“Cinioch, take Brenna over to the cottage and fetch dry clothes for Tuala, there’ll be nothing small enough here. Mara, we need warm water, she’s frozen through. And we need some things for Faolan here, he’s given me most of what he was wearing . . .”
Looking about, Tuala saw that the house was decked for the season. Wreaths hung over the doors and windows, glossy leaves, scarlet berries; by the hearth a great Midwinter log stood ready for the dousing and ceremonial rekindling of the house fires. A rich aroma of roast meat and fruit puddings came from the kitchen; it was clear to her that there had been folk in the house and yards all day, preparing for this ritual. The empty barn, the deserted fields, the shuttered windows had been a trick, a vision sent to lead her away from Pitnochie and up to the Dark Mirror. Had Gossamer and Woodbine done this? Why would they be so cruel? Unless it had all been a trick, the coaxing, the enticement, the long, lonely journey. Perhaps it had been a test . . . a test of loyalty . . .”
“Bridei,” Faolan was saying, “leave this to me, will you? The one who most needs dry clothing and warm water is yourself”
“Indeed.” Broichan spoke at last, his deep voice awakening Tuala’s old dread. The druid despised her; he wanted her gone. Nothing had changed. She turned her head into Bridei’s chest, hating her own weakness, and felt his arms tighten around her where he sat cradling her on the bench. “Whatever has passed here today, my household will provide warmth and shelter for you all,” the druid said. “The women will tend to Tuala. As for you, Bridei, to undertake this journey straight from your sickbed was not the act of a rational man. You are not yourself. You must eat, drink, and rest. Leave the decisions to others, for now at least. Time enough for talk in the morning.”
Bridei made no move.
“I mean it, Bridei. Let Mara take Tuala. You must rest and recover yourself.”
“I am no longer a child.” Bridei’s voice was cool, controlled: the voice of a man, and a leader. In the chamber around him there was a sudden deep silence; her eyes tightly shut, Tuala sensed that everyone was watching him. “There is a reckoning to be made here, and it will not wait for morning. Mara! I pass Tuala into your care and Brenna’s for now. Faolan, stay as close to them as decency permits. Not a hair of her head is to be harmed, not an unkind word spoken in her presence. Know, all of you, that in seven days’ time I will stand up as a candidate for the kingship of Fortriu. From this moment on, Tuala is under my protection. You will treat her with courtesy, respect, and love. You should feel deepest shame that there is any need for me to tell you this.” His arms loosed themselves gently; he stood, keeping one of Tuala’s hands in his. She opened her eyes on a circle of faces frozen in surprise, save for Mara’s; Mara was already setting a pile of folded cloths to warm by the fire, and pushing the tumble of dogs—four now—out of her way. The housekeeper glanced at the impassive form of Faolan.
“And who’s he?” she demanded. “There’s never been a place for Gaels in this household, and I don’t see why that should change now.”
“Faolan is my friend,” Bridei said simply. “He takes care of my business. You can trust him. And now . . .”
Releasing Tuala’s hand, he turned his sweet smile on her in reassurance. “I won’t be long,” he whispered. Then he walked across the room toward Broichan. It was an impressive effort; Tuala, holding her breath, could see what it cost him now to stay straight and steady. A sickbed? What sickbed? What had Faolan meant earlier about a blow to the head?
“Come,” Bridei said to his foster father, and the two of them went into Broichan’s private chamber. The door closed behind them.
“Tell me,” Tuala asked the Gael as a flurry of activity began around them. “What’s wrong with him? What happened?”
“Bath first, questions later,” snapped Mara as a clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen indicated Ferat had returned to preparing the Midwinter feast. “And not only do we not have Gaels watching women undress in my hall, at such times we don’t have men anywhere near at all. Off with you! Uven, take this fellow through to the sleeping quarters and find him something presentable to wear, he looks like a drowned rat. What have you all been doing, fishing for serpents in the lake? Go on, now!”
“You heard what he said.” Faolan’s tone was level.
“I did, and it wasn’t necessary. I know what’s right, I always have done. I’m insulted that the lad thinks he can’t trust me.”
“Things are changing,” said the Gael. “You’ll need to get used to it.”
“Maybe they’re not changing so much,” Mara muttered, glancing at the inner door. “Now off with you, all of you. No men in here until I say we’re ready. Black Crow save us, Tuala, what have you done to yourself? You’re as skinny as a plucked wren, and as for those boots . . . Brenna, come and help me here, will you? Send Cinioch for the clothes. Ferat! When’s that hot water coming?”
Tuala glanced at the Gael, who was still standing in the center of the room, stony-faced, his arms folded. “It’s all right,” she told him. “You can go. I’ll be safe here. And thank you. It seems you are a loyal friend to him.”
Faolan nodded, saying nothing, then turned on his heel and followed Uven out of the chamber.
“There’s no teaching a Gael good manners,” Mara observed. “And where did that come from?” The little white dog had disentangled itself from the bigger hounds and now stood by Tuala’s feet, looking up bright-eyed.
“Far away,” Tuala said, recalling the visions of the Dark Mirror, both her own and those Bridei had recounted. “Very, very far. I think Bridei has released him from a terrible duty.”
“Mm,” said Mara as Ferat and his assistants appeared with a large, shallow pan and ewers of warm water. “There’s a dog howls up in the woods, night after night. Folk say it’s been there a hundred years.” She eyed the creature dubiously.
“I don’t think he’ll howl any longer,” said Tuala. “I think at last he’s come home.”
I WILL NOT ASK,” BRIDEI said, ‘why you sent her away from Pitnochie again, nor why you thought to arrange a marriage for her while I was gone from home. I will not ask why, when you heard she had run away, you did not exert yourself to search for her. You need not explain why you failed to tell me she was lost; why you lied to me. I have never understood your reasons for distrusting Tuala so. It is clear to me in all respects that she carries the blessing of the Shining One within her; that she walks a path of light and can bring us only good. You are the king’s druid. Knowledge of the gods lies deep in your heart and courses strongly in your blood. Where have I learned those ways, but through you? That you have never been able to recognize the truth about Tuala is a mystery to me. You have disappointed me, Broichan. And you have awoken misgivings in me that are disturbing. I wonder if perhaps you do not realize that I am no longer a child, but am become a man. I wonder if you do not recognize that a man who would be king must in time learn to think for himself.”
“Sit down, Bridei.”
To refuse would be churlish; besides, common sense told Bridei his legs would not hold him up much longer. It had been apparent, from the moment that last, terrifying race up Eagle Scar was over and he held Tuala safe in his arms, how much the success of his journey had owed to the remarkable Spindrift and, at the end, to Faolan. Bridei knew he was weak and exhausted. Nonetheless, he had been trained in self-control: trained by the best there was. What must be faced now was a contest, and he had no intention of losing it.
“Now,” Broichan said, sitting opposite him at the table and pouring mead into a pair of cups, “I hope you will hear me out, for all your talk of not seeking explanations.”
“I want none. There can be none that make any sense to me. She was in our care; entrusted to us by the goddess. You knew what she meant to me. You ensured, by your machinations, by your inaction, by your silences, that Tuala was almost lost forever. You caused her untold grief and pain. If you expect forgiveness, you will be disappointed. If you expect compliance, you are a
fool.”
Broichan sighed. “Bridei,” he said, “we have seven days until the assembly. Your earlier words told me you have not forgotten that fact, although your impetuous actions suggest you have lost sight of its significance. Seven days, Bridei. It is winter. Drust the Boar will already be at Caer Pridne, coaxing, cajoling, bribing, turning men against you, gathering support for his own cause. Every day you are away from court, your opponent’s influence increases. The election will not wait for us. We must get back to Caer Pridne as soon as we can. You need to be there, to be seen and heard, to work on the hearts and minds of those who can still be turned. To come here was folly. To stay here any longer than you must would be the death of our hopes. The death of Fortriu’s future.”
Bridei was silent a moment, regarding his hands, which were relaxed on the table before him. He did not touch the mead. ‘An overstatement, surely” he said. “There are other good candidates.”
“That’s disingenuous, Bridei. Carnach will stand up as your proxy at the presentation, not in his own name. It is my considered opinion, and that of all in my close circle, that the only other claimant will be Drust the Boar. Both of us know, all of us know that you are the Flamekeeper’s chosen candidate. This has been fifteen years in the preparation; far longer in the planning. Your country needs you. Your people need you. I recognize that you do require a little time to rest, to regain your strength. One day, two, no more. Then we must ride back to court.”
Bridei said nothing.
Broichan steepled his fingers; his expression did not change. “There is the question of Tuala. I understand that. I give you my personal assurance that she will be provided with shelter here for as long as it is necessary. As for her future, now is not the time to consider that. She’d far better have remained at Banmerren, where there was a place for her. Her escapade has lost us precious time. Never mind that; it can wait. After the assembly, when you are king, this can be attended to.”
“I don’t intend to let her out of my sight,” Bridei said.
“She cannot travel to court with us.” Broichan’s tone was blunt. “She will not be accepted there in any capacity whatever. One glance, and it’s apparent she bears the blood of the Good Folk. What would the voters from Circinn think of that? Even our own view her with distrust. Why else do you imagine she had to leave Pitnochie?”
“I think,” Bridei spoke slowly, weighing each word, “that such distrust arises only if it is allowed to do so. Your people love and respect you. A word or two from you would have been all that was needed to set such misgivings at rest. Instead, you sent her away. You robbed her of the only home she had ever known. Your assurances are worthless to me. I will not return to Caer Pridne without Tuala.”
There was a little silence.
“I’m sorry, Bridei. I understand the childhood bond between you. I see the qualities in Tuala that seem admirable: wit, subtlety, loyalty, and a physical charm that might indeed set a young man to forgetting what is correct in the choice of a . . . mate.” Broichan spoke this last word with evident distaste. “Let me be blunt with you. I do not know what role you see for the girl at court. I realize it is not that of a sister. Perhaps an arrangement could be made. She would be housed, not at Caer Pridne itself, openly, but—”
“Enough.” Bridei held his voice level, for all the fury that had seized him. “Evidently I did not make myself sufficiently clear. I intend that Tuala and I should marry. I will have no other. This is not a matter for debate. My choice is made.”
“Oh, Bridei.” Broichan’s words came out on a sigh. “You are still young. The future stretches out before you, full of possibilities. This simply isn’t one of them, son. A king of Fortriu doesn’t marry a daughter of the Good Folk. Such an action would lay you open to lifelong ridicule. It would fetter you, cripple you. Her influence would render your course perilously unpredictable. We cannot allow this.”
“We?” Bridei breathed slowly, keeping his hands still, holding his expression calm.
“Your advisers. Although he never speaks directly about it, Talorgen has long hoped an alliance might be made between you and his own daughter. She’s entirely suitable: clever, well-presented, not ill-looking, and of the royal blood of Fortriu. And she’s the sister of your best friend.”
“I respect and admire Ferada; I always have done. I do not intend to marry her.” A vision of Gartnait, drowned face gazing blindly up at the night sky, came to Bridei’s mind, and he shivered despite himself.
“Aniel,” Broichan went on, “suggested the royal hostage, Ana. Very beautiful, and apparently a model of kindness and courtesy. She would be an excellent choice. There are others. Bridei, I understand a young man is subject to strong urges, to the bodily passions the Flamekeeper awakens. There is no doubt in my mind that it is time you took a wife.”
“But not Tuala.”
“Most certainly not Tuala. That you could ever have considered such an option possible makes a mockery of your education.”
“I see. Does not a decision to overlook her make a still greater mockery of the Shining One’s trust? It was the goddess who gave Tuala into my care on another Midwinter, long ago. Would you dismiss that so lightly?”
There was a pause. “Tuala can be provided for, as I said.” Broichan’s fingers toyed with a mead cup. “You do not need to wed the girl to fulfill a promise of responsibility.”
“I think I do. It is my belief the Shining One brought her to Pitnochie for just this reason: so that, if I become king of Fortriu, I will have a perfect companion by my side, one who will strengthen me for the tests and trials that must attend such a path. The goddess sent Tuala as my heart-friend so that, in this great work, I will not falter or fail. I love her, and she loves me. Is that too simple for a druid to comprehend?”
“Bridei,” said Broichan, “you are extremely weary and still quite weak, and I suspect you haven’t eaten since you rode away from Caer Pridne. Believe me, this is best left until morning. Or better, until after the assembly itself. Such decisions should not be made in haste. If you will not leave Tuala here, then she can be conveyed back to Banmerren until the kingship is decided. It’s vital that you concentrate all your energies on the election. We can afford no distractions. Let this go for now. Fola will keep the girl safe until we have time to work things out—”
“No,” Bridei said. “It cannot wait. Tuala nearly died tonight because of your failure to comprehend this; because she believed herself all alone in this world. I was witness to your own dark time at Gateway. I saw then what a toll your chosen path takes on you. I know how hard it is. Tell me, has your life been bent so strongly on discipline and loyalty that you never learned what love is?”
“This is not love,” Broichan said, his tone suddenly hard as iron, “but a young man’s delusion. You will not wed Tuala. As king, you cannot.”
Bridei looked straight into his foster father’s dark, impenetrable eyes. “Then it seems I will not be king,” he said quietly.
The eyes changed. It was evident that Broichan, in his wildest dreams, had never anticipated this. “What are you saying, Bridei?”
“Tuala will be my wife. I will not be swayed from that decision, for I know I cannot go on without her. It seems you are presenting me with a choice: Tuala or the kingship. I will not give her up, Broichan. And if I decide the cost of fulfilling this fifteen-year dream of yours is simply too high for me, then you must find another man to be your puppet. Without her, I cannot do it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! Of course you can do it!” The druid was on his feet, his face white as chalk.
“Let me rephrase that,” said Bridei. “Without her, I will not put myself forward as a candidate. I hope that is sufficiently clear for you. I am a man, Broichan. I’ve grown up, and I make my own decisions. I have never lost sight of the destiny for which you prepared me. I do not let it go lightly, believe me. But I mean what I say, every word. If you refuse to sanction our marriage, Tuala and I will walk away and make our own
life elsewhere, beyond the reach of narrow-minded power brokers. There is nothing you can do or say that will change my mind.”
“I don’t believe this—”
“Consider only what you have done to Tuala. In your misguided actions you sowed the seed of this. My perfect obedience lasts only until I see the cracks appear on the faces of those I believed beyond reproach. I cannot forgive what you have done to her. I cannot forgive your lies. But I do not make this choice in order to punish you. I want to contest the kingship, Broichan. I’ve worked hard for it. I believe it is the will of the gods; I am confident that I am the best man for it. And I know that, if I am elected king, I cannot survive it without her. It is for that reason alone that I will walk away if you and your allies do not support my choice. Now I will do as you suggest: seek dry clothes, food, and rest. And the Midwinter ritual is still to be enacted. This is a season of awakening, a time of the birth of new light, the stretching out of the days until the Flamekeeper reaches his radiant zenith once more. An auspicious night. As you said, a little time can be taken for this decision. Your decision, that is. Mine is already made.”
“What are you asking?” Broichan’s tone was constrained.
“For your support in all things. That you not only approve my choice, but show her friendship and courtesy, and ensure others at court do the same. That you speak no ill of her; that you enact no ill against her. That no word of your true attitude on this matter ever becomes known outside the confines of this chamber.”
“And if I refuse, you really would—”
The Dark Mirror Page 61