable. I keep it in the pouch so that time will no' touch it. Please take great

care with my treasures, Iseult. Many o' them I saved from fire and treachery and I would no' like ye to

damage them now."

She indicated one of the heavy books, dark with age, with a heavily embossed cover. "That is one o' the

great treasures o' the Coven, and I came near death saving it from the Banrigh. It is The Book o'

Shadows, and it contains much lore and history, and many great and powerful spells. Now we are safe at

Tulachna Celeste, I shall begin teaching ye and Lachlan again."

"More magic?" Iseult asked eagerly.

Meghan nodded, but said, "Ye and Lachlan have much else ye must learn as well. Alchemy and

geography and history, among other things. Ye're both ignorant indeed!" At the old witch's words, Iseult

sat back on her heels. Her jaw set in a way that Meghan was beginning to know well. "No stubbornness

now, Iseult," Meghan warned. "Ye agreed to throw your lot in with me, and indeed I'm glad now that the

Spinners brought your thread to cross mine. There is a design in this weaving, that I be sure o'. Ye must

be made ready."

Iseult stilled her hands, which had begun to fidget in her lap.

"Besides, why no' take the opportunity to learn what ye can? Knowledge is power, surely ye must ken

that. If ye are one day to be Firemaker, as ye wish, ye should want to do the best ye can for your

people. I am sure your grandmother does no' wish ye to waste your time here."

Still Iseult was silent, her lashes red crescents against her creamy, freckled face.

"And if I remember rightly, your father first came to the Tower o' Two Moons because he had learnt all

that the wise ones o' your land could teach him. He wanted to learn our wisdom and skills, and while he

was with us he studied hard."

At that Iseult looked up and said, "Ye are right. To be the Firemaker is to be in geas to the Gods o'

White. To no' take it on full-heartedly is to no' give all honor to the gods." She paused, and then said in a

constricted voice, "I give ye my apologies then, auld mother, and confess both to fear and pride, worst o'

deficiencies." Meghan looked a little surprised and went to say something, but Iseult pressed on grimly. "I

was afraid ye wished me to learn your wisdom so that ye could win me from the Prides, and turn me to

your own path; and I was proud and angry for your nephew has scorned my offer o' coaching when

indeed he should ken it was a rare compliment for me to offer at all!"

Meghan's puckered old mouth twitched, but she answered gravely. "Indeed, Iseult, there is no need to

apologize—all I wish is for ye to make the most o' your powers. Ye may return to the Spine o' the World

Kate Forsyth - Eileanan 02 - Pool Of Two Moons

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