The Pool of Two Moons (34 page)

So she took Maya away from her mother and the over-crowded, flimsy rafts, and back to the tiny island given over to the sisterhood. The next day the Yedda no longer clung with desperate tenacity to the raft. She simply let go. Noone cared enough to stop her from sinking away below the water. A Fairgean could stay underwater for up to fifteen minutes before being forced to surface for air. They were designed to live in water so cold, great mountains of ice sometimes floated past. Humans were not. The king's whore would have died quickly.

On the dark, cold island of the Sisterhood of Jor, Maya grew to adulthood. She wa's trained to instant obedience to both her father and the priestesses and indoctrinated with stories of the Fairgeans'

greatness. She was taught to have one desire only—to win glory in her father's eyes and revenge her people against the evil humans who had stolen their land and their seas. Sani had been glad to see she had inherited her mother's human beauty, for that would make the winning of the Righ's heart that much easier. She had also inherited her human mother's talent with music, and Sani guarded that secret carefully for if the king knew, he would tear out Maya's tongue in fear she might use it to ensorcel him. Sani undertook most of Maya's training herself, which she was grateful for as she came to realize the strength and range of Maya's abilities. Not only was her
leda
unusually strong and subtle, particularly when she played her clarsach or sang, but she had the ability to draw strength from others without them realizing. Most people had only the strength of their own will and intelligence to draw upon, but Maya borrowed magical power from all around her. This meant her strength was without limits. Of course, those she borrowed strength from gradually failed. If Maya continued long enough, they sickened and died. Her husband Jaspar had lived longer than any other human, and Maya had borrowed so constantly from him that she would be hard put to manage when his life at last flickered out. Of course, once they had realized Maya was not going to conceive easily, they had stopped draining him quite so heavily, finding alternative sources of power instead. They could not risk Jaspar dying before they had a clear claim to the throne. None of them had realized it would take Maya sixteen years to conceive and that an ancient and powerful spell would be needed to achieve procreation. The power to transform had only revealed itself when Maya was almost a grown woman. Sani's plans had taken definite shape then, and she had approached the king with her idea. He hated it, of course, for it meant relying on a woman's wits, not a man's brute strength. But his final attempt to win back the coastlands had failed catastrophically at the Battle of the Strand. The Fairgean forces had been so broken that it would be many years before they again had the strength to attack. Reluctantly he had given his permission.

Sixteen years the plan had been unfolding, and nearly all their strategies were complete. Come winter, the babe would be born. The Righ would be allowed to slip into death, a mere husk of the ardent youth he had been. The Banrigh would permit the people to make her Regent, and would rule in the babe's name. Then at last the humans' power would be broken, and the Fairgean would once again rule the waves. Sani was wrapping the mirror in its tattered silk when she saw the silvery surface begin to swirl with clouds. Someone was trying to contact her. Hoping desperately that it was not the Fairgean king, Sani gazed into its depths.

Slowly the swirling clouds settled into the chubby, choleric face of the Grand-Seeker Humbert. He was sweating with mingled unease and excitement, for of all the seekers he was most sincere in his hatred of all things witch-tainted. He strongly disliked using the same skills that the Awl burnt witches for and would have much preferred to send messengers. Sani had no patience with his discomfort, however, and told him he either had to use the scrying bowl she gave him or she would find another Grand-Seeker. Ambition won over authenticity, and Humbert obediently contacted Sani once a week. It was not his usual time, however, and it was clear he was laboring under some intense excitement.

"We have the Arch-Sorceress!" he blurted out as soon as the courtesies were done with. "The MacRuraich came in with her no' half an hour ago! I do no' ken how he managed to capture her, but she's chained up with iron and rowan in the town square this very minute!" Sani hissed in satisfaction. "I want her here!" she said in her sibilant voice. "How quickly can ye bring her to me?"

"By river is the fastest way, o' course," Humbert replied. "I will arrange for her to be brought down by barge."

"If she escapes again, I'll rip out your heart and eat it!" she warned. She saw Humbert blanch, and smiled.

"She shall no' escape, I swear it!" he cried.

"She had better no'," Sani replied, sweet as poisoned sugar, and banished the Grand-Seeker's ashen face from the mirror. As she wrapped the magic looking-glass up and put it away, her pale eyes were shining strangely. Once the Arch-Sorceress Meghan NicCuinn was dead, nothing would stand in her way.
The Captive

Meghan was led through the streets of Dunceleste with her wrists in iron shackles. She walked with her head high and her black eyes scanning the crowd with interest. Her gray plait was pinned at her nape, and a huge emerald clasped together the folds of her finely woven plaid. Despite the chain, the jeering crowd, and soldiers riding all around her, she looked more a banprionnsa than a condemned outlaw. Every now and again a stone or egg or rotten fruit was thrown at her, but always the missile reversed its flight mid-air and flung itself back in the face of the thrower. The more forceful their heave, the harder the corresponding blow. The witch did not even look, or move a finger, or show any sign that she had noticed what was happening.

She reached the main square and saw there a crudely built platform with a large wooden cage hung from a gallows. She smiled in genuine amusement, and the soldiers nearest to her felt their uneasiness increase.

"Get ye in," they ordered gruffly, moving to grasp her arms, but a strange dizziness came over them. As they paused to recover their balance she stepped forward and climbed the stairs unassisted. She was small but had to bow her head to enter the cage, which rocked wildly at her weight. Showing surprising nimbleness for one of her age, she sat down cross-legged in the very center, lifting her plaid clear of the straw and manure which littered the floor.

"Charming," she said. "Quarters fit for a banprionnsa. I gather from this that Humbert o' the Smithy fancies a public discussion. I had heard he was no' very wise and now I ken it is true. Tell him I am looking forward to speaking with him. In the meantime, I would like some water."

"No water for the prisoner," the sergeant ordered.

"Och, it is no' for me."

He ignored her, and she pulled her large bag toward her and undid its buckle. First she pulled out her knitting, causing one of the soldiers to smile involuntarily. Then, to their bemusement, she withdrew a bundle of gardening tools. She took out her little rake and spade and began raking the floor of the cage, pushing the dirt to the four edges. Fastidiously she swept underneath her, dusting off her skirt and wiping her fingers on a cloth.

As she labored, a flock of pigeons flew down, circling the cage and settling along the top of the gallows. A fat gray cat with orange eyes gracefully bounded up the steps and slipped in between the bars to curl up on her lap, purring loudly, paws kneading. Dogs threaded through the crowd, tails wagging, and a great carthorse ignored the cries and whip-blows of his driver to drag the huge dray right up to the platform, nudging the cage with its roman nose. She patted it through the bars, and it nudged again, setting the cage swinging and the cat miaowing in protest.

Tucking her tools away neatly, Meghan pulled out a little canvas pouch and poured a selection of seeds into her palm. The crowd pressed close to the platform, anxious to see what she was doing. The soldiers had to keep them back with crossed spears. Meghan smiled at them, carefully planting the seeds around the inside of the cage. She took out a pinch which she blew into the air.

Tiny parasoled seeds drifted out. She did so four times, at the points of the compass, then looked down at the sergeant and said, "As ye see, I need some water."

"No water for the prisoner." The sergeant's neck turned red.

Meghan shrugged, saying, "What the Red Guards forbid, Ea provides." To the surprise of the crowd, it began to rain, a light, blowing shower. It had been threatening for the past hour or so, but it seemed eerie that it should begin just at that moment. They wrapped their plaids tighter about them, and pulled on their tarn o'shanters, wondering what would happen next. As quickly as it came, the scatter of rain passed over and the sun came out, the cobblestones steaming. A soft sigh rose from the crowd, and the sergeant jerked his red coat nervously. Small green tendrils were winding their way up the bars and soft leaves were spreading over the beds of straw and manure. Soon flowers were budding, and Meghan's cage became a sweet-scented bower. The sergeant attempted to break off the flowering branches, then noticed daisies flourishing in the cracks beneath his feet. Despite all his attempts to grind them to death, they soon made the cobblestones a cheerful patchwork of stone and golden flowers. Meghan took a silver goblet from her bag, poured herself a glass of goldensloe wine and reclined back on the soft bag. The cat in her lap purred loudly, paws kneading constantly, eyes mere slits of topaz.

The Grand-Seeker Humbert paused on the steps of the inn in chagrin. The whole square was decked with flowers, and the filthy witch-hag rested at her ease while the crowd murmured and smiled, the hostile voices now drowned by cries of wonderment. Worse, her shackles of iron and cage of rowan wood had had no effect at all upon her foul sorceries. He pulled his crimson robes tighter about him and walked down into the square.

Twelve seekers followed him, an arrowhead of red that stilled the crowd and stiffened the spines of the soldiers.

He raised his pudgy hands and exulted, "We have ye now, sorceress!"

"Have ye, Humbert?"

He struck out at the cage with his fist, and the cat spat at him, arching her back. Meghan stroked her plush gray fur and smiled gently at the Grand-Seeker. Her black eyes were fixed on his face with tolerant interest.

"For sixteen years ye have evaded the grasp o' the Awl, but now I, Humbert, fifth Grand-Seeker o' the Awl, have captured ye!"

"Actually it was the MacRuraich," Meghan answered. "I really do no' think ye had anything to do with it at all."

"Shut your mouth, witch! Ye dare speak thus to the Grand-Seeker!"

"Is he new to the position that he needs to remind himself who he is?" Humbert grasped a pike from a soldier and attempted to stab Meghan through the bars, but the pike was long and very heavy and somehow the cage swung about so the pike was tangled. Humbert was almost dragged off his feet, and a few people in the crowd laughed. He dropped it, putting a finger in his collar as if the high-necked robe was too tight.

"Meghan NicCuinn, ye are charged with high treason, sorcery, murder, conspiracy against the throne, and foul heresies. It is alleged ye plot to overthrow our rightful Righ and Banrigh and are in league with the wicked rebels terrorizing the countryside. Under the laws o' the Truth, if found guilty, ye shall be condemned to die by the fire."

Meghan said nothing. She stroked the gray cat and sipped from her wine. Humbert's fat cheeks reddened. "Ye shall be taken and put to the Question this evening," he said hoarsely. "We shall wring a confession from ye—and the names o' your evil conspirators."

"Have ye forgotten I am the Righ's kin, Humbert?"

Meghan said. "After the Burning I was offered full amnesty if I went to the Righ and submitted myself to his will. That has never been repealed."

"Ye have been named as an enemy o' the Crown and charged with sorcery and treason ..."

"My great-nephew is the ultimate arbitrator o' justice in this land, Grand-Seeker," Meghan said with the faintest sneer in her voice. "It is for him to decide my guilt and to administer appropriate retribution." Humbert's face was purple, his bulbous nose threaded with engorged capillaries. Sweat sprung up on his face, and he again fingered his collar as if it were too tight for him. "The Anti-Witchcraft League was set up by the Banrigh herself and does no' report to the Righ."

"Nonetheless, the Banrigh does no' rule—she is Banrigh by marriage only and subject to her laird and husband, Jaspar MacCuinn, who is Righ by blood and birthright."

"The Awl was set up with the blessing o' the Righ." Humbert pressed his hand to his heart.

"Aye, indeed, but I doubt he gave permission for his role as judge and judicator to be superseded."

"It is the right o' the Awl to question whomever they believe to be a witch, to establish guilt and—"

"But ye ken I am a witch," Meghan said reasonably. "I do no' deny that charge. I see no reason for ye to torture me to establish something everyone kens." And she waved her hand in the air so blue witch-fire trailed in an arc. The crowd drew back with a hiss, and the Grand-Seeker pointed at her and cried, "See, the foul witch works her sorcery!"

"What do ye think I have been doing since I first walked in through the gates o' Dunceleste?" Meghan spoke in the tone of voice normally kept for a not very bright child. "Do ye think the blossoming o' the square was mere coincidence?" She smiled and waved her hand again. Flowers began to rain down on the square, and children ran about laughing, trying to catch them. A few landed on Humbert's head and shoulders, and he brushed them away irritably, not noticing a daisy had lodged perkily in his stiff curls, just behind his ear. A ripple of laughter ran over the crowd, and one of his seekers stepped forward and whispered to him. The Grand-Seeker's round face flushed purple with rage, and he swiped at the daisy with his plump fingers. Somehow he kept missing it, his fingers merely pushing it into a more rakish angle. The laughter intensified. His second-in-command neatly plucked it out and threw it away, and Humbert tried to regain his dignity.