“Ah, well, I will spend some time with your chosen one,” Uist said. “I will give her what counsel I can. But it’s the other girl who really intrigues me. I’ve never met a child of the Good Folk in the flesh. Is she of unearthly beauty, like the women in the tales?”
Fola grinned. “You’re too old to be asking such a question,” she said. “Tuala is herself. No more need be said.”
IT HAD BEEN Bridei’s intention to confront his foster father as soon as he reached Caer Pridne and to demand a full explanation of a number of matters: Donal’s death, Tuala’s betrayal of their childhood friendship, Broichan’s own choice to wait so long, withholding the truth about his plans until far past the time when Bridei had recognized their nature. Then there was the need to be guarded and protected like a vulnerable child even now, when he bore his warrior marks. Staying close to him had killed Donal. Who would be next, Breth of the strong shoulders and keen eye? Garth with his deceptively sweet smile and powerful sword arm? It was time Broichan began to treat Bridei like the man he was, and to trust him with the truth.
In the event the king’s druid pre-empted his foster son’s demands. They met in Broichan’s own quarters within the fortress walls, where Bridei, too, would be lodged with his two bodyguards while he remained at court. He was weary after the ride up from Pitnochie; he had seen Snowfire settled in the king’s stables, snatched a bite to eat with his guards, then sought out his foster father. Breth and Garth were unpacking their gear in the sleeping chamber. Bridei found Broichan in a customary pose, standing before a cold hearth, apparently deep in thought. The chamber had been set out much like the druid’s private quarters at Pitnochie; the tools of his trade lay on shelves or hung from rafters, his scrolls and writing materials were neatly stowed. A shelf at the far end with a folded blanket laid across it appeared to be Broichan’s own somewhat unforgiving sleeping arrangement. Bridei found himself hoping there would be straw mattresses, at least, in the other chamber; his nights had been much troubled by dreams, and the headache never quite went away now.
“My lord?”
“Bridei. Welcome home, son.”
It became possible, then, to stride forward and offer a quick, firm embrace; to feel how thin his foster father had become under the concealment of the black robe. Bridei stepped back, observing new lines on the druid’s face, new threads of gray in the dark plaited hair. “You are well, I trust?”
“Well enough, Bridei. I find life at court pleases me less than it once did. I would not speak thus before King Drust, of course. He needs me; I serve him. The gods require no less. You’re looking tired. There have been losses; I am sorry. Talorgen told me the messenger I sent never reached you with the news about Erip. I also . . . never mind that. The old man passed peacefully; it was a good death in the end. He was surrounded by friends.”
“Donal did not die peacefully. He perished in my place. I put the cup in his hand myself.” By effort of will, Bridei kept his voice from shaking.
“Sit down, son. We have some talking to do. You know this is not the first attempt on your life, or on mine. A new enemy now, I think, but the motive is the same. You’ve no need to ask me why someone’s trying to remove you, I imagine.”
Bridei was silent.
“Tell me.”
“Is it not for you to tell me, my lord?”
Broichan sighed and came to seat himself opposite Bridei, the work table between them. “I think we can dispense with ‘my lord’ now that we are two men together,” he said quietly. “Call me by my name, if you will. Now tell me. You are a hero, they say: the man who devised and executed the bold and ingenious plan to snatch the Mage Stone from under the enemy’s nose. Talorgen also tells me you acquitted yourself extremely well in the battle and behaved with coolness and maturity in the aftermath. I suspect, from his tone, that he wishes you were his own son. So, you do better than anyone would have expected, you win allies and friends, you offend nobody. Your tale sweeps up the Glen before you, a legend in the making. The Flamekeeper smiles on you. And still someone tries to kill you. Why?”
“You know why. Because I am my mother’s son.”
“Ah!” Broichan leaned back, hands behind his head. “How long since you worked this out for yourself?”
“A long time since I first suspected. Wid and Erip avoided it carefully in all those long lessons in genealogy. The way they skirted around the question of my own ancestry alerted me to its possible significance. I could not remember her name; to a small child his mother is simply that, Mother. In the end I asked Ferada, and learned that my mother is indeed related to the king through the female line. Others have a closer relationship, that of direct cousins. Carnach of Thorn Bend is one such, the lady Dreseida another. I hope Drust the Bull is not lost to us too soon. But if that should occur, this means I am one of those who could be put forward as a claimant for kingship. I imagine it is for this that I have been prepared.”
“Why didn’t you challenge me sooner with this, Bridei?”
“If I’d been wrong, to suggest it would have been arrogant in the extreme. Presumptuous. I have no particular qualities that make me an obvious claimant.”
Broichan smiled. “Save that you are both Maelchon’s son and a son of the royal blood of the Priteni,” he said. “Combine that with the preparation we have given you and the result is a man every bit a king in the making. Your mother would be proud of you.”
Something in his tone caught Bridei’s attention. “You knew her, didn’t you?” he asked. “My mother?”
“Oh, yes.”
He had not mistaken it, that softening of the voice, that little change in the impenetrable dark eyes. “Tell me. I have no memory of her at all.”
“Anfreda was—exceptional. Wise, merry, a slip of a thing with hair glossy as a ripe chestnut and a smile to stop a man’s heart. She did, indeed, break many hearts when she chose to wed Maelchon and make her life away from Fortriu. He was a sound man, but driven; it seemed to me . . . never mind that. There is much of your mother in you, Bridei. Possibly of Maelchon as well; he was a leader.”
Bridei would not ask, Was your heart one of those she broke when she went away? Broichan was surely above such human weakness. “It will be soon, won’t it?” he asked quietly. “They say the king is quite sick; that he may not last the winter.”
“Indeed. We’ve a great deal to do and little time to achieve it. You’ll meet Drust tomorrow; your claim cannot be made until he is gone and the formal process begins, but the candidates will begin to show their hands from now on. We expect a delegation from Circinn, and that is probably our most serious threat. The others, we’ll work on. Some can be bought with silver or incentives; some can be persuaded by other means to throw their lot in with yours rather than become rival claimants. Apart from you, there are two other possibilities from the house of Fortrenn, the more likely of whom is Carnach. It’s far better if the north puts up only one strong candidate. If the chieftains of Fortriu are divided amongst themselves, there’s no hope of defeating Drust the Boar, who is likely to have the support of all the voting chieftains of the southern regions.”
“What of the Light Isles?”
“They have two or three men of the blood, but I suspect the Folk will stay out of the contest this time. We have a royal hostage here; they’ll have her safety in mind. Drust showed excellent foresight in retaining the girl when she accompanied her kinsmen here on a visit a few years ago. You’ll meet her; she’s back at court.”
“Do you believe this assassin was in the employ of Circinn? That Drust the Boar seeks to extend his reach over both Circinn and Fortriu?”
Broichan shook his head. “The latter, most certainly; no king worth his salt would pass up the opportunity, and the Boar is surrounded by ambitious advisers. But assassination? I think not. He has a strong enough claim without resorting to that, and he does not know you. I doubt that he would see you as a serious rival. Yet.”
“Then who—?”
“We do
n’t know. That means you must comply with my wishes where your personal freedom is concerned, Bridei. I know you don’t like it; that even Donal’s presence sometimes irked you, friend as he was. You must have Breth or Garth close by at all times. You must use a taster. And there’ll be another man as well. I’ve summoned him to meet you; he’ll be here shortly.”
“I don’t need another bodyguard.”
“It is agreed among those with your best interests at heart that you do.”
Bridei opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it. There was a pressing question that he must ask now, before this other guard, whoever he was, came to disturb their privacy “Tuala was gone when I reached Pitnochie,” he said, finding it difficult suddenly to meet Broichan’s eye for fear of what he might read there. “They told me she had gone to the house of the wise women at Banmerren. Gone away to become a servant of the Shining One.”
Broichan folded his long hands before him. “That is correct,” he said. “She was appropriately supplied and safely escorted.”
“Once before you sent her away,” Bridei said, working to keep his voice under control. “Once before you didn’t want her at Pitnochie because she’d be an embarrassment to you. Did you send her away this time? Did you make her go?”
Broichan regarded him in silence, pale features calm, dark eyes devoid of emotion. “No, Bridei,” he said eventually. “It was Tuala’s choice to go to Banmerren. Fola offered her a place; Tuala accepted the opportunity. The situation is highly suitable for her.”
Cold crept through Bridei’s body. In his foster father’s words was the unmistakable ring of truth. Tuala had done what he would never have believed possible. She had severed the bond between them as suddenly and completely as if she had died. “I see,” he said unevenly.
“It is a high calling to become a servant of the Shining One,” Broichan observed. “The old men were effusive in their praise of the child’s talents as a scholar. For all her difference, I expect she will be quite at home in Fola’s establishment.”
Home, thought Bridei. How could home be anywhere but Pitnochie? “I expect so,” he made himself say, and at that moment there was a little sound from the doorway. Broichan was looking past him to someone who stood there. Bridei rose to his feet, turned, froze for an instant. Then Donal’s training asserted itself. Seizing his knife, he hurled himself across the chamber. In the moment it took, a dagger appeared in the other man’s hand and a little smile on his face, a face Bridei had seen before and had not forgotten.
“Stop!”
Bridei halted in his tracks, knife two handspans from the other’s raised blade. The fellow’s look of amusement turned to irritation, then alarm. Broichan did not often make use of magic; when he did employ it, one was reminded just why he had become the king’s druid, held in both fear and respect across both Fortriu and Circinn. All he had done was lift his own hand a little and point his finger, the one that bore a silver ring in the form of a snake, at the two of them. Bridei waited, unable to move save for the rapid beating of his heart. He glared at the other man, who was held equally immobile by the druid’s charm, and whose eyes stared back at him with inimical intensity.
“My apologies,” Broichan said, sounding not a bit sorry. “Before you set upon one another, I need a little time to explain. You’re early, Faolan. My foster son responds as a warrior must, seeing an enemy in a place where he does not belong. Bridei, contrary to appearances, this man is one of ours. Now I’m releasing this charm, and the two of you will put your weapons away and sit down while I explain this. Opposite sides of the table, and keep your mouths shut until I’m finished.”
He clicked his fingers; the two men could move again. It took all Bridei’s self-control not to leap forward in attack. “This man is a spy!” he protested. “He’s a Gael! I know it, I captured him myself! But . . .” He fell silent. The man called Faolan had sheathed his knife, walked calmly across, and seated himself at the table. “He’s supposed to be dead,” Bridei said, hearing how foolish it sounded and wondering if he’d been right in his first misgivings about that day at Raven’s Well. Perhaps the whole thing had been set up purely to allow him and Gartnait to achieve their little victory without any real risk. But no; one thing was clear enough. “He’s a Gael,” he said again. “I heard him speaking the tongue. Like a native. What is he doing here? I thought—”
“Didn’t you hear me, Bridei?”
“I’m sorry, my lord. Broichan.”
“Faolan is indeed a Gael by birth and upbringing. He is in King Drust’s employ and has been for several years. What happened between you at Raven’s Well was unfortunate. It must be forgotten, put behind you. Faolan works for us now He will shadow you, protect you, seek out your enemies where Breth and Garth cannot go. He has an ear at every door, a foot in every camp. With him by your side there’s a passable chance you will remain safe. If you do as he tells you.”
Bridei found himself glaring across at the Gael, who was now examining his fingernails with a supercilious expression. “Why was he in the woods with a man whom Talorgen later had tortured to death? Why were they trying to escape us and speaking in that language? Why was I told he was dead?”
“I’ve a passable grasp of the tongue of the Priteni, and am not lacking in my wits,” Faolan said, lifting his brows. “I think I might manage to speak for myself.”
“Then account for yourself!” Bridei demanded.
“I was returning from a mission; I had a man to bring back, a man with information. He believed we were gathering facts about Talorgen’s forces. It was my intention to lead him to a point where we would be taken. You happened to be on guard that day; it could have been anyone.”
“You mean you were working for Talorgen even then?”
“For Drust. Talorgen knows me.”
“I could have killed you!” Bridei was astounded, insulted, mortified.
“You overestimate your own skills if you believe that,” Faolan said, sounding more than a little bored. “You did draw me to the public eye rather more than suited either myself or Talorgen. That reduced my effectiveness in the region of Raven’s Well. Gabhran’s advisers believe me to be their creature, or did; that made travel across Dalriada and access to the councils of the Gaels possible. Unfortunately the more men who know my face, even our own men, the less my effectiveness as a spy. Hence Drust’s decision to bring me back to court to cool my heels awhile. I’ve you to thank for that, and for this.” He rolled up the sleeve of his tunic to reveal an ugly scar across his upper arm. “It’s as well I can still wield my weapons or you would have earned yourself a dangerous enemy.”
“Forgive me,” Bridei said politely, “but it seems to me I already have one.”
“I bear no grudges,” said Faolan. “As long as I’m regularly paid. But you’re right. I’m told you do have an enemy. That’s why I’m here.”
Bridei turned to the druid. “Why did Talorgen lie to me?” he asked. “Why did he let me believe this man was dead?”
“You must ask him that yourself,” Broichan said. “I imagine it suited him, and Faolan here, that as few people knew the truth as possible.”
“But that meant—” Bridei bit back his words.
“If you felt any guilt for it, you were a fool,” Faolan said bluntly. “Start sympathizing with your enemy and you’ve lost the battle before you begin to fight. It’s as well you hired me, my lord.”
“Yes,” Broichan said. “Your lack of scruples is as well known as your skills and your discretion. We need you. Bridei, you must accept this.”
“What’s he to do?”
“Faolan is his own man. One hires him on the understanding that he will carry out the required work according to his own rules. It’s been explained to him why you must be protected and the probable nature of those who seek to harm you. He will explain to you what is required.”
“So he’s to stay in these quarters? To follow me about everywhere, despite Garth and Breth doing a perfectly goo
d job? Despite the fact that I am no longer a little child who needs a watchdog to keep away the shadows?”
Broichan twisted the silver ring around on his finger. “Would you dismiss Donal as a mere watchdog?” he asked quietly.
Alarmingly, Bridei felt sudden tears well in his eyes; it seemed the little child was not so far below the surface, for all the warrior marks. “Donal was my friend.”
Neither Broichan nor the Gael responded. It must be plain to both of them, Bridei thought, that Faolan could never in a lifetime become anyone’s friend.
“I have skills,” Faolan said. “I can protect you. It’s not a requirement that we like each other.”
“Forgive me,” said Bridei, “but I wonder what credibility you can have here at court, a man of Dalriada in the very heartland of Fortriu. True, your appearance does not immediately suggest your origins, but folk must surely question why a man who goes armed as a warrior bears no battle counts on his face. And as soon as you open your mouth, the accent must give you away” He glanced at Broichan. “You say this man can go where Breth and Garth cannot; that he has a foot in every camp. How can that be so, when it must soon become plain that he is a Gael?”
Faolan gave a thin smile. “What?” he said in mocking tones. “The king of Fortriu trusts me and you will not? I’ve plied my trade for a long time, Bridei. I’m expert in all facets of it. One of those is the ability to make oneself invisible; to blend into any setting, be it here among the Priteni or in the halls of King Gabhran of Dalriada. In every place I have a different name, a different guise. Each is instantly forgettable. The accent varies; today, I saw no need to change it. As for Caer Pridne, the king has made it clear I am here under his protection, Gael or no. I’m known to his inner circle. If awkward visitors arrive at any time, I simply make sure they do not see me. Oh, and a small correction. I am not a man of Dalriada. I work for a fee. My allegiance lasts as long as the mission.”
The Dark Mirror Page 39