The Dark Mirror

by Juliet Marillier

  “I wished Bridei to take part in this endeavor without the weight of such high expectations on his shoulders.” Broichan’s tone was calm as always, but there was a wariness in his eyes. “It is time for the truth now, I agree. But he has only just arrived here; he’ll be weary after the ride from Pitnochie. I will speak to him tomorrow He’ll still be grieving the loss of his friend; I imagine he thinks himself responsible, illogical as that is. He knows, of course. Bridei is too clever, too astute to have let this obvious truth evade him for so long, careful as I and his other tutors have been not to become specific on the subject of his own parentage and what that could mean.”

  “You should have discussed it with him long ago,” said Talorgen. “Or allowed me to do so. Bridei could then have begun to prepare himself for what now seems alarmingly imminent. We don’t have long. The boy must be presented to Drust within days.”

  “Tomorrow night, in fact,” said Aniel. “A celebratory supper; the king wishes to congratulate you, friend, and those of your warriors who have accompanied you here to court. Already he hears tales of the young man whose bold ingenuity saw the Mage Stone snatched from the enemy’s grasp. He’s eager to meet the lad; the story put life back in his eyes.”

  “Then Broichan must indeed speak to Bridei without delay.” Talorgen drummed his fingers on the table, frowning. “The king knows the boy’s origins; he recognizes this is a potential claimant. We need Bridei to have his wits about him. And his eyes open; if murder can be committed at my own table in Raven’s Well, then it can surely follow us right into the security of Caer Pridne. Breth and Garth must be vigilant.”

  “But not too obvious.” Fola had been silent up till now. “I believe we need something more here; not merely the capacity to guard our candidate from a knife in the back before we get so much as a chance to put him forward, but the ability to nip that threat in the bud. By my count, there are at least seven men who could be proposed for kingship when the time comes. I’ll wager there’s no more than one among them with so little sense of his own worth that he must stoop to assassination attempts. Talorgen has failed completely in his efforts to uncover the assailant’s identity, let alone the name of the man who hired him. What’s to stop this fellow trying his hand day and night from now until spring, or however long Drust holds on? Bridei needs the bodyguards, nobody could deny that. He also needs special protection. An investigator with particular talents. A man who is not squeamish; who can seek out the truth, and who will use his own knife without hesitation, should it come to that.”

  Aniel gave a wintry smile. “You’re utterly wasted at Banmerren, Fola,” he said.

  “There is such a man, of course,” Broichan said. “Drust would have to agree to his release for this purpose. Were I to ask such a favor of the king, I would need to tell him the truth.”

  Aniel raised his brows. “Do not you always tell your king the truth?” he asked in mock surprise.

  From a corner, Uist gave an explosive bark of laughter. The others started; they had almost forgotten the wild druid’s presence among them. “There is a particular kind of truth reserved for kings,” Uist said, peering at them from the shadows with his bright, changeable eyes. “It consists of whatever their advisers think they should know. My belief is, you’ll have no need to do any telling at all. One look at this boy and Drust will recognize what’s plain in the lad’s bearing, his eye, his speech; what’s manifest in the way men respect him. He’s a king in the making; the only choice for Fortriu. After that, Drust will lend you as many dangerous men with knives as you want.”

  “We only need one,” Broichan said. “A particular one.”

  “It must be handled carefully,” said Talorgen. “You know what occurred when they last happened upon one another, Bridei and the man we speak of.”

  “They are men. They will deal with it. As for Drust and this feast you mention, we must have a word in the king’s ear, I think. We don’t want every person at court gossiping about Bridei and taking wagers on his chances. Why do you think I’ve kept him out of the public eye for so long? That’s his advantage; the lack of foolish distractions has allowed him to become strong in the love of the gods and pure of courage and purpose.”

  “The world he must live in is this one,” Aniel said. “The world of power plays, of machinations, of lies and half-truths, of implications and uncertainties. A world of shadows. The moment you tell him formally, he must step into that realm and still remain strong.”

  “He will be strong enough,” Broichan said. “Since first he came to me at Pitnochie, every moment of his life has been bent toward this end. The raw material was good; fourteen years of rigorous preparation have made it perfect. He will not fail us.”

  Fola gave a little cough; the four men turned as one to look at her where she sat, tranquil and still in her soft gray robes.

  “You wish to express a reservation?” Broichan’s voice held a slight edge now.

  “To make a comment, merely. It is a heavy weight of expectation to lie on such young shoulders. I, too, hold high hopes for Bridei. It seems to me he walks with the breath of the gods at his back. I remind you simply that we should not forget the cost of this in our haste to congratulate ourselves.”

  “Cost?” echoed Broichan. “What do you mean?”

  “That perhaps this might not have been his choice, had choice been open to him. That the life of a king is anything but easy. It is a lonely path, as Uist once told us; a path of impossible choices, of constant pressure. Bridei will accept it; there is no doubt in my mind that the gods whisper in his ear. We should not expect that this will fill him with gladness.”

  “Give me your honest opinion, Broichan,” Talorgen said. “Yours too, Aniel. You’ve both been close to the king in recent times; you’ve had a good opportunity to assess the situation. To put it bluntly, how long does he have? They’re speaking of Gateway, more than a full season ahead. Gods willing, Drust will be with us to enact that dark ritual once more; it will indeed seem strange when we see another man kneel by the Well of Shades. Now tell me. Will Drust survive another winter?”

  Aniel glanced at Broichan; Broichan gazed steadily back, dark eyes unreadable.

  “It would be almost a mercy” Aniel said quietly, “if he did not. To hear him straining for breath in the cold winter air is to hear purest pain made sound. If Bone Mother is merciful she will gather him to her breast by solstice time.”

  “I see,” Talorgen said. “Then we must busy ourselves, my friends. When birds of prey sense a weakening of their quarry, they ready themselves to swoop, talons extended. We must protect both the old king and the new. We must see the mantle passed on, in spirit at least; the flame kept alight through times of darkness.”

  “Very poetic,” Uist observed, “if somewhat muddled. Fola, I will walk back with you to Banmerren. It’s a long path for a woman on her own. Not that I constitute much of a protector; still, one look at me and folk tend to run off quite quickly lest I take it into my head to transform them into geese or swine. Once I return you safely to your women’s fortress, I’m thinking of wandering off in the direction of Circinn. We need a little intelligence from those parts. If what you say is true, and the gods do indeed intend to take Drust from us in the space of a season or two, I doubt very much that his namesake in the south will allow the succession to go our way unchallenged. With luck a wandering druid who seems somewhat addled in his wits can pass unsuspected. I’ll report back in due course.”

  “Be careful,” Aniel warned. “You may believe the robe of your calling protects you, but they’ve no love for the old faith in the lands of Drust the Boar. No love and no respect. You’d best visit only the more isolated settlements; stay well away from his court. The king of Circinn may treat you with some civility, but his advisers are weasels, ruthless and cunning.”

  “Come, Fola,” Uist said, ignoring the warning. “A walk by the sea will do our old bones good. Let us leave these devious men to their own devices and enjoy the song of
the waves and the gulls awhile. Unless you are too dignified to be seen in the company of a crazy old man like me?”

  “I can bear it, I think,” said Fola, rising to her feet. “Broichan, you haven’t asked after your other foster child.”

  Broichan stared at her blankly; it was clear she had achieved the unlikely feat of catching him off guard. “You mean Tuala,” he said after a moment. “How is she?” The tone was devoid of inflection.

  “Doing very well. She’s cooperative, demonstrates remarkable skill and applies herself diligently”

  “I’m pleased to hear it.” Broichan spoke as if this bored him; it was plain that he responded at all only out of basic courtesy, and because others were present.

  “She’s also deeply unhappy, profoundly lonely, and desperately homesick.”

  There was a pause.

  “Not uncommon, I suppose, in your new arrivals,” Broichan said. “I’m sure you deal with it as capably as you do with everything else. Tuala had the opportunity of a good marriage. Very foolishly, she chose to let that go. Considering what she is, she should be on her knees thanking you for your kindness.”

  “Marriage,” Fola mused. “She would have been—what—twelve, thirteen at the time?”

  There was an undercurrent in the chamber now; Aniel and Talorgen, gathering cloaks in readiness to depart, were making pretense that this was of no interest to them. Uist listened unabashed, eyes bright and curious as a raven’s.

  “Old enough,” Broichan said. “Girls are commonly wed at such an age, are they not? Why are we talking about this, Fola? We have an agreement. The girl’s happiness, or lack of it, was never a part of that. This is unimportant. Irrelevant. And I must go; if I linger here my absence may be noted.” He swept past her, dark robe flying out behind him, pushed open the oak door and was gone.

  “Hmm,” Aniel said. “You have an art possessed by no one else in all of Fortriu, Fola. The only times I ever see that man let his control slip, it’s in your presence. Who is this girl? Broichan never mentioned a second foster child. Is this of any import, or do you speak merely to vex him?”

  “You heard what he said. He is the master of this plan and, in his mind, the girl is of no consequence at all. Are you ready, Uist? Come then, let us slip out the back way; with your abilities and mine, I expect we may go entirely unnoticed. Farewell, Aniel, Talorgen. I will not return here until Gateway. Send a message if there’s an urgent need for me before that time. Otherwise, I expect I will occupy myself well enough with my unimportant students.”

  “I HAVE A misgiving,” Aniel said to the chieftain of Raven’s Well as they strolled along the upper wall-walk at Caer Pridne, stopping here and there to gaze northward over the sea as if they had merely taken it into their heads to go out for some fresh air. “I want you to tell me if you share it.”

  Talorgen waited, eyes fixed on the horizon beyond which lay the Light Isles, home to puffins, seals, and a king whose kinsmen might well have a claim to Fortriu themselves, should they be so bold as to declare it. There were plenty of sons of the royal blood to choose from: almost too many, this time. There was only one on whom the gods smiled.

  “It concerns this poisoning. A man died in your own hall. But for a lucky chance, it would have been Bridei. The way you tell it, the only folk there present were your own, Ged’s, Morleo’s—men we trust, men their chieftains have vouched for personally. Your own household, all carefully checked. My bodyguards. A handful of Broichan’s fellows, who have proven loyal since Bridei was not much more than an infant. Nobody could have breached your security; that’s what you told me, and I’ve no cause to disbelieve you. So, this attack was carried out by one or more of our own; within the ranks of our trusted men, there is a traitor.”

  “My own thoughts exactly.”

  “Now that Bridei has distinguished himself on the field of battle, we must expect that there will be gossip and conjecture. Folk know that he is Maelchon’s son. It is a long time since Anfreda wed the king of Gwynedd and rode off to make her new life far away from Fortriu. But there will be those who remember; before long, everyone at court will realize Bridei has a right to stand as a candidate for kingship.”

  “You are saying this attempt on his life will almost certainly be followed by another?”

  “I think it very likely,” Talorgen said, “and so, I imagine, does Broichan. We walk a narrow path, my friend. On the one hand, this young man must be seen to shine. He must work to impress and convince the powerful men at Caer Pridne that he is the best candidate for Fortriu. On the other, the more his strengths become apparent, the harder our enemies will be working to remove him from contention. We must be vigilant.”

  “You still have no idea who perpetrated this attack that claimed Donal’s life?”

  “None at all. I’ve interrogated every man who was present, checked the arrangements five times over, had a herbalist try to identify the substance that was used, all to no avail. One further thing we know about our adversary: he’s clever.”

  “Talorgen?” The king’s councillor spoke now in a whisper.

  “Mm?”

  “I do not wish to believe it; I shrink from the possibility. But I will ask you. Is it possible that, even within our very small circle, one is not what he seems? After so long, can I have been mistaken in trusting those I judged to be entirely true to our cause?”

  Talorgen was silent for a little. “That would be a risky game indeed,” he said, jaw tight. “Such a traitor, uncovered, would do well to shake in his boots. There are powers among us, the five of us, that could bring the strongest man down. Who would choose to make an enemy of Broichan? I will not entertain this notion, friend. We must pray; we must entreat the Flamekeeper to protect the lad for long enough.”

  “And we must enlist what earthly help is available to back him up. Engaging the services of the king’s assassin should be a good start.”

  “THERE’S A CHILD,” Fola said to her old friend Uist. They were traversing the flat, pale beach that curved around the bay between the fortress promontory of Caer Pridne and the wooded headland of Banmerren. The tide was low; Uist had taken off his sandals and was digging bare feet with pleasure into the fine wet sand. Beside them, the druid’s white mare walked quietly, making her own way without need for halter or bridle. Fola bent to pick up a shell; its delicate rosy exterior had broken to reveal chamber on chamber in perfect spiral. A tiny, mysterious creature of the deep had once made its secret lodging here. “Not a child, a young woman. Coming up to fourteen years old, by my count. She concerns me.”

  “This is the girl you mentioned, who made our friend’s eyes go distant and his mouth tighten? I do recall the old scholar, Wid, mentioning a second student; he was deliberately vague about the matter. Who is she?”

  “I suppose it is no longer a secret. She’s a child of the Good Folk; Broichan has had her in his house from infancy, since Bridei was very young. They grew up together.”

  Uist gave a low whistle. He halted in his tracks, looking down as his feet sank into the sand, water welling up around them to soak the hem of his ragged white robe. “Broichan’s kept that very quiet,” he said.

  “I think he hoped it would just go away.”

  “Hasn’t it? Hasn’t she? I gather you have the girl now; that removes her conveniently both from Pitnochie and from Caer Pridne. I’m assuming the problem was an attachment between these two children, one of whom was deemed unsuitable as a friend for the other? Why did Broichan keep her at all? A man with his foresight must have realized how dangerous that choice was.”

  “He kept her because he respects the gods,” Fola said. “He must always put their will before his own, even though his commitment to the plan consumes his whole life. And he kept her because Bridei wanted it thus. Broichan loves the boy like a son. Love . . . it complicates our games, old friend, it insinuates itself, disrupting the most carefully laid plans and unmanning the most disciplined heart. I’d like you to meet this girl and give me your opin
ion, not as a man, but as a servant of the Shining One. I never thought I would say this, but I’m beginning to wonder if our council is in danger of losing its way, thanks to Broichan’s fierce dedication to our cause. I don’t want to believe his zeal has made him blind to the goddess’s will. This child—this young woman is desperate to go home to Pitnochie, even though she realizes she is no longer welcome there. Something calls her, something bigger than herself. I see what is in her heart and it looks to me disturbingly like truth. She turns her strange eyes on me and I see the Shining One looking out.”

  “You intrigue me,” Uist said. “And you alarm me. As I am coming to visit Banmerren anyway, I will engage this young person in conversation, I think. It will be a welcome diversion from my major purpose in your establishment. How is the other girl progressing?”

  Fola’s expression darkened. “The preparation has been thorough; Morna will be ready by Gateway. It is difficult, as always; difficult for all of us.”

  “There are preparations you can use,” Uist said gravely. “I suppose you know them. Herbs that can deepen her trance. Infusions that will purify the body and enable her to detach herself more effectively from this world and enter the other more easily.”

  “We know of some; we try to delay their use until closer to the time of the ritual. It depends on each girl. Some are strong in themselves and will go ahead without the need for such aids. Some hear the voice of the gods and walk the path willingly. To alter the mind or the body with herbs and potions too early may lessen the effectiveness of such aids at the end; that would be cruel indeed. I have not yet seen a candidate who took that final step without at least some fear.”