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fraught with tension. Isabeau faltered a little when she saw many in the council were looking at her with suspicion and condemnation. Then Meghan rose stiffly to her feet.
    ‘Isabeau is right,’ she said, ‘and I too am ashamed o’ myself. So long we have hated and feared the Fairgean, and never have we thought o’ the actions o’ our ancestors as anything but right and true. Yet there has been great evil done on both sides. We canna tip the balance so it lies more heavily on our side. We canna go to war planning to annihilate our enemy. It is much easier to destroy than it is to build anew.’
    Again there was a long, troubled silence. Then Lachlan sighed. ‘Yet we canna go to war already deciding the terms o’ a peace that may never be possible. Letus take what Isabeau has said into our hearts and our minds and ponder the ramifications but, please, let us now plan a war. For though we may have come to realise that there has been wrong done on both sides, the Fairgean surely have no’! They hate us as much as ever and the Beltane massacre was surely no’ their last offensive.’
    There was much murmuring among the councillors and Isabeau was troubled by the sideways glances many gave her. Everyone knew she had brought Maya’s daughter Bronwen back to Lucescere and that she had had some discourse with the Ensorcellor herself. It was clear Isabeau knew more than anybody else about the customs of the Fairgean, and many wondered aloud how that was so. Besides, she was a witch, and despite the restoration of the Coven, many of the people of Eileanan still distrusted witches.
    So Isabeau said no more, sitting back in her chair, turning her moonstone ring round and round upon her finger as the arguments went round and round the conference hall. She had so much to perturb her heart, so many doubts and forebodings, regrets and self-recriminations, that it took her some time to notice that her twin Iseult also sat silently, her thin red brows drawn together. Under normal circumstances there would have been nothing in that to remark upon. Khan’cohbans were not given to garrulity. However, this was a war conference. Iseult was a Scarred Warrior, trained from birth in the art of fighting. It was not like Iseult to sit with her hands folded when a war was being planned.
    Suddenly Iseult turned and met Isabeau’s gaze. Colour scorched up her face and she bit her lip and looked away. Isabeau sat very still for a long time, not even hearing the wash of conversation about her. Her hands felt cold, her head hot. All her intuition told her something was wrong and that somehow she was at the heart of it.
    That night Isabeau tried once again to approach her sister, though her very anxiety made her awkward. Iseult smiled at her in perfect composure and gave her a brief hug, an uncharacteristic sign of affection. ‘Nay, o’ course there be naught wrong, Beau. No’ with us, anyway. I am just tired and irked by all this bickering. They are always the same, these lairds. They talk and talk and naught is ever decided. I canna be bothered arguing with them. If they want my insight, then they can ask me for it.’
    Although her words seemed fair, there was still enough of a shadow on Iseult’s face for Isabeau to seek out Dide in the guardroom. He looked tired, his dark curls tousled, his shirt unlaced at the neck, but he smiled at the sight of Isabeau and sprang to his feet.
    ‘How are ye yourself, my bonny Beau?’
    ‘Och, fine,’ she answered distractedly. She looked about the guardroom, where all the other officers of the Yeomen of the Guard lounged, playing dice or trictrac, and drinking whisky. Most regarded her with friendly curiosity and she smiled rather briefly at those she knew. ‘Dide, is there somewhere we could go to talk?’
    ‘In Rhyssmadill? A hundred places,’ he replied with a laugh. ‘This palace was built for intrigue.’
    She bit her lip at the double entendre, but she allowed him to show her out of the