The Dark Mirror

TO GOOD TEACHERS,
from whom we learn to think for ourselves

The Katharine Susannah Prichard Foundation provided me with the opportunity to work intensively on this book during a period as Writer in Residence at Katharine’s historic cottage in Greenmount, Western Australia. The cottage houses a thriving Writers’ Center, and I forged many new friendships and learned a
great deal during my time there.

Three editors have done sterling work on the book so that we could produce a consistent English language version: Brianne Tunnicliffe in Sydney, Stefanie Bierwerth in London, and Claire Eddy in New York. I thank them all for their professionalism and wise words.

My two daughters each played a significant part in the development of
The Dark Mirror
. I thank Bronya
for a wonderful map that reflects the most important elements in the life of the Priteni: the cycles of the Shining One and the symbols of ancient lineage. I thank Elly for her invaluable advice on points of plotting and character development, and for her heroic effort in reading the whole manuscript twice in draft form during the final stages of her pregnancy.

I consulted a number of reference
books in researching Pictish culture. More information on the historical context of the story can be found at the end of this book, and a complete list of references can be found on my Web site at
www.julietmarillier.com
.

T
HE DRUID STOOD IN
the doorway, as still as a figure carven in dark stone, watching the riders come up the hill under the oaks. Dusk had fallen. Beyond the screening trees, Serpent Lake was a dim shining, and rooks winged to their roosts in the last light, calling in their secret, harsh language. It was autumn: past the feast of Measure. The air was full of a crisp, blue cold that halted the breath
in the chest.

The men at arms rode up to the level ground before the doorway, dismounting each in turn. At first it seemed they had not brought the boy. The druid swallowed disappointment, frustration, anger. Then Cinioch, riding in last, said, “Come, lad, stir yourself,” and Broichan saw the small figure seated before the warrior, well wrapped in swathing woolen garments, a figure the others
moved quickly to lift down from the horse and usher forward for the druid’s inspection.

So small. Was this boy really in his fifth year, as Anfreda had said in the letter advising him of her choice? Surely he was too small to be sent here to Fortriu, so far away from home. Surely he was too small to learn. The druid felt anger rise again, and paced his breathing.

“I am Broichan,” he said, looking
down. “Welcome to Pitnochie.”

The child looked up, his gaze moving over Broichan’s face, his dark robe, the oaken staff with its intricate markings, the black hair in its many small
plaits tied with colored threads. The boy’s lids were drooping; he was half-asleep on his feet. It was a long journey from Gwynedd, two turnings of the moon on the road.

The druid watched in silence as the child
squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, took a deep breath, and frowned in concentration. The boy spoke, his voice quavering but clear. “I am Bridei, son of Maelchon.” Another breath; he was working hard to get this right. “May the—the Shining One light your pathway.” The eyes gazed up at Broichan, blue as celandines; there was fear in them, that was plain, but this scrap of an infant would not let
it unman him. And, thank the gods, Anfreda had taught her son the language of the Priteni. That would ease Broichan’s task greatly. Perhaps, after all, four was not too young.

“May the Flaniekeeper warm your hearth,” Broichan said, this being the appropriate formal response. He scrutinized the small features more closely. The firm jaw was Maelchon’s; so was the upright stance, the iron will that
kept those eyes open for all the pull of sleep, and summoned the memorized words amid the strangeness of this sudden waking to a different world. The sweet blue eyes, the curling brown hair, the little frown, those were Anfreda’s. The blood of the Priteni ran strong and true in this child. The mother had chosen well. The druid was satisfied.

“Come,” Broichan said. “I’ll show you where you’ll
be sleeping. Cinioch, Elpin, Urguist, well done. There’s supper awaiting you indoors.”

Inside the house, the boy followed silently as Broichan led the way past the frankly curious eyes of his serving people and into the hall, which was occupied by the two old men, Erip and Wid, and a tangle of large hounds before the fire. The dogs raised their heads, growling a warning. The boy flinched but
made no sound.

The old men had a game board and bone playing pieces on the table between them. Bridei’s eyes were caught by the carven priestesses, warriors, and druids, each no bigger than a man’s little finger. He hesitated a moment beside them.

“Welcome, lad,” Erip said with a gap-toothed grin. “You like games?”

A nod.

“You’ve come to the right place, then,” said Wid, stroking his white
beard. “We’re the foremost players in all Fortriu. Crow-corners, breach-the-wall, advance and retreat, we’re expert in the lot of them. You’ve a look of your mother, lad.”

The blue eyes regarded the old man, a question in them.

“Enough,” Broichan said. “Come, this way” He must remind Wid and Erip that the child’s rearing was to be in his own exclusive control. Bridei’s new life began from this
moment; the child must tread the path unburdened by the knowledge of just who he was, and what he must become. Time enough for that when he was grown. They had ten years, fifteen if the gods smiled on them. In that time, Broichan must mold this infant into a young man fitted in every way for the great part he was destined to play in the future of Fortriu. Bridei’s education must be flawless. Indeed,
it was as well he had come so early. Fifteen years would scarcely be long enough.

“This chamber is yours,” Broichan said, placing the candle he held on a shelf as Bridei looked around the little room with its shelf bed, its storage chest, its small, square window looking out on rustling birches and a patch of dark sky. “You seem weary. Sleep now, if you are ready for it. In the morning we will
begin your education.”

PEOPLE AT PITNOCHIE
were always busy. Bridei became expert at avoiding the grim-faced housekeeper, Mara, and the ill-tempered cook, Ferat, as they barked orders at their hapless assistants or set their considerable energies to beating dust from wall hangings or turning a side of mutton on the spit.
Even the two old men were always doing something. Often they were arguing, though they were never angry. They just seemed to like to disagree about things.