The Dark Mirror

by Juliet Marillier

  “Did I—?”

  “Most of it was too garbled for me to interpret; those druids may have made more sense of it. And yes, there was a certain name you spoke a great deal more than others.”

  Bridei closed his eyes. “I need her,” he whispered, hating his weakness.

  “Hush,” said Faolan. “Wait for morning. You’ve been through more than you realize. We nearly lost you. Now I will go. Your keepers are no doubt waiting impatiently for readmittance.”

  “You said . . . heard . . . nightmares. You . . . here?”

  “Night shifts seem to be part of my job,” Faolan said levelly. “I’ve been here, yes. One night I missed, conveying my captive to a place of security. The others I’ve shared, not always with Broichan’s good will. I think he wanted you to himself. I’d better go; this cloak’s dripping.”

  “Put it . . . by fire. Stay . . . just a bit . . .” Bridei found he could no longer maintain a sitting position; he lay back on the pillow, frustration at his helpless state warring with a profound wish for dreamless sleep.

  “Feet up,” Faolan said, and tucked the blankets over him.

  “Funny . . . you . . . nursemaid . . .”

  “I told you,” Faolan rose to remove his cloak and drape it over the bench by the fire, “it’s what they pay me for: keeping fools like you alive long enough to achieve what’s set out for them. I’m only doing my job.”

  “Not paid . . . be . . . friend . . .”

  At this, Faolan fell completely silent. Through half-closed eyes, Bridei observed the Gael’s face, on which a remarkable sequence of emotions passed with rapidity: surprise, sadness, something remarkably like humility, then, abruptly, the blank, hard expression with which it was Faolan’s habit to mask any evidence of what he felt. He sat quiet by Bridei’s bedside, staring at the wall. In time the druids returned to brew their soporific potions, and Bridei drank and slept.

  THE SHINING ONE had shrunk to a sliver; it was close to solstice night and dark of the moon. It was strange how everything was changing. Tuala didn’t feel hungry anymore, nor thirsty, yet it had been several days since the last crumbs of the loaf were finished. She knew that she was tired, and that there was something wrong with her feet, but she could no longer get her boots off to look at them. This did not seem to matter. Damaged as they were, her feet simply kept on walking, steady on the muddy tracks through the forest. Her hands were raw with chilblains; she wrapped them under her sodden shawl and ignored the pain. It was of no import. She was leaving this world. She was going away. Indeed, she thought perhaps she already had one foot beyond that margin; that she had strayed already partway into that secret realm. Not only could she go without eating, but she had started to see things, odd things that had never been visible in the forest above Serpent Lake before. There were creatures in the trees, looking down at her; from every fork, on every branch, something fixed strange, luminous eyes on the girl walking beneath; under each bush, within each tangle of damp undergrowth, small faces showed, wrinkle-browed, long-eared, spike-haired, sharp-nosed, all kinds, their beady eyes alive with curiosity. On every path, something scampered ahead, heard but unseen. On every climb, pattering footsteps followed. Subtle voices called, eerie in the gloom of the winter day. Tuala! Tuala! Sister, come home!

  As they came farther down the lake and drew closer to Pitnochie, shelter grew harder to find. She was reduced to scraping out a hollow in the moldering leaf litter and dragging whatever fronds of bracken she could find over herself in a vain effort to keep out the cold. Once she reached the Dark Mirror, once she had truly crossed that margin, she would never be cold again. Crouched trembling under a massive oak, Tuala thought dimly that it would almost be worth doing it for the sole purpose of making this shivering stop.

  “Not far to go now.” Woodbine was seated on a stump, entirely at ease in the chill of the gathering dusk. The moon was grown so dim, the leaf man was reduced to a shadowy figure, dark on dark. Tuala wondered at that. If she were one of the Good Folk, shouldn’t she be able to find her way by night as these two evidently could? “Another day or two,” Woodbine announced, “and this will all be over.”

  “I wonder what they’re up to at Caer Pridne?” said Gossamer lightly, running long fingers through her silvery hair, which held its lustrous shine even in the dark. “Haven’t you been tempted to seek guidance in the water, Tuala? To see what your Bridei is doing?”

  “No.” This was a lie; she had indeed sought a glimpse of him, one day when her Otherworld companions were absent and a pool of rainwater had presented itself under a cloudy sky. She had crouched by the rim, awaiting the images of the goddess. She had prayed; had breathed deep; had done her best to clear her mind and open her seer’s eye. The water had remained obstinately no more than itself: a pool reflecting gray clouds. Not a single image had danced across its surface, although Tuala had stayed there until her back ached and her legs were seized by cramps. The Shining One had turned her face away; she had abandoned her daughter. Now, Tuala would not look; if this window were to be closed to her forever, she would rather not know it just yet. If the scrying bowl were to reveal its secrets no more, she would never see him again. Never. “Why would I seek such visions? Haven’t you told me over and over that this way is best? Bridei will be getting ready to make his claim for the kingship. Broichan will be preparing him. That’s all. Didn’t you say it will be at Midwinter?”

  “Indeed. At solstice time the candidates step forward and declare themselves. At solstice time you step back to the realm where you belong. A satisfying balance; with your education, you’ll appreciate that.”

  “I’m cold,” Tuala muttered, wrapping her arms around herself and clenching her teeth. “It’s snowing, look.” And it was; between the great, bare limbs of the oak, a delicate fall of white flakes was drifting to earth.

  “Two days more,” Gossamer said. “It’s not long. We’ll see you at the Dark Mirror.” With that she was gone, quick as an eyeblink. Woodbine had vanished without a word.

  “Don’t—” Tuala began, feebly. “Don’t go” She made herself stop. She made herself breathe slowly; she could do this, she could go on, even if they chose to desert her at the last. She had been alone before. There was nothing new to it. She would simply set her feet forward and walk on to the end of the road.

  BRIDEI INSISTED ON getting up and dressing. He forced himself to walk to the outer room; to sit at the table there and greet all those who came by to ask after him: Aniel, Talorgen, Carnach accompanied by Tharan, which was somewhat surprising. He thought he made a passable job of it. After a while Breth and Garth ushered the visitors out, then stood over Bridei while he ate a serving of porridge with honey. He felt like a cosseted child, and told them so.

  “Enjoy it while it lasts,” said Breth, grinning. “Now, you need your bed; a man doesn’t get over such an illness in the twinkle of an eye. I’ll help you back to the other room—”

  Garth, by the outer doorway, cleared his throat. “More visitors coming,” he said quietly. “Ladies this time.”

  “He’s had enough—”

  “No refusing these.”

  Queen Rhian swept in, head high, figure clad in finest wool dyed to a soft dove-gray, both becoming and well suited to mourning. Behind her came Ferada, daughter of Talorgen, in a blue gown with a silver clasp at the shoulder, her russet hair dressed high in a crown of plaits.

  “Ah,” said the queen, smiling. “I see you are sufficiently recovered to sit at table, Bridei. This is indeed reassuring; from what they’ve been saying, I expected to find you prostrate and babbling nonsense. No, don’t get up; we’re not here for long. Oh, I see we have forgotten our little gift, Ferada. I’m sure Bridei can spare one of his men to fetch it—Garth, there’s a small pot of rather good chicken broth in my quarters; go and speak to my maid, will you, and she’ll give it to you. It is of my own making. However lacking your appetite may be, Bridei, you will drink this happily. It’s remarkably restorative. Go on, then, young man!
” She smiled, and Garth obeyed without a word.

  Rhian seated herself opposite Bridei, regarding him closely with her kindly blue eyes. Ferada stood behind, twisting her fingers together. “A little mead, do you think?” The queen glanced at Breth, who disappeared to the inner chamber; if he had thought to bar her from Broichan’s quarters, he had been unable to find the words for it under such an onslaught of confident good will.

  “Now tell me, Bridei,” Rhian said. “Are you really getting better? This has laid you low a long time. An unusual illness for a healthy young man.”

  “I am much better, my lady. I hope to be in full health by Midwinter.”

  “Ah, yes, Midwinter . . . You have a little leeway. As long as you are restored to us by the assembly itself, that is what really matters. My husband thought highly of you, Bridei. You owe it to his memory to do your best. Don’t forget that.” Perhaps a tear glistened in her eye, but she was a queen; it would not be allowed to fall.

  “You are gracious, my lady. It was a sad loss. I can never hope to equal him, but I will offer my best, I promise you.”

  “Mm-hm.” The queen fell silent a moment as Breth returned with a small jug of mead and three cups, and set them on the table. “I’m sure you will, son. May the breath of the gods inspire you. It is a time of great change; daunting change. We’ll all need to be strong. Now,” Rhian rose to her feet as if suddenly reminded of something, “I need a word with Broichan. Is he within?” She glanced at Breth, then walked with complete confidence to the inner door, rapped sharply, and went straight in. Breth, a look of alarm on his features, hastened after her.

  Ferada picked up the mead jug, pouring the pale liquid into two cups. Bridei was taken aback by the change in her. She had ever seemed a poised, confident girl, whose assurance had often made him feel awkward and ill at ease. Today she looked pale and drawn; her hands fumbled clumsily as she set the jug down and placed a cup before him. But he would not spend time on that; an opportunity had presented itself and he must seize it quickly before the others returned.

  “Ferada, I need you to take a message. A message to Banmerren. Can you do it?”

  She stared at him blankly; it was almost as if she didn’t understand the words.

  “To Tuala. It’s urgent. Will you?”

  She was still holding her own cup; her hands were shaking so much the mead slopped over the rim. “To Tuala . . . oh . . .”

  “Just let her know what has happened. That I have been sick since the night of full moon; that I couldn’t . . .” By all the gods, what ailed the girl? Surely he was not imagining her state of agitation; her face was sheet-white, the freckles standing out starkly, and her lips were pressed together in a thin line. Something was terribly wrong. He must put her at her ease. The thought of mead turned his stomach; still, if he took a sip or two, pretended nothing was amiss, perhaps she would relax and listen to him.

  He reached for the mead, but somehow Ferada’s hand knocked his at that moment, and the cup she had filled for him tipped over, sending a stream of liquid across the stone tabletop.

  “Oh!” gasped Ferada, reaching to set the empty cup upright.

  Bridei had avoided the worst of it; he moved the jug aside, out of the pool of mead. Evidently none of those in the inner chamber had heard the small commotion; the queen’s voice could be heard from beyond the door, briskly cheerful. “What is it, Ferada?” Bridei asked her, observing that she had turned still paler. “What’s happened? Is it Gartnait?”

  “What? Why would it be Gartnait?” Her voice was shaking; she made a futile attempt to scrub the front of her skirt, where the mead had darkened the blue of the woolen cloth to storm-gray, with a tiny kerchief. “Bridei, I need to tell you something.” Her voice shrank to a whisper. “It’s about Tuala. She’s run away.”

  “What?”

  “Bridei, you’re hurting me.”

  Bridei realized he was on his feet and gripping Ferada’s shoulders hard; she was wincing with pain. “I’m sorry,” he said, releasing her as his heart continued to drum, fast and urgent. “Run away? Where? When?”

  “Soon after full moon. A few days after. Nobody knows where.”

  Now he was cold; colder than winter. “What do you mean, nobody knows? They must know!”

  “We’ve had no news. One night she just disappeared. Fola sent men out looking, from the farm. They didn’t find any tracks or anything. Then Ana and I came back here. I haven’t heard anything more.”

  Bridei’s head reeled; where to start, which question to ask, what to do? Thirteen days, he had been unconscious thirteen whole days, while she . . . “Why didn’t they tell me? Why didn’t anyone tell me?” So long; so far; he must go, now, straightaway . . .

  “They probably knew how upset you’d be,” Ferada said, attempting to mop the table top with the sodden kerchief. “They’ll want you at your best for the presentation.”

  “A pox on the presentation! All this time, on her own, in winter—what are they thinking of? What’s Broichan doing here, when—Pitnochie, that’s where she’d have gone. Surely he could have tracked her, found her . . . If she reaches Pitnochie she’ll be safe, and I can go for her . . .

  “I don’t think she’d be wanting to stay there,” Ferada said soberly. “She said they didn’t want her; she seemed quite unhappy there when I passed through. If she’d been able to stay at Broichan’s house, she’d never have chosen to go to Banmerren. Didn’t you know?”

  Voices within the inner chamber were approaching the door; the queen was returning.

  “Tell me,” Bridei hissed. “Quickly!”

  “Broichan made her choose. Marry a man who had offered for her, or go to Fola. She didn’t want marriage. Banmerren was the lesser evil. She never wanted to leave home. Bridei, I need to warn you—you must be careful—”

  “What man?” The words came from a cold place within him, a place with no room for forgiveness.

  “Garvan the stone carver. Tuala said he was a good man, but she couldn’t . . . She believed the goddess had made the choice for her. Before she left Pitnochie she . . . she . . .”

  “What? Be quick.”

  “She cut her hair and shed her blood to make a charm of protection for you. She didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want to go. But there’s no place for her there anymore. If she’s gone home, it’s not to Broichan’s house.”

  Bridei stared at her; Ferada looked back, her eyes full of shadows. “What will you do?” she asked him.

  “Find her,” said Bridei. “Find her before it’s too late. Will you cover for me?” His cloak was here, and a pair of Garth’s boots in the corner. It was a slim chance; perhaps the only one. If any of them was alerted, Breth, Garth, Faolan, Broichan—Broichan who had lied to him, Broichan who had betrayed him—he would be stopped. They thought only of the presentation, the assembly, the long plan now at last reaching fruition. They did not think of a girl out in the snow, a girl wandering alone in the depths of winter, entirely without friends. His gut twisted within him. “Tell them Faolan came for me; that we’re in consultation privately and will return here by midday.”

  “How will you—”

  Bridei did not wait to hear her words. Time was precious; time was life and death. Willing strength to his limbs, he seized the boots, threw his cloak over his shoulder and slipped through the outer door to the wall-walk. Then, summoning the charm of concealment, he headed for the stables.

  IN HER PRIVATE chamber at Banmerren, Fola stood alone, a bronze bowl on the table before her. She had been long in trance. The visions in the water were gone now, but the wise woman held her stillness, searching deep within her for the voice of the goddess, a light to reveal the pathway ahead. Acceptance was slow to come, slow and painful. They had been wrong, both she and Broichan. They had let ambition, pride, and self-belief cloud their judgment. They had not heeded what the Shining One made plain from the start: that the unthinkable was indeed to be accepted, that the impossible must be embraced or all would fail a
nd their long efforts be thwarted at the very last. It was bitter to swallow; it was a lesson in humiliation. So simple; so obvious; yet they had not seen it, the two of them, each dedicated to the gods, each living a life of celibacy, of obedience, of scholarship, and self-discipline. Each without lover or children. Fola knew it now for truth. Perhaps she had known, deep inside, the very first time she met Tuala under the oaks, tiny, intense, brimming with feelings and fighting to conceal them. As for Broichan, perhaps he could never accept it. His plan had been perfect, every factor calculated, every small detail attended to. Fifteen years of his life sacrificed to it; fifteen years given to the great cause of Fortriu’s unity: the creation of the perfect king, the making of the leader who would bring this benighted realm forth into light. If Broichan would not bend, if Broichan could not accept that his edifice was built on a flawed foundation, then all would indeed be lost. If Broichan held his own judgment surer than that of the goddess, perhaps they deserved to lose.

  Fola began to awaken her clay self, stirring fingers, toes, changing her breathing, blinking, stretching. At length she bowed, palms together, and moved to return the water from bowl to jug. Then she called Luthana, sought outdoor cloak, sturdy boots, a snug woolen hood against the cold and, accompanied only by the herbalist, made her way out through the gates of Banmerren and across the windswept sands to Caer Pridne.

  A CHOICE. SNOWFIRE, eagerly watching, ready for him, anticipating a fine ride such as Bridei and Faolan had enjoyed across the moorland to the place of the three cairns. Snowfire was strong and willing, but he would not well endure this long race through the winter dark. Lucky, with whom Bridei had been unable to part; tall, mottled Lucky, the ugliest horse in the royal stables . . . Donal’s mount was a hard worker, a stayer; age had only improved him. The men had made sure he was regularly exercised, and he was in good condition. He was not known for speed, for all his long legs. Quick, quick, choose and be gone; any moment now one of the minders would get suspicious and start a search. Take a horse, any horse, and just go . . . By the half-door, a white shadow moved: Uist’s mare, Spindrift, that eldritch creature with her snowy, perfect coat, her silken mane, her waterfall of a tail and her odd eyes, as fluid and tricky as the wild druid’s own. She looked at Bridei, shifting her feet a little as if to say, Come on, make up your mind. She would go swiftly, tirelessly . . . She would go as the best of ordinary horses could not go, heedless of snow and rain, moving unscathed through woodland and marshland, maintaining her steady pace all the way to Pitnochie.