“You may call me Fola. We don’t stand on ceremony here; all are equal under the gaze of the Shining One. Are you happy to be here, Tuala?”
This difficult question had come out of nowhere. “I’m grateful for the opportunity, my la—Fola.” It felt odd to be addressing the wise woman thus as if she were a familiar friend. Small as she was, Fola looked grander and more imposing than Tuala had remembered her: her hair, unhooded, revealed itself as silver-gray and long, coiled up in a heavy bundle at the back of her head, and around her neck, over the soft gray robe, she wore a moon disc clasped by a clawlike silver setting and suspended on a fine chain. Fola’s eyes were as before, of a darkly assessing intensity. Her smile was warm. Behind her, on a stone shelf, was curled a pitch-black cat of enormous size; its tattered ears and scarred visage seemed the equivalent of a warrior’s tattooed features. It watched Tuala through half-closed yellow eyes.
“But?” Fola queried.
Tuala looked straight at her. “I’ll work very hard,” she said, “and learn all I can. I owe that to you for being prepared to have me here. I owe it to those who have taught me before.”
“You’re not being quite honest with me, child,” Fola said. “I know you’ll work hard. Those who are not prepared to do so find their stay at Banmerren short. Kethra can vouch for that.” She glanced at the other woman, who stood to the side, hands folded before her, and Kethra’s lips twitched in something that did not seem much like a smile. “Tell me, Tuala. If there’s a reservation of some sort in your mind, I need to know it now Here at Banmerren we are all servants of the Shining One. She commands our whole selves: body, heart, mind, and spirit.”
Tuala bowed her head. “I am her daughter,” she said. “I serve her in all things. If it is her will that I become her priestess, then I will apply myself to that calling as well as I can. But it was not my choice to come here. Not my true choice.” Images came flooding into her mind: Pearl in the stables, nuzzling at Tuala’s neck, unaware that it was the last time; Mist yowling in complaint behind a closed door, as if she knew Tuala was leaving her; the moon through a small window and an eagle feather on the sill. She glanced at the silent Kethra, who stared back, impassive.
“You may leave us, Kethra,” Fola said. “Ask Odha for a small pot of her peppermint infusion, will you, and some honey? Thank you.”
Kethra swept out, straight-backed, disapproval in every corner of her body.
Fola sighed. “Kethra is in charge of the younger students,” she said. “My principal assistant. Now sit down, Tuala. You’ve had a long journey; the lady Dreseida has told me something of it. And since her own daughter Ferada is to stay with us a while, there will be at least one familiar face here for you among us.”
Tuala managed a tight nod.
“However,” Fola went on, “I think it is more than weary days on the lake and in the saddle that gives your eyes that desperate look. I know you’ve told the truth so far. But there’s more to it than that, surely.”
“It was supposed to be a choice,” Tuala blurted out. “But it was his choice, not mine.”
Fola waited a moment, and then said, “His choice? Broichan’s?”
Tuala nodded miserably. “To come here, or marry a man with a face like a turnip. I’m sorry, that’s not fair. He seemed a good man. But I didn’t want to get married and I didn’t want . . .”
“You didn’t want to come to Banmerren?” Fola asked gently.
“To go away,” Tuala said in a whisper. “To be sent away from Pitnochie. He doesn’t understand. I need to be there.”
There was a tap at the door; a girl came in with a little tray. She wore the blue robe Tuala had seen on most of the young women at Banmerren. There had been many of them walking across the garden, hurrying along pathways or busy with scrolls or basins or bunches of herbs. A few were in green; only the older ones, like Kethra and Fola herself, wore the wise woman’s gray. The girl put the tray down and departed in silence. The cat stirred itself, stretched expansively and jumped down, strolling over to investigate what the visitor had brought.
“I see.” Fola took up a little pot from the tray, poured a steaming, aromatic beverage into two tiny cups, spooned honey, handed a cup to Tuala. Finding no food available, the cat had lost interest and was washing itself.
“I am obedient to the Shining One,” Tuala said. “I love her; why would I go against her will? But I never believed she wanted me to leave Pitnochie. If this was what she intended, for me to serve her as a wise woman, why did she make sure it was Bridei who found me, all those years ago?” She heard her own words, too many words, and clamped her mouth shut.
Fola sipped her drink calmly. “Let us say Broichan acted in error,” she said. “We must bear in mind that Broichan is not known for lapses in judgment; his purposes can seem obscure at times, but that is generally because his schemes are more far-reaching than we ordinary mortals can grasp.” It was hard to tell if she was joking or not. “But let us say the Shining One does not wish you to be her priestess. What, then, does she intend for you, do you think?”
Tuala remained grimly silent.
“I wonder,” said Fola, setting her cup back on the tray “Drink it, child; it will give you heart. Broichan has ever been fond of reminding folk that there is learning to be had even in the most trying experience; even in the most desperate disappointment. You will learn something here at Banmerren, and I expect the rest of us will, too; we’ve never had a child of the forest among us before. It won’t be easy for you. A challenge; no doubt you enjoy those. Drink up. Then I’ll call Kethra back to show you where you’ll be sleeping. You can rest before supper. After that it’ll be all hard work. In time, no doubt the Shining One will make her purpose known.”
In Kethra’s wake, Tuala walked through passageway and eating place and hall of study, through a storeroom where a frankly staring girl handed her a pile of folded garments, a blue robe at the bottom, other things on top; she passed through the gardens again, noting more girls tending a vegetable patch, forking straw, tying up straggling vines; she heard singing coming from inside somewhere, a pure, clear sound of young voices lifted in a hymn to the maiden All-Flowers. From an open doorway wafted a wholesome aroma of new-baked bread.
The whole of the Banmerren compound lay within a wall; stone set its boundaries and effectively blocked off the world outside. The only entry Tuala could see was the way she had come in, a heavy iron gate with bolts across it. There had been a place outside she’d have liked to explore, a place as different from the craggy hills and blanketing forest of Pitnochie as a gull was from an owl: she’d glimpsed wide, empty sands and beyond them a whispering sea. From within these walls, nothing of that could be seen.
Several girls, not uniformly robed but clad in fine skirts and tunics of varied hue, were sitting on a bench in the garden talking among themselves. As one, they turned to stare as Tuala went past, her feet moving swiftly to keep up with the brisk strides of her impatient guide. She heard the whispers, the suppressed laughter. She could not catch the words. A girl who was sitting alone smiled at her, a warm smile in a face notable for its fine gray eyes and natural serenity. This girl had hair that gleamed like spun gold in the sunlight, falling in a ripple down her back. She was clad in palest cream with a touch of blue at neck and wrists. Tuala nodded courteously. To summon a smile in return was more than she could manage right now.
“Up here,” Kethra said. She had made it abundantly clear she had no time to spare and did not appreciate the requirement to play nursemaid to this particular new arrival. It felt depressingly like those last days at Pitnochie. “Fola says you’re to sleep in the tower. It’s been empty a while. Maybe it’s best. The others will be wary of you. I suppose you know that.” She led the way up a steep flight of stone steps on the outside of the building, along a perilously narrow walkway and into a small chamber whose doorway was almost level with the top of Banmerren’s outer wall. It was quite dark. A scurrying sound in the corner ceased abruptly as
they went in.
“You’ll need a candle,” Kethra said. “Ask in the kitchen when you come down for supper.”
“When—?”
“Next bell. Wear the blue. It’ll be a long time before you need the green. If ever. Anything else?”
Tuala cleared her throat. There was a wooden bed frame in the chamber with a straw mattress on it; she could not see any other bedding. There was no fire.
“Could I—?”
“Speak up!” Kethra said. “I’ve work to do. I expect you’re used to folk running around after you, picking up for you. There’s none of that here. We all do our share, no matter what we are.”
“A blanket,” Tuala said firmly, deciding she would not be intimidated. “Two, if that’s allowed; I see there’s no hearth up here. I’ll come down and fetch them myself, there’s no need to—”
“Anything else?”
“Not just yet,” Tuala said politely.
“You’ll have to wait; the storeroom is locked now and everyone’s busy. After supper, ask again. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a class to teach.” Kethra turned on her heel and was gone.
Tuala dropped her bag onto the pallet and pulled her cloak tighter around her. Resting was certainly not going to be possible; it was so cold in here that her breath made a little cloud before her mouth. It seemed an odd place to have been allocated for her own. There were many girls here, and among the chambers glimpsed during her hurried tour had been several long rooms for sleeping, housing pallets in rows. She was pretty sure she had seen hearths there with turf laid ready for burning. She had expected to be lodged with other girls, living communally as the men at arms did at Pitnochie. Perhaps this isolation was meant to underline still further her difference. In truth, bleak as the small chamber was, Tuala was much relieved to be alone.
Her eyes grew gradually accustomed to the dimness. The room did have a window of sorts, a mere slit between the shaped stones, unshuttered. A chill draft swept in, carrying a salt smell: that must be the sea. Birds were calling, their voices harsh and strange, telling a different tale from those of the wren and thrush, the owl and raven. These were travelers, singing of long journeys over perilous waters. In time she would learn to understand them.
There was rustling again and a faint scratching sound. It was clear she would be sharing her quarters with mice. Mist would have liked it here. Tears prickled Tuala’s eyes; she would not let them spill. Mist had a good home, plenty to eat, folk who would be kind to her now Tuala herself was gone. Mist would do perfectly well; it would be Tuala who would suffer the parting more, lacking the cat’s comforting presence in this chilly bed. In winter, sleeping in the tower would be very hard. Perhaps that was part of the training. Maybe she was meant to accept the cold and not to ask for blankets. Druids did it, after all, trials by earth and fire, by deep water and empty air. They hung themselves up in ox hides and waited for prophetic dreams. What were a few uncomfortable nights compared with that?
Clean water would have been good, to wash the travel stains from her face and hands. Never mind that. Trembling with cold, Tuala unfastened her bag and began to unpack her meager belongings. There was a storage chest here, an ancient, heavy thing festooned with cobwebs. Spiders still dwelt in its cracks and corners; she did her best not to disturb them, since they had prior claim. Mara had made sure she had a change of smallclothes, two shifts, warm stockings, a nightrobe. There was the skirt and tunic she had worn to tell the tale of Nechtan the stone carver and his mysterious lover, Ela. There were two more such outfits, similar in style but plainer in fabric and trim. Shivering, Tuala stripped off the gown she had worn for riding and slipped the blue robe over her head, tying it around the waist with the matching girdle she found in the small pile of supplies she had been allocated. There was no way to check how it looked, but the fit seemed reasonable. She suspected it was the smallest they had. Most of the other girls had looked alarmingly tall and shapely, close to her own age, perhaps, but in appearance very much young women. It was all very well for the men of Pitnochie to view her as some kind of mysterious seductress; that was all in the mind. Beside those others, she was indeed still a child.
When all the clothing was laid away, Tuala took out the smaller items she had packed beneath, where they would be less visible to prying eyes such as those of Ferada’s little brothers. Her special knife; her collection of feathers gleaned from the forest floor; her hair ribbons, those of them she could find before she left Pitnochie. There was no need for them now. She had chopped her hair off level with her chin, roughly, with the knife, and consigned the long dark locks to Broichan’s hall fire. The Shining One already knew the depth of her daughter’s commitment to the gods and to the future of Fortriu; with this small sacrifice, Tuala made it known also to the Flamekeeper, guardian and inspiration of warriors. Whether either of them accepted her gifts remained to be seen. She was here, after all, and that felt wrong.
The ribbons: grass green, sky blue, blood red, sun yellow When she was little, people had brought them home for her. Men at arms went off on an expedition and happened to pass a market. Ferat got a couple every summer from a fellow with a pack of goods to sell. Brenna found old ones of her own or made new ones with needle and thread and strips of cloth left over from other projects. These ribbons were home; they were Bridei plaiting her hair with careful hands and a little joke; they were Ferat’s oatcakes and Mara’s clean linen; they were Uven and Cinioch telling stories and Mist purring, curled up on Brenna’s knee. These ribbons were a household that no longer existed; they were a love that had never been real. Tuala put them away in the chest.
The blue robe was warmer than her own clothes, but not enough to keep out the draft. Outside, clouds had covered the sun and the breeze blew fresh and strong from the sea. Who knew when the supper bell would sound? She could go back down the steps, of course, and try to disregard the frankly curious stares of the other girls, their ill-suppressed laughter and whispered comments. She could sit on the grass, perhaps spend time in meditation. It would be more sheltered there. If the girls bothered her she could simply ignore them. Tuala grimaced. She was fooling herself if she thought that would be possible. Judging by Kethra’s inadequate instructions, survival here at Banmerren depended on learning the rules as quickly as possible and making sure one abided by them. Odd, that; of course such an establishment must have its codes of behavior, but a lack of flexibility, a falling short in care, those were failings Tuala would not have expected in a school run by Fola. Her memory of Fola, from the forest, was of someone who not only understood rules, but knew when it was time to break them.
Tuala’s hands lingered on the last item in her bag: the twisted cord that told the tale of herself and Bridei, the meetings and partings, the smiles and tears. It seemed the two strands were destined, from now on, to remain forever apart. She had been foolish to think it might be otherwise; to believe in her heart that it must be otherwise. Tuala rolled the little thing into a ball and hid it under her folded nightrobe. She closed the chest and went outside. It was just as cold, but at least she could see the sky. The same clouds that blocked the sun over Banmerren would in time pass above the forest at Pitnochie and set their moving shadows on the deep waters of Serpent Lake. Perhaps, before they dispersed, they might even look down on Talorgen’s army, marching along the Glen to confront the fierce warriors of Dalriada. They might cross the sun again, and a young man with curling brown hair and eyes of brilliant blue might look up, thinking suddenly of home. Perhaps.
The narrow walkway continued past her door. Turn right, and it was back down the steps and along the path to the garden, following the base of the moss-coated stone wall. Turn the other way, and the ledge went on to reach a sloping, shingled rooftop, and thence to another stretch of wall which met Banmerren’s main boundary at right angles. Close by this barrier an ancient oak grew, its upper branches towering high above the stonework, its trunk gnarled and knotted, its roots forming a great network of arch and twist and cra
nny, spreading themselves across a wide expanse of ground before their descent deep into the earth’s heart. Spring was not far advanced; the dark boughs bore only the smallest swelling of new leaf buds at their tips. Last year’s nests still hung here and there in the branches, signs that this giant nurtured new growth of many kinds year by year.
The oak’s canopy did not stretch all the way back to the shingled roof. There was a section of wall, three strides long and perhaps a handspan wide, that must be traversed in order to reach it. The height was considerable; a fall would, at the very least, result in broken bones. Tuala tucked the skirt of her robe into her girdle, spread out her arms and walked across, small feet steady on the narrow stone. She had never been afraid of heights.
This was better. A little scrambling took her to a fork in the tree and a branch broad enough to accommodate her comfortably, her back to the mossy trunk, her feet together on a limb and a view of the world beyond Banmerren clearly visible above the outer wall. It would, indeed, be possible to climb across to the top of that wall if she had the inclination to do so, since the tree spread its branches with generous expansion in all directions. The supper bell would probably ring when she was halfway over, and she would be late on her very first day. No need to venture farther; this tree held her secure, supported her small body with its own, ancient and strong. If she was quiet and opened the ears of the spirit, in time it would begin to whisper its stories.
She could see right along a wide, pale bay to an eastern headland. She could see a fortress. Banners flew above its stone ramparts, blue devices on white. From its topmost level it would be possible to look far out to sea; to know the approach of raiders early and to set guards on what lay within. There were earthen defenses, too, mounds and ditches; if she squinted her eyes she could see small figures moving there. Caer Pridne: stronghold of Drust the Bull, monarch of Fortriu. It was so close. Dreseida might be there by now, settling at court with her small sons, catching up with friends, happy, no doubt, that the long journey was over. Dreseida would not have stayed at Banmerren beyond the time required to see her daughter settled, for no men might enter here save druids, and Tuala could not imagine Uric and Bedo waiting with great patience for their mother outside the stone walls.
The Dark Mirror Page 33