The Dark Mirror

by Juliet Marillier

  THE GOOD FOLK need not speak aloud to understand one another’s minds. To the elderly wise woman, Luthana, who now scolded Tuala down from her high perch and led her indoors, the lamp wobbling indignantly in her hand, it seemed the oak was deserted save for this one disobedient student with her white face and unruly dark hair, this strange young woman who seemed determined to bend rules and stretch boundaries to their limits. But they were there: the creatures known to Tuala as Gossamer and Woodbine, she of the cobweb gown and silver hair like chains of dewdrops, he of all the rich life of the forest, twig and leaf, creeping moss and curling fern. They crouched now in a fork of the oak and spoke without the need to make a sound.

  “So, the journey moves on at last. Did you see what she did; how she looked, touched, offered her lips? Our little pale creature is indeed become a woman, for all her air of remoteness. I fear she will make this too easy for Bridei.”

  “You think so? He cannot choose her and pursue the kingship. That is what he believes. Will he place his duty to Fortriu before the longings of his heart? How will he reconcile this?”

  “He must find the way for himself. That is the test. He must prove true, not only to the men and women he will lead, but to the ancient powers as well. To the gods; this, he understands. And to us.”

  “That, he forgets.”

  “Maybe. We must remind him of it. Fortriu needs him. There is no other who can lead us forward.”

  “And he needs her. A conundrum. They’ll never accept her. What of Broichan?”

  Woodbine gave a crooked smile. “Broichan plays with them all, moving them on the board at his whim. Making them hop. The druid is not the only one who can play this game. He may find it is more complex than he ever dreamed of. I think he may find himself outplayed.”

  “By—?”

  Woodbine turned his mud-brown eyes on the light, enigmatic ones of his friend. “We shall see,” he said. “For this young man, the gods reserve a final trial of their own making. That is for later, for the end. Meanwhile, it is for us to play our part. We will lead them a dance, the two of them.”

  Gossamer laughed, a brief, high tinkle. “These folk frustrate me. They can be so blind. Ah, well . . . how much does he want her, I wonder? Will he pursue her into a realm where even the Shining One dares not show her face? Will he stand strong in defiance before the one he respects and loves like a father?”

  “We’ll know that soon enough,” Woodbine said with a shrug. “Drust is not long for this world; already they gather, knives at the ready. Foolish folk. This young man shines among them like a bright star. Still, he must face the last trial. Did she see us, do you think?”

  “She knew we were watching.” Gossamer tossed back her shining hair. “lt curbed her words, to begin with; made her guard her eyes. But her love shone through her little effort at coolness; her pathetic attempt to convince herself that he’d be better off with some smooth-haired princess, and Tuala herself wasting away behind the walls of Banmerren. She is far surer than he.”

  “Of course,” said Woodbine. “She’s one of us.”

  WINTER MADE ITS PRESENCE known emphatically, whipping Caer Pridne with chilly winds and drenching it in persistent rain. It was not possible to ride out; only those with business of the utmost urgency ventured forth. Faolan’s demeanor did not vary from its customary cool detachment, but he was growing impatient. Bridei, attuned to the subtlest alteration of a man’s voice and manner, saw the Gael’s frustration plainly. Faolan’s plan to draw the enemy into the open and force an attack had been foiled, and by something as simple as the weather. He prowled the hallways of Caer Pridne; he could be found listening intently to the idle talk of kitchen slaves, of workers mending leaking thatch, of children playing with a ball during a brief respite in the downpour. Making a new plan, Bridei thought. And meanwhile someone, somewhere, is plotting to kill me.

  Bridei fought to keep his mind on what must inevitably come soon. King Drust had hung on grimly for a full turning of the moon since Gateway, but the end was close, and now he called them, one by one, to the chamber where he spent his days wrapped in a cloak and struggling for breath despite the warm fire and curative herbs. Drust spoke to each a form of farewell: words of recognition, guidance for the future, an expression of friendship or gratitude. Sometimes it was merely acknowledgment that change was upon them, willed by the gods who ruled their lives and the life of Fortriu itself.

  With this loss impending, Bridei wondered that his own thoughts rested so much on Tuala: on every move she had made, on every word she had spoken, on the unsaid things he believed he had seen in her eyes. On her touch; that above all. His mind played it over and over: his own stumbling efforts to tell her what was in his heart, his pathetic failure to express it, the words she had whispered at the end, the fact that he had allowed himself to return her kiss—ah, the memory of that, sweet on his lips—when he knew he should not tempt her to leave her sanctuary, not when there was so little to offer her beyond its walls. Did not the goddess want this rare small creature as her own? Yet Tuala had said, Next full moon, and he had not been able to whisper, No, I can’t, we mustn’t. He had not been able to refuse her, and he would go, Faolan or no Faolan. What would come of it, there was no telling. It would be taking a terrible risk. The election for kingship might be in progress by then, and his every move under scrutiny. Every instinct told him he should not do it. But he must; Tuala would be expecting him. He must; every corner of his body craved it. She was in his thoughts night and day, so much a part of him he wondered how he could possibly go on without her. This was like a sickness; it ate at him, following him into his fitful sleep, filling that time with troubling dreams in which he followed her tracks though the forest alone, in darkness, knowing that if he did not find her soon he would never see her again. Knowing she fled him, seeking to cross a margin to a place where he could not follow. Knowing he should not pursue her, not if he might be king; knowing that without her he was at best but half a man. He willed the visions away, but they would not obey.

  He told himself it was all his fault; he should never have gone to Banmerren. He was learning now why those rules existed, the ones that kept men out of that place of the goddess. But he would not for the world have changed things. He would not for any price have missed that meeting. And he would go again. This time he would tell her straight out. He would speak the words of his heart; he would ask her to come with him. To be his wife. That was what he had got wrong. He had not put it to her; he had not given her the opportunity to choose for herself. And she was very much herself; he had understood that from the first. It had seemed to him, from her whispered words and from her kiss, that she might say yes, but he was by no means certain of it. If she said no, he must accept it and walk on without her. He did not rightly know how he would manage to do that.

  There came a morning when Bridei, in his turn, was summoned. It was a long time now since Drust had ventured forth from the small chamber to which his world had dwindled as sickness overtook him, and Bridei was taken aback at the king’s appearance, all jutting bones and pallid, parchmentdry skin. The room was uncomfortably hot; Queen Rhian was scarlet-faced, her brother Owain stripped to shirt and trousers and sweating. Drust shivered in a woolen cloak, a thick blanket over his knees. A dog crouched at his feet, anxiety in its loyal eyes.

  “My lord.” Bridei did not allow his thoughts to show on his face; he greeted his monarch with the formal bow, the courteous tone such occasions required. “You sent for me?”

  “Come. Sit.” Drust was conserving what strength remained in order to see each of them in turn, to say what must be said while he still had a voice.

  Bridei sat. Around him, the queen and her helpers moved with the quiet efficiency of folk long accustomed to tending the sick. Linen was changed, vessels emptied, the fire made up, herbs prepared for an infusion, yet so unobtrusive were these attendants that Bridei might almost have been alone with the king. Drust’s eyes were bright; a fierce will burned in his
ravaged body.

  “Carnach,” Drust said. “Talk to him. Offer him . . . position. Trust . . . status . . .”

  Bridei nodded. “The two of us must work together,” he said. “I will find him. What of Tharan?”

  Drust attempted a smile; it transformed his features into a death’s-head, and Bridei suppressed the instinct to make a sign of ward with his hands. Black Crow hovered close today; he could feel the beating of her dark wings.

  “It’s Carnach’s decision,” the king said. “He’s his own man. If Carnach won’t stand, he won’t stand. If he falls in beside you, Tharan . . . no choice . . . follow. Tharan knows . . . he recognizes . . . Gateway . . .”

  Bridei hesitated. “My lord—”

  Drust’s gaze seemed to pierce through him, strong as an iron blade. “You can do it,” the king said. “You must.”

  It became impossible for Bridei to say what he needed to say: that he did not think he could, year after year, winter after winter; that the weight of one such death was almost too much to bear, and that he doubted himself capable of repeating it and remaining sane. To say this was not only disobedient to the gods, it was weak. Before this dying man, whose spirit blazed from his red-rimmed eyes, Bridei’s words fled unspoken.

  “Main threat . . . south . . . Bargoit,” Drust whispered, sipping from a cup of water his wife held for him. “Be sure . . . numbers . . .”

  Bridei nodded. “If Carnach joins me, between us we can come close to the votes required,” he said. “Aniel’s working on that. Broichan, too.”

  “Ah, Broichan . . . did well with you, son . . . my druid . . . long service, and loyal . . . Fortriu . . . best gift . . . yourself . . .”

  The king was tiring. His breathing was shallow, painful, for all the chamber’s heat, the steam from pots that simmered on the hearth, the soothing scent of herbs.

  “I hope I will prove worthy of your trust, my lord king.” The Shining One aid him, he could never in a lifetime be the king Drust was, so strong, so obedient, so much a leader of men.

  “One . . . thing,” the king said in a thread of a voice. “Wife . . . choose well . . . makes all . . . difference . . .” Drust turned his too-bright eyes on Rhian, who was kneeling by the hearth, stirring something in a little pot. The softness of his gaze, the shadow in his expression, an anticipation of imminent parting, revealed starkly that this powerful monarch was, underneath the iron exterior, a mortal man and vulnerable. “Not for blood,” Drust said. “Not for lineage . . . not for wealth . . . Find the one who can walk beside you . . . all . . . difference . . .”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Bridei, and did not say, I know. I have found her, and I do not know if I can have her.

  “Go now,” Drust said, “son of . . . Flamekeeper . . .”

  “Farewell, my lord king. May the gods grant you a safe journey. I do not think Fortriu will see your like again.”

  “No weeping. Not . . . for me. New king . . . new path . . . brighter, better . . . flight of . . . eagle . . . Be strong, Bridei.”

  Bridei could not speak. He bowed, and as Drust began a storm of coughing, and both Rhian and Owain hastened to help him sit upright, to wipe the blood from his face as he choked and gasped through the spasm, Bridei slipped out of the little chamber, past the guards and away to the wall-walk, where he paced long, oblivious to the rain.

  SOMEWHAT LATER IN the morning, a slight figure made its way up the steps and walked toward him, tonsured hair tousled by the wind from the sea. It seemed Brother Suibne, too, had been spending time on the wall-walks deep in thought. Bridei managed a courteous greeting. Although the Christian priest represented ideas that were abhorrent to him, teachings that had led to the division of the Priteni and the destruction of the sacred places in the south, he had been obliged to acknowledge, over the time Suibne had spent at Caer Pridne, that the fellow was clever, deep, and possessed of a wryly earthy sense of humor. Had Suibne not been who he was, they might have been friends.

  Suibne settled himself alongside Bridei, folded arms on the parapet, looking out to sea. The sharp northerly was whipping the gray water into white-capped, churning disorder. “I’m sorry to hear the news about King Drust,” the priest said quietly. “I’m told he is saying his farewells today. I’ve been praying for him.”

  “To what gods?” Bridei asked, knowing this was discourteous, but unable to hold it back.

  “There is only one God, Bridei.” The priest was smiling; it was by no means the first time they had discussed this topic. “A God with much to offer you, if you would turn to him. I see in your eyes that you are troubled; confused. I suspect your mind is plagued by difficult decisions to be made, quandaries to be faced, pressing questions to be addressed.”

  “All that shows in my eyes? You assume too much. I was called to speak with the king this morning. I am sad to see him go, that’s all.”

  “And?”

  Suibne was starting to sound a little like Broichan. Bridei found that distinctly unsettling. “True,” he said, “we will face a time of change; a time of great difficulty. A leader of Drust’s status is not so easily replaced. You suggest I look to the cross for answers. There is no point in attempting to convert me to your own faith. I was brought up in the love of the old gods. I wish nothing more than to see the lands of the Priteni united in the practice of the ancient rituals, in reverence and loyalty to the Shining One and to the Flamekeeper. I know you are, at heart, a good man. But I cannot approve your presence amongst us, nor your influence within Circinn. Your kind has wrought havoc among our people. You have fractured our kingdom and severely weakened our ability to defend our borders.”

  “Ah,” said Suibne, eyes bright with interest. “But if Fortriu turned to the Christian faith, as Circinn is doing even as we speak, you would be reunited under the cross. The doctrine of Our Lord Jesus Christ is based on love, peace, and tolerance. Our holy book teaches us to love our neighbor. When men turn to the true God, they are united in love. There is then no need for armies, or for borders.”

  “In principle, a fine sentiment,” Bridei said. “Tell me, what of the Gaels? The folk of Dalriada follow your own beliefs; a cross stands in the center of their settlement at Galany’s Reach, the settlement we overran last spring. The Gaels are well known as the most savage fighters our warriors have ever encountered. They are cruel; they do not understand the meaning of mercy. How may we reconcile that with a doctrine of love?”

  Suibne smiled. “Your questions reveal your background, Bridei; you have been well tutored in this, I think. Place yourself in the mind of King Gabhran of Dalriada. To a Gael, your own people seem wild, heathen, recalcitrant, and dangerous: an obstacle standing in the way of a clean conquest of the north and the establishment of the very realm you once spoke of yourself: one kingdom, one people, one faith.”

  “Under the rule of an invader? That would be a travesty. Such unity, if thus it can be called, would not be achieved until every man and woman of Fortriu lay slain on this good earth. Clean? It would be a victory soaked in the blood of the Priteni; a peace won by slaughter and destruction.”

  Suibne did not attempt to dispute this. “With the right leader,” he said, “it need not be so. With an open-minded king in place here, the peace could be won by negotiation.”

  “Is that what Drust of Circinn told you to say? Or Bargoit?”

  “Not at all. I merely point out to you that tolerance and forbearance can carry a man, or his kingdom, a long way. It requires the right leader to do it. A man of outstanding qualities.”

  “You speak of Drust the Boar?”

  “I speak of the distant future; of a peace that could be won if men of great heart would lay down their weapons and open their spirits to God’s light.”

  Bridei was puzzled by the expression on the cleric’s face; it was almost like that Broichan wore when he sat in meditative trance before a pattern of augury or a scrying vessel. He had not thought Christians were subject to the visions of the Otherworld. “I would never tu
rn against the gods of my people,” he said quietly.

  “Even the god who requires an act of murder?” Suibne asked.

  “I will not speak of that. It is forbidden to do so.”

  “But you will think of it. It will be in your mind, season by season, year by year, from each dark enactment to the next. It will plague your conscience and darken your spirit. To adhere to this is not loyalty, Bridei. It is madness. I cannot believe a man such as yourself, a man surely destined for greatness, can truly condone such barbarism.”

  “Destined for greatness? The religious adviser to Drust of Circinn speaks thus of me? You jest, surely.”

  “I speak thus as one man to another, Bridei. In your heart, you are a man of peace. That, too, I see in your eyes. And you are young; who knows what lies in your future, and in the future of Fortriu? Let us pray the chieftains of the Priteni vote wisely. Much can change in the lifetime of a king.”

  THERE WAS NO need for Bridei to seek out Carnach. Carnach found him, later in the day, and suggested they go to a quiet corner to talk undisturbed. Undisturbed did not mean alone, not when each of them had a claim to kingship. They met in the stables, where it was easy enough for a man to pretend to be showing another fellow a horse he might want to buy; it was amazing, the breadth of conversation that could take place while examining a hoof or a set of teeth. Breth stood watchful at a slight distance; Carnach’s own personal guard, a lanky, bearded fellow, lounged against the half-door, making a good show of unconcern.

  “You’ve spoken with the king?” Carnach was direct; there was little time for the niceties of court etiquette, and Bridei welcomed the red-haired man’s bluntness.

  “This morning. You?”

  Carnach nodded. “Have you a proposal for me?”

  “I do. You’ll wish to suggest amendments; I’m ready to listen.”