The Dark Mirror

by Juliet Marillier

  “Use what we have taught you,” came the voice of bald-headed, round-bellied Erip. “Water. Tides. Ebb and flow.”

  Ebb and flow . . . the Shining One . . . Bridei closed his eyes, imagined the full, round, majestic form of the goddess as he had seen her once at Midwinter, looking down on the quiet fields of Pitnochie. So lovely; so good; so wise. She would not let her daughter go thus, cruelly; she would not cut off the path so soon. I loved her as a baby, he said, and the bubbles bore his silent words upward to the light. I loved her as a little girl. I loved her as my heart-friend. I love her as a woman, and I love her as your daughter.

  “Look around you . . .” Wid’s dry voice, whispering in his ear. “Observe, boy, observe . . .”

  Darting fish, drifting weeds, dark rocks at the bottom, soft mud . . . there, by his foot, caught around the fastening of his boot, a cord, a string, tethering him . . . this was what held him down. Bridei reached, grasped, pulled. The little cord came loose in his hand, and he kicked off for the surface, clutching it as he rose. Now, now he could reach her . . . Where was she? . . . Where had they taken her? . . . Somewhere up above, beyond the water, a dog was barking . . .

  He surfaced, and felt the heat, saw the blaze of light even as his feet moved onto solid ground. The dog was here, not fish-tailed now but four-limbed, shaggy and white, standing before him as if to guard him, its voice too big for so diminutive a hound. He had seen it before, long ago in a vision, keeping faithful watch over a fallen warrior. Around them fire swirled and shimmered; great waves of heat throbbed from it. It was as if they stood in the roaring heart of the Flamekeeper himself. Tuala. Where had she gone? Into this mass of seething flame? Beyond place and time, on a journey he could not share? It could not be. It must not be. He was Bridei, son of Maelchon, raised in a druid’s house and destined to be Fortriu’s leader, and he would not let them take her. He filled his lungs with air, slowly, methodically, as Broichan had taught him to do. He looked down at the little dog, and the dog fell quiet, gazing up at him. Then, as one, they stepped forward into the fire.

  It was not pain, not exactly; more a sensation of stripping away, layer by layer, skin, flesh, veins, muscle, bone . . . mind, heart . . . all gone, all consumed in the white heat of purification, all sacrificed to the god’s will . . . save the one thing left, the essence, the courage, the spirit that lay deep inside each true son of Fortriu, each true daughter, marking them forever as children of the blood . . . it was the kernel, the seed, the core that meant they would always go on. Whatever the losses, whatever the pain, this truth inside ensured they would never be defeated . . . Fortriu, Bridei gasped as the flame seared through him. Fortriu . . . and felt the beating pulse of the fire as if his chest were a war drum, and the god’s blows raining on it hard and fast, sounding a furious music of challenge. Fortriu! Fortriu!

  His mouth was open, his jaw slack. There were twigs and leaves under his face. He was cold. His clothing was soaked, and someone was pressing on his sides with cruel hands, a rhythmic squeezing that hurt, gods, how it hurt, why couldn’t they stop, didn’t they know he was dead already, dead three times over or maybe four . . . A gush of foul-tasting liquid welled up in his throat and spilled out of his mouth, and he choked out, “Stop it, Gartnait . . . done enough . . .”

  The squeezing stopped. A pair of hands took hold of his shoulders, turning him onto his side. Then someone was trying to take off his wet clothes, the tunic, the cloak he still seemed to be wearing. Someone was saying, “Curse it, Bridei, help me a bit here, can’t you? Get this off, quick now, and this . . . If there were any gods I was prepared to give credence to, I’d be thanking them now, man . . .”

  The voice had a Gaelic twang to it, and was most certainly not Gartnait’s. Now Bridei was propped on his elbows, staring up at a sky that held the very last dusky traces of the sun’s sinking, and a small white dog was licking his face with a great deal of enthusiasm. A real dog, flesh and blood. Had he somehow set it free from its long vigil? A hundred years of waiting . . .

  He attempted to sit up. A dry tunic was slipped over his head, its warm folds blissful against his chill, damp skin. A moment later, a woolen cloak dropped around his shoulders, and he hugged it close. Who would have dreamed so simple a thing could be such a wondrous gift? He turned his head.

  “Don’t look that way,” said Faolan, who was in his shirtsleeves. “There’s a man dead.”

  Bridei looked; by the edge of the Dark Mirror Gartnait lay sprawled on his back, his red hair almost in the water, his eyes open on the night.

  “Beyond saving,” Faolan said. “Already gone by the time I fished him out. As for you, you’ve been even more of a fool than I thought you were. What in the name of all that’s holy happened here?”

  Bridei did not answer. He was staring down at the little thing still clutched in his hand, a talisman woven from two strands of strong cord, tied and twisted in an intricate pattern. “Tuala . . .” he whispered. “Where’s Tuala? Did you see her? Is she here?” His eyes scoured the rocks, the banks, the overgrown path; scanned the surface of the dark water.

  “Not a sign. Only our friend here, and eventually yourself, bobbing up in the middle of the pool. And the dog. It played its part in getting you out. Where’s it gone now?” Faolan peered into the deepening darkness. “Never mind,” he said. “The horses are not far off; we need to get you down to warmth and shelter before the last of the light goes. I don’t intend to forfeit my bag of silver just because you take it into your head to go swimming at Midwinter.”

  “Tuala,” said Bridei, his fingers working absently on the cords he held, knotting, binding, joining up the loose ends, as if such activity might help him think. “Tuala . . . I must find her . . . but where? Where have they taken her?”

  “Bridei,” said Faolan, his tone calm and kindly, as if he were humoring a wayward child, “Gartnait is dead. You are half drowned, and I’ve given you most of my own dry clothes. And it’s nearly dark. We must go down to the house. Now Horses. Come on.”

  From the top of the path the dog barked, its note high and urgent.

  “We must get you out of this cold air, and fast. Come on, Bridei. Lean on me.”

  “Air,” Bridei said. “Earth, water, fire . . . and air. Air is the final test. Air, wings, flight . . . the eagle . . . flying, falling . . . oh, gods . . .” He leaped to his feet and ran toward the path, and Faolan, cursing, ran after him.

  “HIGHER! HIGHER!” CALLED the voices. They were all around her, shrill, unavoidable. “Come up! Come up!” It was so dark she could scarcely see the path before her. Her hands were hurting and her feet could barely carry her. But something outside her was pulling Tuala forward now, a force too strong to resist. It was time to step across. It was time to leave the bad things behind.

  As a child she had scaled Eagle Scar without a thought, agile as a marten. It was different now. Her feet slipped, jarring her body; her hands were slippery with blood and could not grip the rocks; her breath rasped in her chest. Her teeth were clenched so tightly her jaw ached from it. Where were Woodbine and Gossamer? Why hadn’t they come, when they had promised to help her? There was no sign of them; only the voices, singing, calling, shrieking, ringing painfully in the bones of her skull. Upward, upward: one faltering step, one feeble handhold, one shuddering breath. There was no choice; she must go on.

  At last Tuala reached the rock slab at the top of the Scar, the place where two children had sat side by side on summer days, sharing a frugal meal and each other’s silent company. Summer . . . those sunlit times, that simple happiness seemed now the stuff of dreams, long ago, far away, never to be reached again. Tuala slumped to the ground, her legs too weary to hold her.

  “Up! Up!” screamed the voices. “Higher! Higher!”

  There was nowhere else to go. Nowhere, save for the little rocky pinnacle where she had stood, as a child, turning and turning in the wind, while Bridei pretended he was not scared she would fall.

  “Up! Up!”

/>   She forced herself upright; stepped onto that topmost rock. So small; she had not remembered it was so small, or so high. Below her the Scar fell away into utter darkness. Above, the last traces of light ebbed from a sky the color of shadow, the color of sleep, the color of Bone Mother’s eyes.

  “Ahhh . . .” The voices sighed as Tuala stood shivering under her damp cloak, her arms wrapped around her body. “Now . . . now is the time . . . Come . . . step over . . .”

  Step over? Step where? Her fingers tightened on the fabric of the cloak; her feet shifted uneasily on the wet surface of the rock. Tuala had never been afraid of heights; indeed, had never understood what such a fear was. Now, suddenly, her head reeled and her stomach churned as she looked down into an abyss of shadows. Step over . . . What could they mean?

  “Do it now, Tuala!” This was Gossamer’s voice, light but insistent, not an invitation but an order. “You know you can. Do what you did for us at Banmerren. Shut your eyes, stretch out your arms, and fly! Fly across to us, my sister! Forget weariness! Leave pain and sorrow behind! Now, Tuala, now!”

  It didn’t really matter, Tuala thought vaguely Who would care if she flew or fell? Nothing would change in the world, whether she became the owl of her imagination and soared into the night sky, crossing an invisible margin to the land beyond dreams, or tumbled down to the rocks below Eagle Scar, a sprawling, broken thing of no account. Whatever happened, Bridei would go on without her. They would tell him, and he would shed a tear or two and then forget. He would be king; his life would be too full for such small sorrows. Tuala drew a deep breath, screwed her eyes shut, opened her arms wide.

  Something brushed against her ankles, soft as a feather yet insistent and real. It set her off balance. “Ah!” she gasped, teetering on the rocks. Her eyes snapped open; she fought to keep her footing. Mist sprang up without warning and as she caught the cat in her arms Tuala felt the stab of claws, sudden and sharp on her hands. This pain was somehow worse than anything, like a last blow, a final betrayal by those she had loved and trusted. Mist clung on; the claws dug deeper. Gods, it hurt . . .

  “Now, Tuala!” the voices screamed. “Now, now! Fly!”

  She couldn’t move. Frozen here in place, with the night wind tearing at her cloak and her feet slipping on the rocks and the cat’s claws piercing her chilblained hands, Tuala recognized the truth. She could feel this; the pain, the sorrow, the fear of falling, the terror of the unknown. She could feel it, and the other side of it, the hearth fire, the feasts of oaten bread and crisp apples, the old men’s wry laughter, and Bridei . . . Bridei’s smile . . . Bridei’s touch . . . Bridei’s kiss . . . Tuala’s grip tightened, hugging the soft, warm body of the cat against her chest. She loved those things. The pain, the fear, the wisdom, the joy were part of her, part of being alive. Part of being human. Whatever she was, wherever she had come from, surely it was in this world she belonged, not the other.

  “Come now, Tuala!” called Gossamer, and Tuala thought she could discern, on the very margin of her vision, a glimpse of unearthly brightness, a flash of brilliant color; she could hear snatches of a wondrous music, a song such as one might ache to hear again, such solace it brought to the weary heart. She thought there was a sweet smell in the air, like every kind of spring flower mixed into one and borne on the balmiest breeze that ever crossed over the meadows of the Glen. All good things lay just beyond that margin . . . How foolish to throw it away, just because . . . just because . . .

  “Come, Tuala.” Woodbine’s lower tone, gentle, beguiling, warm with promise. “One step, that’s all it takes. You know this is best for him, best for the two of you . . . Come home, dearest child . . .”

  She closed her eyes. Mist . . . Mist must be left behind again. She set the cat down by her feet, straightened, spread out her arms once more.

  “Good, good,” Woodbine murmured. “Close your eyes and take my hand . . .”

  “Tuala!”

  Her heart drummed; her head reeled. Sudden tears blinded her eyes.

  “Tuala, don’t leave me! I love you!”

  His voice was distorted by terror, but she knew it instantly. He was here. After all, he had come for her. Tuala turned her head, peering into the darkness. The wind clutched at her clothing, hard and insistent. She staggered. To fall now, now that the miracle had happened, would be too cruel . . .

  “Take my hand.” This wasn’t Woodbine but a stranger, reaching out to her, grasping both her hands, helping her down from the pinnacle onto the relative safety of the flat rock. His hands were warm and strong; Tuala clung to them, her whole body shaking. When she found her voice, it was the hiccupping, uneven tone of a terrified child.

  “Bridei?” she said.

  The other man stepped back, and Bridei was here, his arms tight around her, his heart thudding against her cheek, his mouth against her hair. He was breathing hard, perhaps weeping; she felt a deep shivering in him that spoke of desperation. Her own clutching embrace was as wild; the feelings that surged through her were too strong to be named, too jumbled to make sense of All that mattered was that she was alive, and that he had come for her. She buried her face against the breast of his tunic, and felt his hands gentle in the long flow of her hair, and heard him whisper in a tone he had never used before, “Tuala . . . Tuala . . .” Hoarse and ragged as it was, it sounded like a prayer.

  After a little the other man cleared his throat. “Bridei,” he said, and Tuala became aware that Bridei was as cold as ice, and that the other man appeared to be wearing neither tunic nor jacket nor cloak against the piercing chill of solstice night. Oddly, there was a small dog sitting politely by Bridei’s feet. “We must go,” the stranger went on. “Your young lady’s in as bad a state as you are. I thank my masters I’m contracted only to protect you until the assembly, for the prospect of trying to keep the two of you in order fills me with alarm. Back to the horses, now. We need a fire and dry clothing. Can you manage the climb down?”

  It seemed to be her the fellow meant. Tuala opened her mouth to say, of course she could, but when she tried to set one foot before the other, everything swayed and turned around her, and it was only Bridei’s arm that kept her from falling. Mist had headed off down the steep path already; the little white dog sat patiently, its eyes intent on Bridei. Its pale form shone in the darkness like a dim beacon.

  “I will—” Bridei began, but his companion preempted him, scooping Tuala up in capable arms and moving to the track.

  “You’ll do nothing of the kind. I’m in charge here, at least until we’re back at Caer Pridne. Get yourself safely down to the horses and leave the lady to me. You’ll have time enough for each other back at the house. Go on, Bridei. You’re dropping from exhaustion, for all your efforts to hide it. Nobody expects you to exhibit the strength of the Flamekeeper himself. Not yet, anyway.”

  “The house . . .” Tuala whispered as she was carried down the steep way. “Nobody there . . . all closed up . . .”

  “There are people there now,” the man said. “A fire, food, warm beds. Leave it to us, my lady. We’ll see you safe.”

  She closed her eyes, submitting to the unimaginable luxury of not having to make all the choices alone. At the foot of the track, three horses waited. “Lucky,” she murmured, smiling to see the familiar mottled coat and angular form of Donal’s old friend.

  “Lucky indeed,” said the man who was carrying her. He lifted her up onto a white mare, a lovely creature who stood gentle and quiet as Bridei was helped to mount; as Bridei’s arms came around Tuala’s waist, holding her close against him, and the other fellow sprang to Lucky’s back, holding the reins of the third horse. “What about . . . ?” this man now queried, glancing at Bridei.

  “In the morning. Some of the men can go back up for him. We must get Tuala to shelter, she’s freezing and hurt.”

  “Not to mention a small matter of yourself, a near-drowning, and a certain blow to the head. Come, then. Make your way carefully; it’s pitch dark down there under th
e trees.”

  The creature that bore her and Bridei seemed more akin to that other realm, Tuala thought as they moved slowly onward, the world whose music and light, whose wonders and secrets she had glimpsed, just for a moment, before the power of her own world had drawn her back. Above her as she rode the voices still called, not angry or disappointed or accusatory as she might have expected, but chanting a song of recognition and farewell, a kind of salute in which nothing could be heard but her name and his, and all around them a wordless garland of melody.

  And, after all, the night was not so full of shadows that the way home could not be found. The little dog trotted ahead, quiet now Its bobbing white form seemed to carry its own light, guiding the riders on safe ways until they reached the forest’s margin and saw below them the flaming torches, the watchful guards, the thatched roof and rising smoke of Broichan’s house under the oaks. There were no snowdrifts about the steps; there was no iron bar across the doorway. As they rode up to the entry, the door swung open and warm light streamed out toward them, accompanied by voices and the excited barking of Pitnochie’s three hounds, which erupted from within. The little dog stood its ground, stalwart and defiant between the white horse and danger. Then, as Bridei slid down from the mare and held up his arms to Tuala, a dark figure appeared in the doorway, his form outlined by the golden light from hearth fire and welcoming lamp. Broichan watched in silence as his foster son caught Tuala up in his arms and carried her across the threshold into the house.

  The warmth, the noise, the savory smells made Tuala’s head dizzy; abruptly, she was aware of her exhaustion, the aches and pains all over her body, an urgent need for a drink of water. Everything moved in confusion around her; the only certainty was Bridei’s arms, holding her safe as he carried her through to the hall and set her down on a bench as carefully as if she were a cargo of new-laid eggs. And Bridei’s voice, giving a series of sharp orders. Of Broichan, she heard nothing at all.