Other men came behind, a tall one with red hair, several more, Talorgen and his son among them. And Bridei; Bridei was there, clad in a long dark robe, his hair loose on his shoulders and a narrow green ribbon tied around his wrist. Tuala could look, then, at nothing else. She willed her thoughts to reach him, her love to encircle him. He had a headache; she recognized it in the set of the mouth, his hands reaching to brush the high banks as he passed down the sunken way, the line between his brows. He hadn’t been sleeping; purple shadows lay under his eyes, and he was thinner. He held himself straight and strong for all that, and did not let his mind wander, but watched the others: the king, the councillors, Broichan. Especially Broichan.
The water in the bowl was changing. As Tuala stared down, tiny crystals of ire began to form at ice edges, frosting the surface, and a chill arose that set her shivering and made her nose and ears ache. Yet the chamber still held the fire’s last warmth; the cat, Shade, dozed on the hearth, curled tight on himself; the girls slept peacefully, covered only by their cloaks. It was the vision that held the chill. The icy breath came straight from the secret place of the god: the Well of Shades.
They made their way down the steps, the path illuminated dimly by candles lit from that last torch. The fitful light barely revealed slick surfaces of stone, a vaulted roof. At the foot of the steps a chamber opened out, whose floor was not earth nor rock nor rushes, but sudden dark water. Cold; colder than the touch of frost on the hawthorn, colder than the sharp wind that shivers across the fells, colder than the kiss of a dead man’s lips. Around the rim of the well there was a ledge just broad enough for a man to stand on; one by one the king, the warriors, the councillors moved to take their places here, framing the water. At the far side, opposite the steps, stood the king and the druid, and between them Morna. Among the dark-clad men, the girl shone dimly in the candlelight, as if she were a lesser manifestation of the Shining One herself. The water was ink-dark; neither white-gowned young woman nor small flickering flame showed its reflection on that forbidding surface.
Tuala’s heart began a drumbeat, for all her efforts at calm. Her hands were damp with sweat; Kethra was clutching them so tightly it hurt. Where was Bridei? Ah, there, not far from King Drust. Broichan had taught his foster son well. For all the headache, Bridei was masking his expression, giving little away. Others were less adept. The tall, red-headed man looked as if he was about to faint; many showed signs of cold, hugging cloaks or robes close about them, and there was one hard-eyed fellow whose features wore revulsion quite undisguised.
It was a simple rite, and brief. Tuala understood the reasons for that. The chamber of the dark god was not a place where a sane man would choose to linger, nor was this an observance that would be aided by lengthy prayers, by delays, by chances to question too fully its nature and meaning. By opportunities to begin to doubt.
Broichan spoke: ritual words accompanied by gestures, a sequence of signs quite unfamiliar to Tuala. Perhaps it was a druid charm; at the end he spread his arms wide and gave a great cry, and darkness seemed to gather about him, rising from the water, from the chill air, from the ancient stones, rendering him immensely tall, ancient beyond count of years and full of an implacable, hungry power. Tuala could hardly breathe; the faces of the men were startled, fearful, like those of trapped creatures awaiting a hunter’s blow. Broichan called again, an incantation in a tongue Tuala could not understand. Then he took Morna by the shoulder, and on the other side King Drust did the same, and the two men sank to their knees, bringing the girl down between them.
“Pray that she does not come to herself before it is done.” Kethra’s whisper was tremulous, the voice of a terrified child. “Pray that the goddess does not avert her gaze at the end.”
Tuala saw Bridei’s face, young, frozen, with too much in his eyes; the king’s, where duty warred with pain. In Broichan’s stern features was something too terrible to look upon, for in this moment the nameless god inhabited him, and power was in every corner of his being: not the vibrant, living power of the Flamekeeper, nor the eternal ebb and flow of the Shining One, nor yet the deep wisdom of Bone Mother, but a dark energy that flowed beneath and beyond all of these, a secret, terrible thing that caused men’s eyes to slide away, yet drew them, despite themselves, for this deity’s awful hunger had its small reflection in each of them, hidden deep.
Morna’s back was rounded, her face bent over the water as she knelt between them, king and druid. Her long hair fell forward, a finger’s-breadth from the inky surface. She was still; acquiescent. Tuala held her breath.
From outside the chamber, above on the hillside, the horn sounded again, a wailing, wrenching note of suffering. It summoned the god; the offering was ready. Then, quick as an arrow in the heart, Broichan put his hand up to the back of Morna’s neck and pushed her face down into the water. On the other side, Drust did the same, but more weakly; the sick man had not the druid’s strength, which tonight was the strength of a god. Tuala’s heart leaped to her throat; sudden tears of fright filled her eyes. There was no struggle; Morna knelt immobile on the narrow shelf, white skirts flowing around her, dark hair spreading in dark water, face invisible beneath the surface. The druid’s long-fingered hand was strong on her small neck; he and the king gripped her arms, holding her balanced there, drowning, dying. It was an act of perfect obedience.
Tuala had forgotten to breathe; spots danced before her eyes, she would lose the vision, she wanted it gone, she wanted . . .
“Ah! Kethra sucked in her breath. Broichan’s pose had become awkward, strained. His hand was white-knuckled in Morna’s hair. Her body was rigid now; the two men were struggling to hold her there. A paroxysm of coughing seized the king; he covered his mouth with his hand, struggling to maintain his purchase on the narrow ledge. Now Broichan alone held the girl in place, her face beneath the water. Drust drew his fingers away from his lips. They were stained with blood. Beside him, Broichan made a little sound as his foot slid across the slick stones of the well rim. There was a splashing; Morna had felt Bone Mother’s chill touch at last and was fighting with all the strength she had. Half-crouched on the very rim of the well, Broichan muttered something under his breath, and Drust’s gaze went in urgent plea to those who, by kinship, could be called upon to assist him. Tuala saw the tall, red-headed man bow his head, not moving. A second pretended not to understand. “Help me,” Drust said aloud, and looked straight at Bridei. Ice gripped Tuala’s heart; almost, she closed her eyes, released Kethra’s hands, but she could not. This must be shared in all its horror and grandeur; the gods required it. Bridei edged around the pool, feet careful as a cat’s; other men pressed back against the stone walls to let him by. At Drust’s side, Bridei knelt and, supporting the king with his arm, held him balanced and safe as Drust stretched his hand down once more. It did not take long; the water was very cold. It was no more than the time it takes to count a man’s fingers and toes twice over; no longer than the time it takes to cut a sheaf of rosemary or tie a ribbon neatly. Perhaps a little more; it was necessary to be certain the thing was really done, the sacrifice complete and perfect, the god satisfied. Then they raised Morna from the water, limp and white, and the king, rising to his feet with Bridei’s aid, made a sign of blessing over her blanched face and laid her hands on her breast. One of the men, a big fellow who had stood by Broichan on the ledge, took Morna up in his arms, ready to carry her forth from the deep chamber. The druid raised his arms once more, his sleeves falling back to reveal row upon row of small marks tattooed there, not a warrior’s signs but the deep and subtle symbols of the druidic calling, creature and herb, standing stone and distant star, spiraling across the pale skin with here and there words written in the secret script of the brotherhood, like rows of tiny, mysterious trees. He called once more, a sound deep and harsh, and it seemed to Tuala that his cry made the chamber brighten, and that on the walls and high roof above the Well of Shades carvings showed themselves, signs of the god incised there by the ancient
ancestors, a reflection of the patterns that flowed across the druid’s skin, linking him intimately with the power that dwelled here in the heart of the earth, as in the darkest recesses of the hearts of men. His call made Tuala’s skull ring painfully and set her teeth on edge. She felt the trembling of Kethra’s hands.
The sound died down. The procession began once more as the men made their slow, careful way around the ledge to the steps leading up to light and air. The big man bore Morna easily; she was a slight girl, a slip of a thing, who had come to Banmerren from the west, her parents killed in a Dalriadan raid, and nobody else to take her in. A quiet girl who sought only to please; that was what Tuala remembered them saying. Bridei walked close to the king, steadying him with a firm grip on the elbow. Drust looked weary to death; his eyes glittered as if with fever and his skin was stretched tight over the bone. Still he walked like a king, back straight, head held high. As for Bridei himself, he seemed impassive, calm. He was strong; Tuala had not thought he could sustain this. Men looked at him and she saw respect on their faces, grudging perhaps, but real. They looked at him as if he were the man they might wish to be themselves, had they the courage. His expression revealed nothing; he appeared the very model of control. Nothing, save to Tuala. She knew him as she knew herself. She read his eyes and the pain in them. She felt the harsh throbbing as if it were her own head it inhabited. She knew his pounding heart, his guilt, his revulsion. She recognized the touch of the dark god and was helpless to banish it.
“It’s gone,” said Kethra in a strange voice, and released Tuala’s hands. And it was; the bronze bowl held nothing but a dim pool of clear water. The chamber was cold and very quiet. Tuala blinked, rubbing the tears from her eyes; saw Kethra, opposite, wipe a hand across her own cheeks, heard her draw her breath in sharply. Standing in silent circle around them, drawn, helpless, by the power of their dark vision, the junior students stood, white-faced and big eyed in their blue robes. Like children woken suddenly from a nightmare too terrible to recount, they stared, mute, at those who had given it form. In that moment, Tuala saw the import of her disobedience. She had looked where she should not; she had intruded where no woman belonged. Like a stone cast into a peaceful pond, such an act might have ripples that were far-reaching. Who knew what punishment this dark god might choose to deliver? And yet, she could not find it in herself to be sorry.
Kethra found her voice first. “Odha, stir up the fire. Deira, bring wood from the basket. You others, light some more candles. The ritual is over, for us at least. We’ll sleep here tonight, all together before the fire. Move that cat, he’s soaking up what little heat there is. Now, we need bread and honey and a herbal infusion to help you rest. Then, questions if you must, but not too many. I don’t know what you saw here, but I do have one thing to say to you. The visions of the scrying bowl appear and form themselves at the goddess’s will. If you see images that disquiet you, it may be that you looked when you should have known better.” Kethra’s hands were tightly clenched. It seemed to Tuala the tutor spoke without the awareness that the two of them were the guilty ones here, and nobody else. Then she saw the look in Kethra’s eyes, and knew this for a demonstration of extraordinary presence of mind. The eyes were shadowed with knowledge, and with fear. “Focus your minds on obedience,” Kethra went on. “It is a lesson we all learn at Banmerren; even the oldest and wisest among us must bow to the will of the gods.”
“I want to go home.” This tremulous voice might have come from any of them; its message was plain in every eye.
“What are you,” Kethra challenged in a tone made strong and brisk by sheer force of will, “a servant of the Shining One or a sniveling baby? Tuala, take the younger ones to the kitchen to fetch soporific herbs; if you don’t know which to choose by now, then Luthana hasn’t been doing her job. You others, don’t you understand a simple instruction? The fire, Odha. The wood, Deira. Fola and the others will be cold when they return, and weary. Since it seems we are all awake at an hour when only owls and hedgehogs stir, let us make them a fitting welcome.”
BREATHING: DEEP, STEADY, measured. A count of numbers, an old rhyme, a little song to pace it by. Hee-o, wee-o, feather of the blackest crow . . . Now they had reached the king’s chamber, where Queen Rhian, dry-eyed and somber, stood ready to receive her exhausted husband. Her brother, Owain, had not attended the rite, being a man of Powys and loyal to the observances of his own people, but was here now to take Drust’s arm and convey him within. The king’s breathing was like the scraping of ice from a railing, the susurration of dry leaves lifted by an autumn wind. He turned, at the last, and saluted them all with a little nod of the head. His eyes, fierce as a fighting bull’s, forbade expressions of concern, offers of support.
“It is over once more,” the king said in a wisp of a voice. “I thank you.” He looked at Bridei. “It is a lonely way. All that I am, I give to the gods and to Fortriu.” His eyes moved again; his gaze lighted on his wife’s plump form, her sweet features in which desperate concern was but thinly masked. “I’ve been fortunate,” Drust said in a different tone. “Fortunate in my friends and fortunate in my family. The trust of the gods is a wondrous gift and a terrible burden. A man cannot well bear it alone. I bid you all good night, although sleep does not come easily on such a night as this. May the Shining One guard your dreams.”
“May the Flamekeeper light your waking,” came the response, many voices speaking as one: Aniel’s and Tharan’s, Broichan’s and Bridei’s, and those of the king’s close kinsmen, red-haired Carnach and sturdy Wredech of the fine cattle. The door closed; Drust the Bull was gone.
BRIDE I HAD EATEN little, the headache robbing him of appetite. Nonetheless, he retched and retched, bent double in the small space behind the steps on the upper wall-walk, his belly twisting, clenching, heaving until every drop of bile and water was emptied from it. At a certain point, he recognized that Faolan was there, a wet cloth in his hand, holding Bridei’s head, offering sips of water that stayed in his stomach no longer than it took to swallow them. At length it seemed to be over and he sat on the steps, shivering convulsively under the thick blanket the Gael had wrapped around his shoulders. Somewhat later, Garth came out with a steaming infusion of some kind, and Breth with dry bread, which the others ate, since Bridei would not. The three of them stood or sat by him through the dark hours, saying little. Here and there on the wall-walks or down in the courtyards within the earthen ramparts, other small groups of men could be seen clustered in silence or talking in undertones. Lanterns were dotted about the fortress; a kind of vigil was being kept, a watch to ward off shadows. There was not a man here present tonight with the courage to face his dreams. Light blazed from within the king’s chamber, bright through the cracks around the shutters. The sound of Drust’s coughing made its way to every ear; the memory of his courage was felt in every heart. Somewhere in a quiet corner, a big man would be digging a grave. The chosen ones did not go home to Banmerren.
Some time before sunrise it became possible to move, although Bridei’s legs felt strangely weak, his head dizzy. He rose to his feet, looking at the three of them: keen-eyed Breth, stifling a yawn; amiable Garth, gray-faced with weariness; wiry, dark Faolan whose customary look of mild amusement had been replaced by something else, an expression Bridei was too tired and sick and sad to interpret.
“Thank you,” he said simply. “I’m going to bed now,” and made his way inside, hoping his back was as straight as Drust’s had been, his steps as steady on the way. But he did not seek the chamber he shared with Breth and Garth; a flicker of candlelight from Broichan’s private quarters caught his eye, and he walked soft-footed to pause in that open doorway.
It seemed, at first, that nobody was there. Where, on Gateway morning, the druid had knelt in pose of strength and obedience, the stone floor was bare of all but shadows. A candle burned in a niche. The narrow, hard bed with its neatly folded blanket was untenanted. The shelves held their complement of jar and bottle, sack and bowl a
nd crucible; garlic hung from the roof and a scattering of wooden rods lay on the stone table, sign of an earlier augury. Bridei made to turn away, to seek his own bed until morning. He would not sleep; still, if he made pretense, at least the others might get some rest.
A small sound held him there in the doorway; the ragged, whispering breath of a man who fights a desperate battle with himself. Bridei took a step into the room. Broichan was standing by the place where a narrow slit of a window pierced the stone wall. His hands, clenched into white-knuckled fists, were by his sides; he had not removed the dark robe of the ceremony. He was leaning against the wall, quite still, his forehead resting against the cold stone, his eyes shut. There was a look on his face that Bridei had never seen before. The mask had slipped entirely; guilt, confusion, grief, long endurance were all starkly evident, and on the austere planes of the druid’s cheeks, the candlelight revealed the glistening tracks of his tears.
Others had tended to Bridei tonight with courtesy, with restraint, with true friendship. He could do no less for Broichan. Like all of them, he had believed his foster father a creature of powerful certainty, beyond the frailties of ordinary men, his mind filled only with plots and plans, with learning and druid magic; he had thought Broichan’s heart had room for nothing but the love of the gods. He recognized, in this moment, how wrong he had been. All these long years, from that first, confusing arrival at Pitnochie, that first glimpse of the tall, remote figure who was to mold his own future, he had never once thought of Broichan as a man. He had never thought how lonely such an existence might be.
“I’m here,” he said quietly, walking into the chamber, taking up the candle to light a lamp on the table, pouring water from jug to cup. “Come, sit down, drink. It is over.” And did not say, for now. For this time.
The Dark Mirror Page 48