Odha had challenged Kethra on the subject earlier. “Why can’t we go, too? We’re here to learn, after all. And we want to see Caer Pridne, the bull stones and the king’s court and everything.”
Kethra’s face had changed; every part of it had seemed to tighten. “That is beyond foolishness, Odha. You should kneel to the Shining One and thank her from the bottom of your heart that you need not be there tonight. Your time will come. That’s if we don’t send you home for sheer stupidity before you get anywhere near earning the green robe.”
“But—”
“Not another word.”
Now they gathered before the hearth. Nobody said a thing. They listened to the rain, avoided one another’s eyes and thought their own thoughts. Tuala had wanted to spend the night of Gateway in her tower alone, holding Bridei safely with her mind as he witnessed the ritual, willing him strong in spirit and steadfast of purpose in this darkest of tests. But Kethra had made her come into the house. It was cold in the tower and the roof leaked. Tuala must join the others; they would keep vigil all together.
The girls were familiar with Gateway itself, of course. Every household in Fortriu, every settlement, every community observed it. Bone Mother was honored, lights quenched, the spirits of the departed welcomed; chill, eddying drafts signaled the spiral dance of these shades among the living, before, behind, around, between, touching a cheek or hand with icy fingers, a trembling mouth with frosty lips. Broichan had always sacrificed a creature to the god, generally an autumn lamb or a chicken. The first time she was allowed to stay up for the rite, Bridei had told Tuala to put her fingers in her ears and shut her eyes when they came to that part, but she had peeked, and then wished she hadn’t. After the offering came prayers, a sharing of the ritual foods and the lighting of a single candle: hope restored, the way forward still miraculously illuminated even in a time of darkness and death. Tuala understood that; she had even as a little child. The oak tree slept; no sign of green, no hint of life save in the deep, slow tales at its heart, the strange and wondrous changing of withered leaf to rich soil, nurturing its hidden growth. Thus did men and women rest as the pathway ahead formed itself anew somewhere in the secret maze of their dreams.
That was Gateway at Pitnochie, at Raven’s Well, and in every part of the land of Fortriu. It was different at Caer Pridne. The promontory on which the king’s fortress was built housed a deep place in the earth, a dark cleft sacred to the most ancient of gods, him whose name could not be spoken, so feared was he among the Priteni. Over countless ages, the kings of Fortriu had made their way to the Well of Shades at Gateway to enact the particular ritual this deity demanded. It was necessary; history had proven this most cruelly. Wid and Erip had spoken of a certain monarch who could not bring himself to see it through; under his command the well had been sealed off, the pathway closed. All seemed unchanged at first. Then came the seasons of darkness: three years without a summer. A haze masked the sky day in, day out; the Flamekeeper shrank to no more than a slight paling, giving scant light and less warmth. The Shining One retreated behind her veil and would not look down upon this disobedient land. Crops failed before they rose a handspan from the earth; hunger and sickness ravaged Fortriu. Folk perished in their thousands and the survivors became half crazed, starving for both food and light. They prostrated themselves in their despair, begging the gods to be merciful to them. In the fourth year of darkness, Bone Mother bore the king himself beyond the veil and the chieftains of Fortriu chose a new monarch. That Gateway, the men of Caer Pridne gathered once more by the Well of Shades and the ceremony unfolded in its ancient form. The summers returned. It took the Priteni a long time to recover from the seasons of darkness; how can a man encompass the terror of living in perpetual shadow? This had taken place within the memory of men still living. In the south, beyond the Roman wall, it was said the scourge had lasted even longer, for the dark season had been followed by plagues, and the few who survived the years of famine and sickness had neither strength nor will remaining to begin the long task of turning wasteland back to fertile farm and healthy pasture.
Tuala knew the general form of the observance would have much in common with the version Broichan had performed at home. But it would be different: the king’s ritual was attended only by men, and the exact manner of it was secret. The wise women of Banmerren did not go down to the well. They had a certain duty to perform, and when that was done they kept vigil on the shore below the fortress until sunrise. That would be especially hard tonight; the Shining One had shrouded her brightness, perhaps in shame at what must be done to placate the oldest of gods. The women would be cold and wet when they came home. And sad. How could they not be sad?
Tuala stared into the fire. She wondered if the others really didn’t know what would happen tonight, or if they were just pretending because the truth was too hard to accept. Between them, Erip and Wid had given sufficient hints over the years. What Tuala did not know, she could guess. That pale-faced, strange-eyed girl, Morna, had walked out behind Fola, hooded and caped in gray as if she were already a priestess fully fledged; impossible, Morna was much too young and had been at Banmerren only a year or so. Morna had walked oddly today, as if in her mind she were not making her way along a muddy track under threatening skies, but treading some other path entirely, one shared only with gods and spirits.
The night wore on; the fire struggled to remain alight. None of the girls asked to be excused, to retire to the comfort of her bed. Tonight there were too many dark corners in the sleeping quarters, too many odd-shaped shadows. But, one by one, the young women leaned against walls or laid their heads down on tables or stretched out on benches and were claimed by sleep. When the time for the ritual drew close, only Kethra and Tuala knew it, seated as they were one on either side of the hearth.
“Tuala?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve watched you scrying; I’ve seen the power of the images you can summon. Why aren’t you using this skill anymore? I had thought, in excusing you from my class, to see you blossom on your own. I had hoped Fola and I might teach you how to harness your talent to best use. But I haven’t seen you with a scrying bowl since that first time.”
“I think it might be . . . dangerous. Often, what I see disturbs me.”
“The eye of the spirit does not open so the seer can be comforted, but so she can learn,” Kethra said. “One expects to be disturbed; one accepts a draining of body and spirit after such visions. To shy away from using this talent, especially when you are so strong in it, seems disobedient; a flouting of the goddess’s will. And you are here in Banmerren as her servant. Does not a good daughter of Fortriu obey the Shining One in all things?”
Tuala said nothing.
“Tell me.” Kethra leaned forward, elbows on knees; the firelight showed her questioning eyes, the little lines around her mouth, the tightly disciplined hair. “Can you summon whatever you wish to find in the water? Can you control your gift to that extent? If you desired it, could you look now and see what unfolds in the dark, secret place at Caer Pridne?”
Suddenly Tuala was extremely cold; it was as if she stood on the brink of the Well of Shades, teetering above a square of inky water. “Sometimes I can command it,” she whispered. “Sometimes the goddess sends other images. I think, if I looked tonight, that is what would see. The king. The well. But it is forbidden for women to attend that ritual.”
“We would not be attending,” said Kethra softly. “Merely being granted a reflection that somewhat resembled the reality. Are you able to draw another into your vision? To share it?”
“I don’t know” Tuala was shivering. Kethra’s suggestion had alarmed her; still more alarming was the realization that this was exactly what she herself wanted to do, needed to do, so she could share the dark time with Bridei, step by step, breath by breath.
“If we linked hands,” Kethra said, “and both of us turned our will on this, perhaps the goddess would grant us the selfsame vision. You possess a
strong natural talent. I am practiced in this craft and have tools to keep it in check. Together we might do well.”
Tuala stared at her. Kethra was a wise woman. She must know this was forbidden. It was surely little different from attending the secret ritual themselves, something no woman might do. To spy on this rite was to anger the gods; to risk a terrible retribution. Yet she wanted to do it. Her desire for it grew stronger the more she thought about it. Bridei was there. Do this, and she could see him now, right away. She could hold him safe in her thoughts as he endured what must unfold. “Fola wouldn’t approve,” she said.
“Fola would have come to this in time.” Kethra’s voice, held quiet not to wake her slumbering students, nonetheless possessed complete confidence. “Your abilities fascinate her. She brought you here, I suspect, less for what we could teach you than for what skills you could impart to us. Believe me, if Fola were not required to spend tonight shivering on the seashore, she would be here beside us looking into the bowl. Will you do it? It must be almost time.”
Tuala said nothing, simply rose when Kethra did and went to fetch a ewer of water while the tutor readied the bronze bowl. The water swirled and settled. She took Kethra’s hands across the table so they stood face to face with the scrying bowl between them, and together they bowed their heads over the surface. The fire was almost dead, the chamber near dark. One candle burned; the faces of the sleeping girls were pale ovals in the shadows. Tuala felt her heart slow, her breathing grow quiet. Then the goddess claimed her and drew her down into the darkness.
A procession; the wise women approaching Caer Pridne, the rain now retreated, Fola with her silvery hair loose down her back. Another woman walking beside her. No, not a woman, a girl, an ashen-faced, empty-eyed girl with brown curls to her waist and a pristine gown of whitest linen beneath the gray cloak of a wise woman. Morna: the one who had suddenly disappeared from classes to be glimpsed again only as a shadow, there then gone, the one whose eyes seemed to see nothing but dreams. On her other side was Luthana, expert in herb lore, she of the long days spent digging and pruning and slaving over steaming kettles. They came up to the iron gates of Caer Pridne; Tuala could see the bull stones on either side of the path, formidable slabs on which the creature’s image showed dimly in the light from torches. Perhaps that man, Garvan, had carved these things of beauty, Garvan, whom she had failed to surprise with a story of desire and self-control. Garvan, whose wife she would be now if she had not chosen the path of the Shining One.
They waited in silence, Morna standing still and pale between the two older women and the priestesses of Banmerren behind them in pairs, hoods back, hands crossed on their breasts. Fola and Luthana did not adopt this pose; each grasped one of Morna’s frail wrists, as if the girl might drift away if not thus anchored. Morna was staring straight in front of her through the gates. Just thus, Tuala thought, would a blind woman gaze, not knowing if what lay before her were beautiful or piteous, thing of wonder or object of terror. Kethra’s grip tightened on Tuala’s hands. Tuala was accustomed to seeking her visions alone; to do so in any company save for Bridei’s had always seemed utterly wrong. When the Good Folk had looked over her shoulder into the Dark Mirror she had felt anger and resentment. Tonight she welcomed the reassurance of Kethra’s presence, the warm reality of her touch.
In the water, time seemed to pass; the clouds swirled and roiled in the dark sky. Rain came, but the women left their hoods back, their heads bare. At length men appeared within the gates, a file of warriors, two and two, and at their head were three in robes of black: Broichan in the center, his dark hair in the many small plaits of the druidic calling, his eyes shadowy hollows in a face rendered skull-like by the uncertain light of veiled moon and guttering torches. On his right stood a spare, gray-haired man with tight lips and shrewd eyes. On Broichan’s left was a taller man, hard-eyed and grim in appearance. A pair of guards slid back the iron bolts and hauled the great gates open.
There was an exchange of words: Broichan spoke, Fola replied. A formal sequence of question and answer. With the ear of the spirit and her knowledge of ritual, Tuala sensed its meaning.
Why come you here?
To mend what is broken. To return what was taken. To pledge ourselves anew.
What do you offer?
Purity. Obedience. Sacrifice. The relinquishment of self in the essence of the god.
Is this a perfect offering?
It is perfect. Fola bowed her head.
It is whole. Luthana spoke, then released Morna’s hand and moved away, walking to the back of the line. In turn, each of the women of Banmerren stepped forward and made her statement to the druid; to the dark god whose representative Broichan must be tonight.
It is pure.
It is full of light.
It is complete.
It is willing.
It is fresh with youth.
It is obedient.
It is wise.
Each woman spoke and retreated, until only Morna stood there, silent, immobile, with Fola small and straight-backed by her side. Then Fola moved to slip the cape from the girl’s narrow shoulders, and Morna stood before the men in her gown of purest white, a slight, fragile figure in the torchlight. For all the rain and the bite of the winter cold, she remained utterly still.
It is perfect, Fola said again, and moved to stand before Morna. Fola was a little woman; she had to stand on tiptoe to bring the girl’s face down to hers. The wise woman kissed Morna on the brow, a formal farewell, then released her and stepped away. Morna’s features remained impassive; she was walking in a different world.
It is good, Broichan said and, moving forward, he touched the girl on the shoulder. There was no flicker in her eyes, no recognition of change. Then Morna walked in through the gates of Caer Pridne, following in the druid’s footsteps, and the gates closed behind her, leaving Fola and her wise women outside.
Tuala drew a shaking breath; felt, rather than saw, Kethra do the same. The water rippled and was once more still.
The wise women were by the shore, their cloaks lifted by the rising wind to swirl around them, giving their forms the look of birds or bats or creatures from some hidden part of the forest, manifestations of Black Crow that were neither quite one thing nor another. Fola was leading them into a circle. No ritual; no greetings, prayers, or elemental weavings. They stood in silence, not touching, like standing stones on a shadowy plain; like a grove of small trees in a secret glen. The wind blew stinging sand around them; it tangled their long hair, gray, white, russet, fair; it tugged at their clothing and chilled their bodies. Salt spray followed the sand; rain fell on them, mingling with their tears. Even Fola was weeping, Tuala could see it. They did not move. They would keep vigil thus until morning.
The image shifted, dissipated; the water in the scrying bowl grew dark and remained thus for some time. The only point of light was the candle’s reflection, struggling in the little drafts that eddied through the chamber. Faintly, the sound of sleeping girls’ steady, soft breathing could be heard, a comforting thing.
A pale glimmer on the water: Morna’s white dress, her whiter face. The trance still held, whatever had caused it, prayer, fasting, herbs, long solitude, hard preparation. A procession wound its way around Caer Pridne, inside the king’s fortress, no mere line of warriors now but a grander assembly, although there were few torches. This god loved darkness; these men bore only sufficient light to keep their steps on the path. Morna walked among them like a wraith, shadowed by the dark form of the king’s druid. They trod a spiral path, following the wall-walks and climbing the steep steps from level to level. When they reached an upper court, the warriors formed a great circle around the space, with the white-robed girl and the druid in the center. A deep horn sounded; Tuala could not tell if its note was only in her mind, or if it was borne on the harsh wind all the way around the bay from the king’s fortress to the sheltered house of Banmerren. It was a call like that of a huge wounded animal crying in distress.
Doors opened; a party of men emerged from inside the fortress. All wore dark clothes; all bore somber faces. One could be singled out immediately: the king, no doubt, although he had neither silver circlet nor golden torc, jewels nor other finery, but the same dark robe that shrouded his fellows. His identity was in his face, a gaunt, gray-hued face, the eyes bright with pain, the mouth stern with discipline, the features blazing authority through a mask of death. Drust’s will was formidable. He stared across the courtyard at the waiting Broichan and the druid sank to his knees. Every man present followed; every head bowed in acknowledgment. It was a moment of utter courage; a demonstration of true kingship.
For a time, then, the water showed only glimpses. A snatch of Fola, Derila, Luthana, grimly still, standing strong under the scourging of the wind and the gnawing chill of the night. Men walking again, along the hilltop and down a little secret way. The warriors standing back, the torches slotted into holders. Only a few going on as the path grew narrow and deep, descending into the heart of the hill. Tuala could see their faces, illuminated each in its turn as they walked past the torch that stood at the head of an impossibly steep flight of steps plunging down into the very bowels of the earth. There was the king, stoic and strong-willed, with pain written stark across his countenance. His councillors followed. Then came Broichan, his face a mask, and Morna with her white gown and unseeing eyes. Perhaps she knew nothing, comprehended nothing; perhaps she knew it all, understood and accepted, traveling now through a realm in which the Shining One saluted her goodness and Bone Mother held out her arms in promise of peace. It was to be hoped, wished, prayed that this was so.
The Dark Mirror Page 47