As they reached the rim of the pool the vapor cleared, revealing the bowed forms of the dark druid-stones and the weaving garlands of the star-flowered vine that swathed the banks with its luxuriant growth. The light was dim, green-hued, playing tricks on the stretch of water before them, for here it seemed dark and deep, here shallow and shining with tiny fish darting not far below the surface.
Tuala settled cross-legged by the water’s edge.
“Don’t look,” Bridei said. “Why not stick to your bronze bowl? You can make this work wherever you want, so why come all the way here? This is—” He broke off. A moment later Tuala felt him settling beside her, not touching, but close enough for her to feel his warmth, the only human thing in the Vale of the Fallen.
This had always come easily to Tuala. She understood now that for others, for Bridei himself, even for Broichan who was steeped in the craft of magic, the art of the seer was hard won, hard learned; that the skills could not always be put readily into use nor the visions summoned on every occasion. For her it was entirely different, and she had come to realize, reluctantly, that this had to do with her origins, with what she was: different; one of them. That made her uncomfortable, yet the gift itself was one she cherished. It gave a window on the world beyond Pitnochie, beyond the Great Glen, beyond the here and now. She could conjure an image in a drop of rain, in a water barrel, in a jug of mead. But nowhere else could she find the wonder and terror that were revealed in the Dark Mirror. Bridei was right; the vale and its hidden pool held deep memories, a story of grievous loss and of courage beyond imagination. More than that, the Dark Mirror showed what was to come or what might come. It gave warnings and prophecies and guidance. And it was a place of the Good Folk. Here, at last she might see her own kind face to face, and ask them why they had abandoned her without a word. Perhaps it had been the will of the Shining One. Perhaps it had been simple mischief. If Bridei had been asleep that night, she would have frozen to death. The older she grew, the more that played on her mind.
Today the pool showed no battle. Instead, it was the ritual of Midsummer over again, with the household gathered on Dawn Tree Hill and a brown-haired child treading the spiral path to the light. But this was a time to come. The child was young, no more than six years old. The man who presided over the ceremony, who cast the circle and led the prayers, was not Broichan but Bridei; not a dark-robed druid but a man in his prime, broad-shouldered, tall and handsome, with bright blue eyes and a long plait of curling hair the color of ripe chestnuts. The wise woman who spoke with the voice of Bone Mother was not hawk-nosed Fola but a younger priestess, slight as a birch, white-faced, clear-eyed, her dark hair tumbling down the back of her austere gray robe. The eyes of these two met and met again; but when the ritual was over, the mead shared, the bread divided, it was another woman who stood at Bridei’s side, a girl whose shapely figure was clad in the fine gown and fur-edged cloak of a noblewoman, a girl who wore a little circlet of flowers on her russet hair and a smile on her face that was just for the fine man who bent his head with familiar kindness to hear her words. The boy who had carried the candle now stood beside them, a miniature version of his father. Familiar faces could be seen: Ferat, Mara, Fidich and Brenna with their children. Donal was not there, nor Erip and Wid. Tuala could not see Broichan. But she saw herself, when the ritual was over, standing alone under the Dawn Tree, her face in shadow, her eyes bereft. She saw herself turn and slip silently back under the shelter of the birches, leaving the family of Pitnochie to their joyful celebration.
Tears were rolling down her cheeks. Those were not part of the vision, but entirely real. Bridei sat close by her, his own gaze intent on the Dark Mirror. Tuala could not bring herself to look again. She closed her eyes, willing the images out of her mind. She had to remember that this might not signify will be. It could just as easily be only could be. Anything was possible. Any path might be trodden if you wanted it enough. After all, she was here, wasn’t she? She had grown up in a druid’s house. She had been given an education. She had been brought up just as if she were a human child.
She must will that future away; must think of should be. It was hard. They were here, she was surrounded by the rustle of their slight movements, the insidious whisper of their strange voices . . . Us . . . one of us . . . come back to us . . . They had never shown themselves fully, not in all these years. Perhaps they had cause not to trust her; perhaps there was nobody they trusted. But they were always here, clustered about the pool, ready to hiss in her ears, to brush against her arm, her cheek, to whisper their own interpretation of her visions. Come back, their soft voices were coaxing now, come back to us. Here, you can be a queen . . .
“I’m not one of you,” she muttered. “I’m an ordinary girl and I live among human folk. I am flesh and blood. I don’t float about the forest whispering lies and playing tricks.”
Ahhh . . . The voices sighed. He played a trick on you, when he took you in. He tricked you out of family and kin and home . . . Come back to us . . . We need you . . . We will love you . . .
“How could I ever come back? I can’t even see you!” Tuala responded in a furious whisper. “And you don’t love me, that’s just another lie. You left me out in the snow. Well, I’ve got my own life now. I don’t need you!”
From a dozen places at once the voices made a whispering chorus. You need . . . oh, you need . . . That is why you come to this place, and come again, and come again . . . You need us . . .
Bridei stirred, stretching his arms; abruptly the forest presences were gone, as if in the space of a single breath they had folded themselves back into the land.
“You’ve been crying,” Bridei said, surprised. “What’s wrong? What did you see?”
“I’m fine,” said Tuala, scrubbing her cheeks. “What did you see?”
Bridei’s jaw was grim, his eyes very serious. “For me, there is only one image in the Dark Mirror,” he said, rising to his feet. “I did not want to come here today. But I think it is timely, as I am to join battle against the Gaels in spring, that I have been shown this once more. I will use it to strengthen my resolve. We owe it to those brave souls who perished here to drive the enemy out of the Glen forever. It will be an act of vengeance pure and final. I’m glad you brought me here, Tuala. But I’m sorry that your vision made you weep. It troubles me to see you sad.”
“I’m fine,” she said again, although it was not true, and she knew he knew that. “Sometimes there are sorry things here, but we are shown them for a purpose.”
“Was there something else you wanted to show me?” he asked her. The kindness in his voice, the courteous bending of the head toward her, were such sharp reminders of the vision she had seen that she felt them like a blow. “No,” she said. She had intended to tell him of the eldritch presences that increasingly followed her, somewhere between substance and shadow. She had needed to put into words the longing she had to find out about her true family, the reasons she’d been left on Broichan’s doorstep and what those things might mean for her future. She had needed to tell him of the fear that went with such a quest for knowledge. What if she found her real identity and discovered in the knowing that she was truly outside the boundaries of the human realm? What if that knowledge cut her off forever from the one person in the world who mattered? Yet how could she live her life, not knowing?
“Sure?”
“I’m sure. It’s getting late; I expect Donal will be wondering where you’ve got to. We should go.”
“Tuala?”
“What?”
“If there was something wrong you would tell me, wouldn’t you?”
“There’s nothing wrong.”
“I worry about you,” Bridei said. “I don’t like leaving you, especially when you look like that.”
“Like what?”
“Sad. Anxious. Like the time Broichan sent you away when you were little.” He reached out and brushed the tears from her cheeks with his fingers. At his touch, light as a butterfly, Tual
a felt something stir deep inside her, something both wondrous and frightening, something she had not known was there. She closed her eyes a moment. She had to be strong about this, no matter how miserable she felt. He had no choice but to go; it was enough that he would think of her when he was away. And he still had a ribbon tied around his wrist. Always, when he left Pitnochie, he carried her token with him.
“I’m just sad that you have to go away again, that’s all,” she said. “With you gone, I have to answer all of Wid’s and Erip’s questions instead of only half.”
SPREADING ALONG THE deep cleft in the earth that was the Great Glen were four long lakes, each linked to the next by a narrow waterway. It was possible to travel by boat all the way from the northern coast near the king’s stronghold at Caer Pridne to the isles of the west, rowing or sailing the length of the lakes and carrying the vessels along the banks of the channels between, since these were swift-running and strewn with rocks. Each lake had its own particular name and its own unique character. Serpent Lake stretched from the northern firth all the way down past Broichan’s residence under the oaks. Serpent Lake was deep and dark; shadows of ancient presences dwelt in its waters. Men who fished there wore amulets of iron about their necks and made sure they were back on shore before dusk.
Below Serpent Lake was the smallest in the chain, Maiden Lake, which marked the start of the way up toward Five Sisters. That was a steep climb but a fair one. The mist-shrouded glens and hidden waterways, the tree-cloaked slopes and high, bare crags made a fine sight for travelers. There were wolves; folk did not journey there alone unless they cared nothing for their own lives. Some could pass; some were touched by the hand of the Shining One or trod their paths as chosen warriors of the Flamekeeper, and the wild beasts respected this, knowing it in their blood. A stag might offer himself to such a traveler as sustenance; a wolf pack might howl a greeting late at night while the wayfarer sat by a small fire in the immensity of the dark hills. That path led to the western ocean and the isles that lay there like resting sea creatures, swathed in a blanket of bright water in summer, scourged by winds and tides in the dark season.
The other way, southwestward by Maiden Lake, led to the broad expanse of Mage Lake. Mage Lake was an eerie place. Drumbeats could be heard in the hills; a distant braying of horns might ring out in ghostly reminder of what once was. These lonely shores were, no doubt, the scene of an ancient battle, a long-ago victory or rout whose noises of pain and challenge had become part of Mage Lake’s deep memory. These waters had witnessed many lives of men; these stones, these trees held it all within their silence.
On the eastern slopes above Maiden Lake stood Raven’s Well, home of the chieftain Talorgen, his wife, Dreseida, and their four children, three boys and a girl. The household was substantial. Talorgen had his own private fighting force equipped with armorers, blacksmiths, folk to tend to horses and to feed a small army of men. He had tenant farmers whose holdings provided the supplies of food he needed, the livestock, the leather and wood, and to whom, in return, he provided protection and a calling for their younger sons as fighting men or apprentice craftsmen. Talorgen was deeply respected. So was his wife. As a maternal cousin to King Drust, Dreseida could rightly claim to carry the royal blood of the Priteni.
Raven’s Well held a commanding position high on the flank of Corbie’s Rest, looking across Maiden Lake to a secret valley on the other side. Southwest, beyond the eerie expanse of Mage Lake, lay King Lake, great and broad, opening at last to the western sea. Perilous waters, a perilous shore: here were the strongholds of the Gaels. All along the western coast of Fortriu, from this point southward to the old borders and creeping north toward the wild lands of the Caitt, the interlopers had gained a foothold, and the best efforts of the Priteni, of Drust the Bull and other kings before him, had not been able to shake this parasite loose. In the south it was more than a foothold. The self-styled king of Dalriada had built a fortress at a place called Dunadd and had established settlements close by as well as communities on the isles themselves. The Gaels had made themselves right at home.
The position of Raven’s Well was perfect for secret sorties into the territory of Dalriada. It also placed Talorgen at high risk of being spied upon, and his men were targets for attack each time they ventured out on their covert missions. Bridei recognized that Raven’s Well held dangers of a kind far different from those of Pitnochie. This was the point from which the Priteni could strike forward and do some real damage. If things worked out the way Talorgen and his fellow chieftains hoped, by summer the Mage Stone would be won back for Fortriu. The Flamekeeper would sing then, and the Shining One dance for joy in the sky above the Glen. There would be great hope in such a victory.
Now that Bridei and Gartnait were young men of eighteen, they played their part in patrolling the boundaries of Raven’s Well. Generally Donal went with them, or one of Talorgen’s chosen men. A party of three made sense. Such a number could move covertly in the woods, maintaining contact by subtle signals, the hoot of an owl, the rustle of a squirrel in the undergrowth. If the worst happened and one were wounded, that left one to tend the fallen man and one to go for reinforcements.
It was a crisp autumn day, the air achingly chill in the lungs. Small clouds appeared before their mouths as Bridei and Gartnait moved silently along the upper margin of the pine forest, eyes and ears alert for danger. Today there were just the two of them, for the older men were in council with a chieftain newly arrived at Raven’s Well, a man whose support Talorgen needed to win. Donal was required to attend, and so was the other man who usually shared their watch. In fact, Gartnait and Bridei preferred to patrol together with no third. They had formed both a fast friendship and an intense rivalry since the first summer the lanky, freckled Gartnait had spent in the ordered household at Pitnochie. It was hard to say who had been the more uncomfortable, Gartnait amid the world of scholarship, ritual and magic or Bridei, the following summer, enduring the noise, the banter, the fierce family disputes of Raven’s Well, where there were two younger brothers and a sister to contend with as well as Gartnait himself. Dreseida, their mother, was the most difficult of all with her sharply appraising looks and her volleys of unexpected questions. The first summer he spent there, Bridei had longed for Pitnochie, for Broichan’s grave discipline, for the quiet order of the house, for the sharp wit and irreverent humor of the two old men. Most of all, he had needed Tuala, for if she was not there by his side, small and grave with her watching owl-eyes, he could not speak his deepest thoughts but must let them build and build within him. That summer, his dreams had troubled him.
He was quite used to Raven’s Well now. He learned to laugh off jokes, although he never mastered the knack of making them himself. He knew he could not have acquired sufficient skill in battle craft to be considered for next spring’s venture had he not had Gartnait as a sparring partner while the two of them grew from boys to men. Now Gartnait’s little brothers looked up to both of them. Ferada was a different matter. Bridei sensed that Gartnait’s sister did not trust him any more than her mother did. They were hard to read, the women of Talorgen’s household, one moment smiling and courteous, the next showing sudden offense, posing questions he could not answer or lapsing into chilly silence. It was not surprising, Bridei thought as he crept along the remnant of an ancient stone wall, keeping low for cover, that he could never think of the right things to say to them, for he’d had no practice at all. The only women at Pitnochie were Mara, who was more like a big watchdog than anything else, and shy Brenna. Tuala didn’t count; she was a child. If he ever got to stay at Caer Pridne when the king was in residence he might meet some court ladies and learn the right way to conduct himself among them. The prospect was less than appealing.
A tiny whistle: Gartnait up ahead, signaling danger. Bridei froze. For a little there was nothing beyond the wind in the pines, the distant cry of a bird. He could not see his friend, but knew Gartnait was some hundred paces away under the first fringe of tre
es, standing as still as he was. Bridei felt his heart racing and willed it slower as he slipped the bow from his shoulder and fitted an arrow to the string, each movement a step in a ritual, balanced and careful. Under these pines the paths grew rapidly dim and shadowy, for between the massive trunks of the most ancient forest dwellers their descendants raised tall, slender forms skyward, reaching for their share of light. There was plenty of cover beneath them, rocky outcrops, fallen trees swathed in creeping growth, smaller plants nestling in sheltered crevice or sudden narrow ravine. To track a man through the upper reaches of these woods was quite a test; Talorgen’s forces, Bridei among them, had trained night and day in such terrain.
Of course, it was possible what Gartnait had spotted was a deer or a wild pig. In these days leading up to war, men were all too ready to jump at shadows, to see antler as raised staff or tusk as sharpened blade.
The whistle came again, a single note, brief and urgent. With it came a flash of movement down the hill among the bracken, and a color that was not part of the natural brown and gray and green of the woods: the pale image of a man’s face, here then gone as the fellow ducked down behind some natural cover, a bush, a fallen tree, a heap of stones. He’d been quick. A moment later Bridei saw Gartnait whisk by on his left to vanish behind a thicker stand of pines.
They had talked about this often enough; had rehearsed it, or something like it, with the older, more experienced men, Donal in particular. Today there were only the two of them, and neither with any real combat experience to his name. Bridei moved to the right, taking the opposite flank to Gartnait. Between them they would flush this interloper out. Of course, Bridei thought as he edged forward with bow in hand, moving silently on the forest’s needled floor, this fellow could very well be leading them into a trap. There could be a group lying in wait to ambush them. He must go with caution, keep an escape route open and make sure he did not announce his presence until he saw what the enemy was up to. The aim was capture, not killing. Spies had information; they must take this one alive.
The Dark Mirror Page 18