The Pool of Two Moons by Kate Forsyth

together. As he crammed a sack full of food and clothing, he softly sang to himself. "Over the hills and by the burn, the road unrolls through forest and fern,
    taking my feet I know no' where,
    happen I'll meet ye at the fair!"
    A little prickle of excitement ran over Lilanthe's skin, and she thought to herself that she was being as brave and adventurous as Isabeau herself. After she and the apprentice witch had parted ways, she had felt restless and without direction. Isabeau had made her feel rather ashamed of her aimless wanderings. Now she would be following in Isabeau's footsteps and they could perhaps meet again. She had never felt such a close and natural affinity with anyone as she had with Isabeau the Foundling.
    "Why do ye no' sleep some more?" Enit suggested, a black, hunched figure in her shawls and scarves. "It shall be a long day tomorrow."
    Obediently Lilanthe lay back on the blanket. Through the gap in the broken wall she could see the stars swarming in a purplish sky. "Dark stars . . ." she pondered. "I wonder what the Celestine meant?"
    "At night they come without being fetched, by day they're lost without being stolen," Brun said, pausing in his packing.
    "What?" Lilanthe asked.
    He pointed out at the night sky. "At night they come without being fetched, by day they're lost without being stolen," he repeated.
    "Och, ye mean the starsl" Lilanthe cried, and he danced a little jig, crying, "The stars, the stars!" so that Lilanthe wondered just how much the little creature really understood. She pillowed her head on her arms and heard Brun murmur, "Dark stars and the coming o' winter." For some reason, the words sent a cold thrill over her skin and down her spine, and she wondered if she had made the right decision, joining the jongleurs in their fight against the Ensorcellor. As if sensing her unease, Enit Silverthroat began to sing a gentle lullaby and again the heavy darkness of sleep washed over her.
    [chapter The Black Wolf Snow fell out of a leaden sky, swirling in a capricious wind so that the rider rose in his stirrups in a vain attempt to see more clearly. The howl of a wolf drifted out of the forest to his right, and he spurred his flagging horse on mercilessly. The wolves had been hunting him from the moment he crossed the river into Rur-ach, and the howls were growing ever closer. They came now from the left, so close the mare neighed in terror and plunged on through the snow.
    The Seeker Renshaw leant forward, whipping the horse so she broke into a gallop. He could see the wolves now, streaking along behind him. They were great, grey, rangy beasts, eyes yellow with hunger, and they snarled menacingly as they ran. He could see the icy surface of Loch Kintyre to his right and knew Castle Rurach was beyond. He would be lucky to reach its protection, though, the wolves snapping at the terrified horse's hocks. He drew his dagger and plunged it into the breast of one that leapt up to try and haul him from the saddle. The horse broke free of the pack, galloping wildly, and the seeker wiped his blade on his white breeches.
    Renshaw heard another howl ahead, and his heart thudded. He peered through the snowy darkness and saw a wolf sitting on the bridge over the Wulfrum River. Her muzzle was raised to the darkening sky, her black ruff almost invisible in the shadows under the trees. He recognized the beast. She had come close to killing him earlier in the day. He had only just managed to fight her off with boot and dagger and the fleetness of his horse. The mare was tiring now, though, and an early dusk was sinking over the snow-laden fields. The rest of the pack was close on his heels, and he could see other dark forms slinking through the copse of trees.
    With a defiant cry he turned the mare's head and forced her off the road and down the bank. The snow was up to his mare's withers, his boots and legs submerged. Then the horse was on the ice, her hooves throwing up splinters of frost as she galloped