Fola gave a snort.
“Get on with it,” Aniel said testily. “We need Bridei back; tell us how it’s to be done.”
“I will fetch him.” Broichan’s tone was commanding. “There’s no need for anyone else to be involved.”
“We are a council of five,” Talorgen said grimly. “Let us not forget that. Uist, finish what you were saying.”
“I asked myself why the Shining One had set such an unusual pathway before this girl. Tuala’s a good child, and she loves our young man, that much is plain, for all her efforts to guard her eyes when she speaks of him.”
“Loves him? Like a sister?”
“No, Aniel, not like a sister. With the passionate devotion of one who will in time be heart-friend, lover, and wife. With the dedication of one who will stand by him through all the trials and tests of kingship. And he loves her; have I not lain awake these fourteen nights in company with his dreams? Bridei needs this girl. Without her, our perfect king will fail.”
“Utter nonsense!” Broichan’s outrage was almost palpable. Ordinary men would have shrunk before his glare. His companions stared at him, their expressions ranging from concern to horrified recognition. He was fallible. The king’s druid had made an error, and now, unless the right moves were effected skillfully and with speed, the long game would be lost. “She’s a child of the Good Folk! She’d never be accepted as queen! Bridei would make himself a laughingstock!”
“Is he not strong enough to weather this?” Fola asked. “Do you think so little of your own creation that you would throw away the game for fear he would buckle under the disapproval of a few narrow-minded courtiers? He’s strong, Broichan, strong in himself. And so is she. Together, I believe they will walk forward rich in the love of the gods, and make a powerful force for change.”
“It seems rather odd, I must confess: one of them as the king’s wife,” mused Aniel. “Persuading the court that it’s a sound idea will certainly be a challenge. But I trust your judgment, Fola. What must we do?”
“Let Bridei go,” Fola said. “Leave him to follow his own journey; to find her and bring her back.”
“Have you lost your wits entirely?” Broichan shouted, fist coming down on the table with a crash. “Bridei is sick; he’s confused in his mind. We’ve endured many nights of dark dreams; no wonder he has acted so irrationally now. Have you forgotten what it was that laid him low in the first place? To make such a journey alone is to be wide open to attack. Besides, how will he fend for himself when he is too weak to walk more than two paces before his legs give way under him? I must go after him.”
“Even you won’t track him easily,” Uist said. “Spindrift is only found when she wants to be. That’s why she can’t be confined to stables.”
“Then I will go to Pitnochie and wait for him.” Broichan had taken a cloak from a peg and suddenly his staff, a fine length of dark oak carven with many small signs and patterns, was in his hand. “I will travel at speed; I will not go by the paths of men. I will make the boy see sense. And I will bring him back in time for the assembly. One of you must stand up for him at Midwinter. The girl’s hold over him is stronger than I believed; who knows what unpredictable paths she may lead him down if her wild influence is left unchecked? Gods, that it should come to this, at the very last! It seems your daughter has played a part in this debacle, Talorgen. You’d best bid Ferada put a curb on her tongue before she wreaks any more havoc.”
Talorgen stiffened; his fists came up.
“Broichan.” Fola rose to her feet and moved between them. “You must not go. Bridei will be far better served if you leave him to follow this path alone. He will return in time for the assembly; he is dedicated to the future for which you have prepared him. Don’t you trust your own son?”
Nobody corrected her. After a moment Broichan said, “I trust him. It is Tuala I do not trust. I saw from the first that she was my enemy. I knew she would meddle. My error lay in letting her stay too long in my home; in letting her worm her way into his affections . . .”
“You speak like a jealous lover,” Fola said bluntly. “Ask yourself why you did so; why you did not turn the infant out of your house. Was it because you loved the boy and wished to keep him happy? Or was it because, deep within you, you recognized this was the will of the Shining One?”
“While we waste time in futile argument,” Broichan said coldly. “Bridei travels alone across snow-covered fields, confused and sick. I’ll have no more of this.”
“You will go, regardless of our advice?”
“I will go, and ensure our long efforts are not wasted. I will go, and bring back our future king.” He swept out of the chamber, plaited hair swinging about his black-clad shoulders, long cloak swirling behind him like an angry storm cloud. The others stared at one another, stunned into silence.
“On one point at least, he’s right,” Aniel said eventually. “Bridei’s in danger of attack out there, random or planned. We should at least—”
“Faolan,” said Talorgen. “He’ll take charge of that, as best anyone can under the circumstances. I’ll send Gwrad to fetch him. You may say, let him do it alone, Falai but even you must agree a protector wouldn’t go amiss.”
“I bow to the judgment of a warrior.”
“Who will stand up for him at Midwinter? Are we agreed on Carnach?”
There was a tap at the door and, to their surprise, it was Ferada who entered, with Gwrad behind her, his expression apologetic. They stared. Talorgen’s daughter was known for her immaculate appearance, her elegant dress, her excellent bearing, a mirror of her mother’s. Now her hair was disheveled, her face ghost-pale save for the swollen and reddened eyes. Her skirt was stained and she hugged a shawl around her shoulders with white-knuckled hands. She was shivering as if she had been long outdoors in the cold. Fola gave a hushed exclamation of dismay. Talorgen started forward in alarm.
“Ferada! What’s wrong?”
“Father,” Ferada said in a voice that was cracked and distorted from long weeping, “I need to speak to you in private. There’s something I have to tell you.”
THERE HAD BEEN MORE snow in the night. As she came along the lake shore, passing beneath thickly needled pines, Tuala could hear the soft plopping sound as boughs released the weight of it to the ground below. She did not know how long she had been walking. She had lost count of the days. Small drifts clutched at her boots, sucking them deep, and her skirt was clammy around her legs. Her breath made a cloud in the chill air; her ears ached and her nose streamed. She was nearly there. These tall pines, this white-blanketed slope, that stretch of dark water were familiar; the voices of birds screaming high above, beyond the treetops, were calling her home. Home . . . some sort of home . . . no cold, no hunger, no pain . . . no death . . . It was strange to imagine that. Immortality: a state men yearned for, an impossible gift to be dreamed of and never attained . . . That was what the Good Folk had offered her. And yet, at this moment, it meant nothing. All she wanted was a warm hearth and dry stockings, and to see him again, just once, just one more time before the end . . .
THE DRUID STOOD in the doorway, looking up the hill to the northeast. For some time he had known that the girl was coming; that she was on the border of his land. He himself had traveled from Caer Pridne in several forms, first as fleet hunting hound, then as white-pelted hare, last as snowy owl, flying through the woods of Pitnochie and up to his own front door, where he rendered wings into dark cloak, bird-guise into man-form, before stepping inside and giving Mara such a fright she dropped a bowl of onions. He had seen no sign of Bridei, but he had passed over Tuala on the way, pausing on a branch to watch her dogged, miserable progress; noting that she seemed to be talking to herself, as if the long, solitary journey had begun to addle her wits. By now she must be almost at Pitnochie; soon the house would be in her view. He must ensure she never reached it. Broichan raised his arms and closed his eyes. Breathing deeply, he summoned the words of an ancient spell of glamor.
> When it was done to his satisfaction, he went back inside and bolted the door behind him, although it was still day. He had done what must be done to protect his boy from the meddling influence that sought to set his path awry. He had fulfilled his responsibility to the gods. Nothing and nobody must be allowed to stand in the way of this perfect king.
TUALA ROUNDED A corner and there, below her, were the walled fields, and Fidich’s cottage, and the deceptive trees that cloaked the druid’s house. Sheep huddled for shelter in the lee of the barn. The neat brown forms of ducks were clustered together under the bushes by the frozen pond. Home . . . She could see the oaks where she had sat long, waiting for Bridei to finish his lessons. She could see the yard where he and Donal had rehearsed their intricate dances of war. She could see the house now, Broichan’s house, where she had sat by the hearth with her two old sages and learned of matters mysterious and enchanting, diverting and solemn . . . Where she had perched on a bench by Bridei’s side, long ago, and listened to a story . . . And there on the doorstep, what did he find . . . A baby . . . Tuala screwed up her eyes; she would not cry, crying was weak, and if she was to do this, she would at least do it with courage and dignity. The house . . . she was quite close now . . . and it was cold; her bones seemed to have turned to ice, and she could not stop shivering . . . The Dark Mirror, they had said before they abandoned her. We’ll see you at the Dark Mirror. She should go on, then, up the hill and over to the west, so she could be sure of getting there before dusk. There would be no finding the way by night, with the moon in darkness. She must waste no time. But . . . just beyond that door was the hearth fire of Pitnochie, shelter, warmth, dry clothes, probably hot soup and newly baked bread. That they did not want her hardly seemed to matter. Mara could always be relied upon to exercise plain common sense. There might not be a rapturous welcome, but Mara, she thought, would at least see her warm and dry before she went on her way. The thought of the fire made her tremble with weariness. Surely just a quick visit would do no harm. It needn’t take long. She hesitated a moment, then turned down between the leafless oaks toward the kitchen door.
There was no sign of guards, nor any tracks of their boots in the soft snow. Across the door an iron bar had been set, a new one, on the outside. Tuala raised a feeble hand to knock, and lowered it again. She was standing in a snowdrift, up and over the doorstep where she had once lain cradled in swansdown. She stepped back; looked up. No smoke arose from the rooftop; on this coldest of days, the fires had not been lit. Glancing across the fields to Fidich’s house, she saw that there, too, no haze lingered above the roof thatch; no sign of habitation moved near that small dwelling. Tuala walked around Broichan’s house, peering up at the few places where window openings were set in its thick walls of stone and earth. Each was shuttered tightly; the inside would be as black as night. Lamps might be burning; but why no fire?
Only the tiny window of Bridei’s old sleeping chamber was uncovered, and that was set too high for her to see in. Back at the door, she knocked, the need to rouse them suddenly urgent. This was like one of those tales, the frightening ones where the world changes while one sleeps, to become entirely empty save for the one lonely wanderer through a sudden nightmare; or those where a girl steps into another realm where time moves more slowly, and when she comes home all the familiar faces are long dead. There was an odd hush about the place, as if everything were holding its breath. She knocked again; there was no response. Perhaps her efforts had been too weak to be heard. Tuala found a heavy stick and used it to beat a loud rat-atat on the solid oak boards. Once, twice, three times she sent her sharp message. The sound of it echoed away under the snow-clad trees and into the silence of the woods. There was nobody home.
Tuala went over to the barn. Here, at least, there was some sign of life, the sheep pressed tight on one another for warmth, and a small bird hunting for insects in a pile of rotting wood. Perhaps the men were within, tending to horses or other stock. Pearl must still be here, and Blaze . . . But the barn, too, was shut up, the big double doors fastened and chained; peeping through a chink in the wood, Tuala could glimpse neither man nor horse, neither sheep nor dog nor chicken in the empty space inside. Her heart as cold as her shaking limbs, Tuala hugged her cloak more tightly around her and set her steps away from Pitnochie, up through the wilder reaches of the forest, where strong dark oaks were joined by silvery pale birches and thickets of spiky holly bright with winter berries. Don’t go past the hollies, Tuala . . . Where had that come from? Was she a child again, to be held back by keepers, her every move governed by Broichan’s will? Today she was a woman, and she would go on. She would leave this world where there was no longer a place for her, and journey to the realm where she had always truly belonged . . . then she would never be cold again . . . oh, but to see him, just once, just once more, a little glimpse, that was all she needed . . .
It seemed to take a long time, although Tuala judged the unseen sun to be only at its midpoint when she made her way gingerly down the narrow track into the Vale of the Fallen. Her feet slid on the muddy surface; her hands reached out for balance, clutching wildly, and she felt the stinging whip of briars against already damaged flesh. Foolishly, that brought the tears she had sworn she would not shed. She sniffed, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, and stumbled on to the foot of the track.
The little valley was deserted. The pool lay dark and still; the ancient rocks brooded in silence, crouched under their mossy cloaks. The swathing creeper had spread more widely since she had last visited this place, and now blanketed one of the seven druid stones with its exuberant, glossy growth. There was no sign of Gossamer and Woodbine. There was no sign of anyone.
Tuala sank to the ground on the rim of the Dark Mirror. There was no choice but to wait, and hope they would keep their word. They had said they would meet her here and guide her across the margin. They had not said when.
Perhaps it was meant that she should keep vigil thus alone in this place of ancient truth. Had she not longed for a vision of the one she loved: a last image, so she had something to carry with her into that other world? It was unthinkable that, once passed across, she would not remember him. Now, then, now she must seek it. No matter that, last time she had tried, this gift had deserted her completely. Sit quiet, breathe deep, open the eye of the spirit. And find him. Find him . . .
The day passed. Tuala moved beyond cold; beyond weariness; almost beyond the world where she sat cross-legged on the rocks, staring into the chill water. In the deep, sheltered rift that housed the pool, nothing stirred. No bird hopped between the twists of vine, seeking what fodder might be found in the hungry season; no insect hovered above the dark water; no small fish, darting for cover, rippled the still surface. No image came; not a single one. There seemed nothing to do but sit, and breathe, and wait. Sit until her back became a rod of fiery pain; breathe ever more shallowly, for to gasp in this air was to fill the lungs with ice; wait, until at last they took pity and came for her. The sun was sinking lower; the shortest of days was nearing its end, and the little glen had grown shadowy and strange. Tuala’s head drooped; her eyelids were closing, she could not stay awake . . .
Abrupt as the flare of a torch, color flashed across the water’s surface. She blinked, lifting her head; the small effort of that set her heart pounding. She stared into the pool.
He was standing in a great hall, no doubt at Caer Pridne. His clothing was rich, a far cry from the plain, serviceable garments of his days at Pitnochie. He wore blue: a fine-spun woolen tunic and trousers, and over this a short soft cloak of dark gray, braid-edged and clasped with a silver brooch wrought in the form of an eagle in flight. His curling brown hair was plaited down his back. Ah, his eyes, so bright, so full of hope and courage, as if it were the Flamekeeper himself who looked out thus, the very bearer of Fortriu’s dreams! Those eyes were bluer than the deep sea; bluer than the summer sky; as blue as the petals of a wood violet. There were folk around him and they seemed to be in a jubil
ant mood, perhaps offering congratulations. There was Broichan, his usually impassive features full of a pride quite undisguised; there was Talorgen, smiling, and Fox Girl looking elegant in green, and Gartnait with his mischievous small brothers. Many other folk were there, clustering about, offering Bridei their hands, speaking words Tuala could not hear, but which she knew for, Well done, Bridei! We knew you were the one, right from the first! An auspicious day!
She saw him turn a little to the side, reach out a hand, give a sweet smile. He saved his smiles; folk did not see them often. A moment later, there she was in the vision: Ana of the Light Isles, all rippling ash-pale hair and white silk gown, her lovely face a vision of creamy skin and rose-flushed cheeks, her grave eyes looking up at Bridei as if he were the only man in the world. He took her hand; she spoke a word or two; he answered. Tuala could see the look in his eyes. He lifted his other hand, brushing Ana’s cheek with gentle fingers. His wrist was bare of adornment. The green ribbon was gone.
As the image faded, leaving Tuala empty, hollow, drained of the last scrap of anything that mattered, a voice seemed to sound from the top of the path, the rim of the vale. “Come! Higher up! Follow me!”
There was one more part to this: one last, small ritual to be enacted. With numb fingers Tuala reached into the pouch at her belt and drew out the little talisman of woven cord, the record of her oldest friendship. After long parting, the two strands had been brought together one last time to twine and cling with wondrous delicacy, as if born to be one. Full moon . . . And after that they separated once more, each going on its own journey The cords had almost reached their natural endings, and were beginning to fray into nothing. Tuala closed her fist tightly around the little thing, gritted her teeth, then threw the cord out into the middle of the Dark Mirror. For all its light weight, the talisman sank like a stone, making a spreading ripple.
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