The Dark Mirror

by Juliet Marillier

  Bridei had forced himself thus far, exerting control over his uncooperative body by will alone. Nonetheless, he was greatly weakened; there was only so much the mind could do. He opened the half-door. It was necessary to clamber to a mounting block and thence to a rail in order to reach the mare’s back; a clumsy performance. Bridei leaned forward, hands on Spindrift’s neck, and whispered in her ear. “Take me home.” He hoped she would understand. He would need all the strength he had left to remain on her back and keep breathing; he would have little capacity to guide her. He had brought nothing; no food, no water, no weapons, no supplies of any kind. No time. He must go now, before he was discovered, and hope this rare creature could outrun the best his keepers could muster. Somewhere in his mind there still lingered the election, the men and women who depended on him, the question of destiny. But those things had shrunk to an acorn, a hazelnut, crowded out by the weight of his fear, his fury, his burning need to find his dear one quickly, quickly, before he lost her forever.

  “Go,” he whispered, and in a whirl and a flurry, graceful as a swan in flight, the mare bore him out from Caer Pridne, making her way southwestward toward the Great Glen. A pale presence in the winter gloom, she moved with the confidence of a creature who goes under the protection of powers older than time, and on the soft ground behind her, she left not a single mark.

  IT WAS FREEZING cold out on the wall-walk beyond the women’s quarters. Ferada huddled behind the steps, cloak up over her head and clutched across her chest, hiding the fine blue gown, the handsome silver clasp, the hated, heavy ring of silver and enamel. She had been here a long time, unseen by anyone. Somewhere within her belly she could feel a weight like a cold stone; she though maybe it was fear. Fear of her mother’s quick hand; fear of her mother’s mad eyes. Fear of what was to come, for herself, for all of them. Her fingers ached; she had bitten every nail to the quick and had gnawed the flesh of her forefinger until it was raw and bleeding. And yet, for all that heavy sense of dread, in her heart there was something else, something good and new After all, she had not done it. Perhaps it really had been a love potion, as Dreseida had told her. Perhaps. Ferada wanted to believe that; she wanted more than anything for that to be the truth, unlikely as it was. But she had seen the look on Dreseida’s face; she knew the strength in her mother’s hand, the power, the terrible anger. Why would Dreseida seek to make Bridei fall in love with Ferada? She had never wanted Broichan’s foster son as her daughter’s husband, and she did not want him as king. If Bridei had taken that mead, Dreseida would have made her own daughter into a murderer.

  Perhaps it wasn’t true. Perhaps it was just her wild imagination. Her mother was a woman of impeccable pedigree, of high intelligence. Her father was fair, just, widely admired; he was Broichan’s friend. Let it not be true, Ferada thought. Let it all be just a bad dream. But she could not stop thinking of another time, the time when Donal had died in Bridei’s place, in the dining hall of her own home at Raven’s Well. Died by poison. Was there a servant who, out of loyalty or terror, had been prepared to kill on his mistress’s orders?

  It was getting late, and she could not hide here in this corner all day. Bridei would be long gone by now. And her mother would want an accounting. She would have to tell . . . She would have to tell the truth, Ferada thought grimly, rising to her feet and smoothing out her crumpled garments. From now on she was going to do precisely that, and if people didn’t like it, that was just unfortunate for them. She shivered convulsively. Such bold pronouncements were all very well out here, on her own, not spoken aloud. It would be a different matter facing her mother’s piercing eyes, her excoriating tongue, her punishing hand. Never mind; she would do it. But first . . . With trembling fingers, Ferada took off the ring, weighing it a moment in her palm. She knelt; between the stones by the foot of the wall there was a deep crack, with moss growing thickly on either side. Ferada slipped the ring in; heard it drop down to rest, invisible, in the chink. Then she got to her feet and went inside.

  Gartnait and Dreseida were in the family’s allotted chamber. Dreseida and Ferada slept in the women’s quarters, along with the smaller boys, Talorgen and Gartnait in the men’s. But, as a noble family and kin of the king, they had certain apartments for their exclusive use; this was their principal meeting place. Her mother and brother fell silent as Ferada came in.

  “Well, well,” Dreseida said softly. “You’ve surprised me, daughter. It seems your errand may have succeeded. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  Ferada’s stomach clenched in dismay; she stared at Gartnait, at her mother, at Gartnait again. “What?” she said. “I don’t understand—”

  “The tale they’re putting about is that Bridei’s taken a sudden turn for the worse.” Dreseida’s voice was calm, but her eyes bore a gloating excitement that sickened Ferada. “At breakfast time he’s sitting up and receiving visitors; before midday he’s completely indisposed once more, the door barred, grim-faced guards on watch outside. I’d say we can expect an announcement soon. If our young friend’s received his last visit from Bone Mother, Broichan can hardly keep it secret beyond Midwinter. They’ll need a new candidate, or Drust the Boar will step in and take all.”

  “But—” Ferada protested; this was wrong, all wrong, it was the nightmare reborn. “It’s just—”

  “You were clever, daughter; remarkably clever. I heard about the queen’s little visit. That provided you with the perfect cover. Rhian is so noble and upright, no taint of wrong could ever touch her. Good work, my dear.”

  Ferada drew a deep breath. “So it wasn’t a love potion,” she said, thinking fast.

  Dreseida’s brows rose to an extravagant height; her lips twisted. “Come now, Ferada. You didn’t ever actually believe that, did you?”

  Ferada looked at her brother; he was pale, his jaw tight, his hands behind his back. She knew exactly how he was feeling; as she would have done, had she carried out her mission as instructed. “He’s your best friend,” she whispered.

  “He’s in my way” Gartnait’s tone was flat. “He always has been.” It was as if he were repeating a lesson memorized.

  “In your way for what? You’ll never be king. What about Carnach, Wredech, Ana’s kinsmen, any of them? Father’s never even considered—”

  “Hold your tongue!” Dreseida rapped out, and Ferada halted, eyes on her brother’s stricken features. He must know; surely he must know how hopeless it was. What had Dreseida told him, to bend him into believing he could do this? “Your brother has been working hard. And he is my son. He will be ready”

  “Mother,” Ferada said, knowing what she must tell them and yet unable to bring herself to do so, “why? Why do this? Do you hate Bridei so much?”

  Dreseida gave a grim smile. “Not for himself. For his mother. Anfreda took what was mine. She robbed me of my opportunity; she stole my future. Mincing little thing that she was, they were all panting after her as if she were a bitch in heat. It was disgusting. The prospect of a son of hers as ruler of Fortriu sickens me.”

  “Took what was yours? What do you mean? Maelchon?”

  “He was ready to offer for me; he’d told me as much. I would have been a queen. He was a powerful man, a real leader. As his wife, I’d have enjoyed immense influence. Then she came dancing along, the sweet little Anfreda, and he never looked at me again.”

  “But you wed Father.”

  “So I did,” Dreseida said through gritted teeth. “And I have my son, and it is my son who will be king of Fortriu, not her son. That is the will of the gods.”

  There was something in her face that frightened Ferada more than any threat, any blow. “Mother,” she said, “have you considered how this is for Gartnait? We have less than two days until the declarations. He’s never made a formal speech in his life. You can’t do this to him. It’s cruel and unfair.”

  “I can do it,” Gartnait snapped. His sister heard the desperation in his tone, for all his attempt at confidence, and her heart bled for h
im.

  “I will speak for Gartnait at Midwinter,” said Dreseida firmly. “Proxies are allowable, and I am of the royal line. I will present his claim in a way even Broichan cannot refute. All Gartnait need do is stand up at the assembly, give a prepared speech, and be present for the voting. I’m not a fool, daughter.”

  “No, Mother.” Ferada watched her brother shuffle his feet, make to say something, think better of it, and close his mouth. She was going to have to tell them. She had sworn to tell the truth . . . All she wanted to do was run away and hide, like a frightened child.

  “Mother,” she made herself say. “I don’t think Gartnait really wants to be king. And I don’t think he will be king.”

  “What is this foolishness? Of course he wants—”

  “Mother. I didn’t give Bridei the potion. He’s not dying; he’s gone off to look for Tuala. She ran away from Banmerren some time ago. I gave him the news, and he left.”

  Dreseida’s face had changed alarmingly during this speech; now it was distorted with furious disbelief. Her voice was deathly quiet. “Say that again, Ferada, and tell me it’s not true. Remember, as you speak, exactly what I’ve told you in the past about the consequences of disobedience.”

  “I’m not prepared to be a murderer, not even in the best of causes. Most certainly not in a hopeless cause such as this. Gartnait’s not suited for kingship, a blind woman could see that. Bridei’s gone back to Pitnochie. He won’t be here for the declarations. But, as you said, that need not matter. Proxies are acceptable. Maybe Father will do it.”

  Dreseida took a step toward her daughter. Her arm came back in preparation for a stunning blow; Ferada held her breath and stood quite still, unflinching.

  “No, Mother.” Gartnait put his hands on Dreseida’s arm, restraining her. “Not this way.” He glanced at Ferada. “Better go. Leave this to me. And keep your mouth shut, for everyone’s sake. You’ve done enough damage already.”

  Ferada paused a moment on the threshold, then, at the look in her mother’s eyes, she fled.

  WHEN FERADA WAS gone and the door safely closed behind her, Dreseida looked into her son’s eyes and said, “Your sister has failed me. You are my son. This is your chance to prove yourself. To show them what you can be.”

  Gartnait swallowed, then squared his shoulders. “I’ll find him. I’ll do it. I’ll make you all proud of me.”

  Dreseida nodded. “You’ll need to be quick; he has the advantage of you, it seems. You must go immediately, and when you have your chance, the deed must be carried out effectively and invisibly. It must be flawless. You understand? No taint of this must cling to you.”

  “Yes, Mother. I am a warrior proven; don’t forget that. I know what to do.”

  “Go, then.”

  “What about the presentations? I won’t be—”

  “Better, perhaps, if you are absent; it provides the justification for me to speak in your place. Of course, you must return in time for the assembly. Nine days; it is sufficient. With luck, you will overtake him long before he nears Pitnochie. He’s been ill; that will slow him. Others, too, may pursue him. Be on your guard for them.”

  “Farewell, Mother. I’ll do my best for you, I promise.”

  Dreseida sighed, and set a hand on her tall son’s shoulder. “Farewell, Gartnait. Ride swift and safely. The breath of the gods be at your back.”

  “The Shining One watch over you until I return.”

  OUTSIDE THE ENTRY to Broichan’s quarters stood two grim-faced guards: Gwrad, who was usually to be found in attendance on the king’s cousin Carnach, and another man whose scarred face and prominent ears identified him as Tharan’s man, Imbeg. They barred Fola’s way, until she raised her voice sufficiently to bring Talorgen out to investigate. Soon after, in Broichan’s inner chamber, the five of them were gathered once more: a secret council, now not so secret, as the change of guards must have alerted Caer Pridne to unusual happenings, at the very least.

  Fola seated herself by the empty pallet, now stripped of its bedding. The four men were standing. Of them all, only Uist seemed tranquil, a white form in the shadows by the hearth. Aniel was drumming his fingers on the table; Talorgen paced; Broichan, imperturbable Broichan, was twisting a scrap of green ribbon in his long fingers as if he wished to tear it to shreds, and his face was skull-like with strain.

  “How did you know?” he demanded almost before she had sat down.

  “How did I know what?” Fola kept her tone calm.

  “That he was missing. That he has somehow been taken, for all the assurances I had that these guards were expert; that they would allow no danger near him—”

  “You cannot blame Breth and Garth,” Aniel put in. “Their loyalty has been faultless. Besides, we don’t know yet what has happened—”

  “Our enemy has abducted him; perhaps already killed him.” Broichan’s voice shook. “What else could this be? How could they let it happen? Was nobody watching?”

  “Broichan.”

  At Fola’s tone, they all fell silent.

  “Bridei has not been abducted. He’s riding home to Pitnochie. He’s gone to find Tuala.”

  Nobody said a word. Broichan’s hands stilled; the ribbon hung between them.

  “I’ve seen this in the water. A true vision. I have come here to warn you that another must stand up for Bridei at Midwinter. By then he will be far from Caer Pridne, on a journey of his own.”

  “No!” Broichan exclaimed, striding toward her and fixing her with his dark eyes. Fola stared steadily back at him. “Impossible! Bridei is committed to this. He obeys the call of the Flamekeeper in all things. He would not—

  “He has done. He’s already well on the way; Talorgen’s daughter passed him the news of Tuala, and he was gone in a flash.”

  “What news?” asked Talorgen, frowning. “What could Ferada know?”

  Fola looked at him. “That Tuala has run away,” she said. “You were not told of this?”

  “You’re saying Bridei intends to ride all the way to Pitnochie?” Aniel queried. “He was much weakened by the injury and the illness that followed. He could barely walk, let alone undertake such a long and perilous ride in this inclement season. He’ll be slow; he can be overtaken, brought back—”

  “He’ll be hard to track,” said Fola, looking at Uist, who gazed back bright-eyed. “That’s if my vision gave me a true image of the mare he was riding.”

  “How long has the girl been gone?” Talorgen asked. “I can understand how this would distress Bridei. Was a search mounted?”

  Fola’s expression was suddenly very stern. She fixed her eyes on Broichan as if he were a student who had committed an unpardonable transgression. “Tell them,” she said, “since it seems this news I sent so urgently, near fourteen days ago, has traveled no farther than your own ears. Tell them how your foster daughter ran away from Banmerren alone at night. Tell them how my people searched and found not a single trace of her. Tell them where you think she went, and why. And explain to your trusted friends why it did not occur to you to pass this news to Bridei, kindly and carefully, when he came to himself, perhaps adding reassurances that you had sent out your own search parties promptly, just to soften the blow for him. Go on, Broichan. Truth is our code here; we are a council of five, bound through mutual trust to share all information pertinent to our cause. Tell them.”

  “The mare,” Broichan said, as if he had not heard her. “You let him take Spindrift. This is your doing . . .” He had turned his fierce gaze on the white-haired druid; his voice cut like a blade. “That creature would never carry another without your consent! How can we track him in time, if it is she who bears him there? You have betrayed me—” He took a step toward Uist, raising his hands, perhaps to seize the other by the shoulders and shake him, perhaps to deliver a harsher punishment, for the fizz and crackle of an angry spell seemed to inhabit the air around him. Uist’s eyes were full of deceptive, swirling movement; his fingers curled around the staff resting against th
e wall beside him and a silver light seemed to glow at its tip, where the egglike stone was lodged.

  “Stop it, the two of you,” said Fola wearily. “We don’t fight like little boys. This has not only been very poorly handled; it has been wrong from the first. Tuala’s place in it is critical. I did not read the signs correctly until now, when it is almost too late.”

  “What do you mean?” demanded Broichan. “Tuala has no part in our plans. If she is gone, it is for the best. There was no need to institute a search; no point in it. You know what she is. Those arguments, a long journey, the weather, are irrelevant for her kind. She’ll have gone back to her own folk. It was inevitable, eventually. It is Bridei who must concern us; only Bridei.”

  “Uist,” Fola said, “I suspect you have been aware of this small difficulty longer than I; otherwise your mare would not have made herself available. Perhaps my friend here will comprehend it better from another man.”

  “I know something of this girl’s history,” Uist said, setting the staff back against the wall. “Left on the doorstep at Midwinter under a full moon; found by Bridei. Raised in a druid’s house; educated by sages. Sent to Banmerren for that education to be completed. I’ve met the girl. She’s a remarkable little creature, wise, solemn, full of a natural sweetness and possessed of a beauty I have not been privileged to see since I first clapped eyes on Fola here as a comely young thing of sixteen.”