The Dark Mirror (24 page)

Yes, they were lucky. Broichan could have sent her away forever. He could have taken Bridei to court and stayed there. He could have denied her any learning save what little she could glean for herself. Instead, miraculously, the day she’d come back from Oak Ridge, she’d found that path
suddenly open to her after all. Erip and Wid were to allow her to sit in on Bridei’s lessons, to set her suitable tasks and ensure she completed them. Tuala had grasped this unexpected bounty eagerly, not asking the reason for Broichan’s startling change of heart. It was enough that this door was no longer closed; she applied herself with the same intensity she gave to any new discovery.

As time
passed, the balance of her life shifted. Brenna was married and moved into her new husband’s cottage. Now she and Fidich were the proud parents of two small children, and Brenna was kept busy between farm and family. As for Erip and Wid, they became not simply Tuala’s tutors in the disciplines of history and geography, kings and symbols, lore and tales, but also her firm friends. The lessons continued,
informally, even when Bridei was away. Increasingly he moved in a wider circle and was gone from Rising to Midsummer, or from Gateway to Maiden Dance, the feast that heralded the arrival of early lambs. Had it not been for the patience and kindness of the two old men and the concessions Broichan made that allowed them and their small charge to establish themselves before the hall fire in
the mornings with their scrolls and pens, life would have been bleak indeed. With Bridei gone, Tuala knew she was without an essential part of herself, a part as vital to her existence as eyes or ears or beating heart.

This winter would be particularly hard. Bridei was going to Raven’s Well to stay with Talorgen and his family and Tuala knew, because she’d seen it on the water, that there might
be fighting and deaths and grief. Her vision had shown Bridei with a look on his face that had never been there before, a look that meant he’d seen something he hoped never to see again, but knew he must confront over and over. She had seen shattered men and blood on the heather. She had heard, with the ears of the mind, a cry of unbearable pain, a sound that set the teeth on edge and made one
beg the gods to end it, quickly, before one ran mad. But she did not tell him. Tuala understood that such visions could not be relied upon as a clear picture of what was to come.
To use them as the basis for planning one’s actions was to take considerable risk. Bridei was a man now: eighteen years old. Undoubtedly he would face battles and losses as all men did, whether or not she had foreseen
it. There was nothing she could do to hold back the moment when that terrible shadow entered his eyes; only be there when he came home, to listen and to comfort him, for she was the holder of his inmost fears and the guardian of his dreams.

They said good-bye on Eagle Scar. It had become more difficult to snatch time alone together now that Broichan allowed more visitors to Pitnochie, more comings
and goings. Talorgen was at the house now with his son Gartnait, a lanky, freckled youth who had quickly become Bridei’s close friend, though never Tuala’s. Gartnait regarded her as a child, and a rather odd one at that. He teased her for her silences, for her solemnity, for the strange pallor of her skin and her big owl eyes. It was good-humored, but Tuala did not know how to answer such banter.
There seemed to her no point in it; what did it serve, save to reinforce what made her most uneasy in the druid’s household: her difference? She did not wish to be singled out. She wanted to fit in. Erip and Wid never seemed bothered by what she was, and the things she did without thinking, such as moving the little kings and priestesses around the game board without touching them, or making
the colored light that came in the round window into a dancing display of tiny, jewel-bright insects that dispersed in a shower of sparkling dust. Erip would clear his throat,
ha-rumph
, and Wid would stroke his white beard and nod sagely, and they’d just get on with the next part of the lesson, herb lore or astronomy or kings and queens. She remembered the kings and queens now, as she sat with
Bridei on the flat stones at the top of the Scar. It was autumn. Today he was going away, and the year was turning to the dark.

“Bridei?”

“Mm?” He was gazing down the Glen to the west, perhaps looking for the eagles, perhaps searching out the track to Raven’s Well, where he’d be riding soon.

“If you had stayed back in Gwynedd, you could have been a king one day,” she said.

His attention was
on her abruptly, the blue eyes piercingly bright. “It’s not as simple as that,” he said.

“Your father is king of Gwynedd,” observed Tuala. “The way they choose their kings is quite different there, Erip told me. They don’t elect them from the
sons of the royal women the way the Priteni do, with candidates standing from each of the seven houses. In Gwynedd and Powys a man can be king after his
father. So you could have, if you’d stayed. Could now if you went home.”

Bridei was silent for a little. “Pitnochie is home,” he said eventually. “It’s home for both of us, you and me. I used to think that was what Broichan intended: to educate me, then send me back to Gwynedd. But even if that were so, I would never be king there. I can’t remember my brothers, but I know I have two of them,
both older. Their claim would be stronger; they have grown up at my father’s side. Besides, Broichan didn’t send me back.”

“So what does he intend for you?” It was an artless question. Tuala knew the answer already; the signs were quite clear to her and had been since that long-ago day when Bridei had borne the flame of Midsummer and the eagles had come. But she was not sure Bridei knew, even
now. Broichan’s strategy was a deep and subtle one, spanning a period of many years. The druid was right, Tuala was forced to admit to herself, right to be covert, right to conceal his master plan from any who might seek to thwart him, right even to delay revealing the truth to the young man on whom his hopes rested. Ignorant of the weight of expectation he carried, Bridei had walked the path of
his youth more lightly and learned more freely. Unburdened by the knowledge of his future, he had been better shielded against the machinations of those who sought power and position for themselves, those who had their own chosen pieces in play on the board.

“I could guess,” Bridei said. “Broichan will not speak of my mother. But I did discover that she’s kin to Talorgen’s wife, Lady Dreseida.
And Lady Dreseida is King Drust’s cousin. Depending on the exact nature of the kinship, that could open certain possibilities; I’d be a poor scholar indeed if I did not recognize them after Wid’s and Erip’s lessons in genealogy. But I’m young and untried as a leader of men. I think it more likely Broichan wants me to play a part similar to what his own once was; to become an adviser to the king.
Not as a druid, of course, but more in the way Aniel does, by traveling, negotiating, working to make truces and setting terms for agreements. A king’s councillor. Perhaps a warrior, too; a man must be many things.”

“You’re a bit young to be a councillor to King Drust,” Tuala said flatly. Bridei’s cheeks flushed, and she regretted her words instantly, although they had been the truth.

“There
will be other kings after him. I’m a man, Tuala, not a child. I will play my part.”

Tuala held her tongue, though she sensed a silent message that hurt her:
I am a man, and you are still a child. You cannot understand
. That was unfair; she did understand, and had done since she was a little girl who could not even keep her hair neatly tied. And she
was
a woman now, for all her slight build and
short stature. At Midwinter she would be thirteen years old. She had seen her monthly courses three times already and observed with wonder the other changes in her body, signs that meant the tides of the Shining One flowed within her pale Midwinter child as in the ocean’s deeps. But she could not tell Bridei this, of course. For all he was her dearest friend in the world, he was a boy, and there
were some things you just did not discuss with a boy.

“Tuala?”

“Mm?”

“We may be gone all winter this time. There’s to be a spring campaign against the Gaels; it’s to win back the territory of Galany’s Reach, where the Mage Stone stands. Talorgen may let Gartnait and me ride with his warriors.” Bridei’s eyes were shining; it was as if he saw it already, a vision of banners, weapons glinting
in the sunlight, thundering hooves, glorious victory. Tuala shivered.

“Don’t look like that,” Bridei said. “I have to go to battle some time. It would have been years ago, but for Broichan.”

“I’ll miss you. Spring’s a long way off.”

“And I’ll miss you, Tuala. I will come home as soon as I can, I promise. I’ll have a lot to tell you.”

Tuala nodded. This was undoubtedly true; Bridei could talk
to her as she had never observed him doing with others, freely, from the heart, with no safeguards in place. And he would indeed have much to tell, news born of tears and fury, of grief and rage.

“What is it, Tuala? What’s worrying you? I will come back, you know. I always come back to Pitnochie.” Frowning with concern, he moved closer and put his arm around her shoulders. It felt strange to
her; not the way it used to be, when she could lean against him and be comforted, when she could offer a ready hug of consolation in return. It felt awkward, different.

“Nothing.” She disengaged herself and rose to her feet. “How soon do you have to leave? I want to show you something.”

“I have some time left. Not long. What is it?”

“Come on, then. It’s a bit farther, up west. I need to show
you.”

But when they reached the place, the special, secret place she had discovered one day out wandering in the forest alone, Bridei halted his horse on the brink but would not dismount.

“Not there,” he said, his face suddenly white. “That’s not a good place for you to go, Tuala. Not suitable. We should head for home now.”

Tuala was quite taken aback. “Not suitable? What do you mean? I’ve
been here lots of times. I have to come here. It’s where I can see . . .” Her voice trailed off as memories of treachery, of blood and death assailed her.

“Where you can see what?” Bridei got down from his horse. As was the pattern of things, Tuala now rode his old pony, Blaze, while he himself had Snowfire, long of mane and tail, stocky and sure, and palest gray, like shadow on winter hills.
In fact Tuala was such a slight girl she could almost still have ridden the small, beloved Pearl, but Pearl was old and seemed content to dream away her days in stables or infield, watching the world go by.

“Where I can see you,” Tuala whispered, not meeting his eye. “So I can know where you are and what you’re doing when you’re gone.”

Bridei was silent a little. After a while he said, “There
are terrible visions in that pool, Tuala. The Dark Mirror, Broichan calls it. I only went there once and that was more than enough. A girl your age shouldn’t be subject to such influences. Broichan wouldn’t want you to go down there, and I don’t either.”

“How old were you when you looked in the Dark Mirror?”

He did not answer.

“Anyway, it’s not just that. Not just knowing where you are and
if you’re safe. There are . . . other things.”

“What things?” Bridei was growing increasingly uneasy; Tuala could see it in the grip of his hand on Snowfire’s bridle.

“I can’t tell you here. We have to go down there, into the little valley.”

“The Vale of the Fallen.” He supplied the name grimly. “There was a terrible massacre here, long ago. This place is full of the memory of death.”

“And
life. Come on, Bridei.” Not waiting to see if he would follow, she plunged down the narrow pathway between the clinging fronds of undergrowth. The mists of the vale rose up to meet her. After a few moments she heard Bridei’s footsteps behind her.

As they reached the rim of the pool the vapor cleared, revealing the bowed forms of the dark druid-stones and the weaving garlands of the star-flowered
vine that swathed the banks with its luxuriant growth. The light was dim, green-hued, playing tricks on the stretch of water before them, for here it seemed dark and deep, here shallow and shining with tiny fish darting not far below the surface.

Tuala settled cross-legged by the water’s edge.

“Don’t look,” Bridei said. “Why not stick to your bronze bowl? You can make this work wherever you
want, so why come all the way here? This is—” He broke off. A moment later Tuala felt him settling beside her, not touching, but close enough for her to feel his warmth, the only human thing in the Vale of the Fallen.

This had always come easily to Tuala. She understood now that for others, for Bridei himself, even for Broichan who was steeped in the craft of magic, the art of the seer was hard
won, hard learned; that the skills could not always be put readily into use nor the visions summoned on every occasion. For her it was entirely different, and she had come to realize, reluctantly, that this had to do with her origins, with what she was: different; one of
them
. That made her uncomfortable, yet the gift itself was one she cherished. It gave a window on the world beyond Pitnochie,
beyond the Great Glen, beyond the here and now. She could conjure an image in a drop of rain, in a water barrel, in a jug of mead. But nowhere else could she find the wonder and terror that were revealed in the Dark Mirror. Bridei was right; the vale and its hidden pool held deep memories, a story of grievous loss and of courage beyond imagination. More than that, the Dark Mirror showed what was
to come or what might come. It gave warnings and prophecies and guidance. And it was a place of the Good Folk. Here, at last she might see her own kind face to face, and ask them why they had abandoned her without a word. Perhaps it had been the will of the Shining One. Perhaps it had been simple mischief. If Bridei had been asleep that night, she would have frozen to death. The older she grew, the
more that played on her mind.

Today the pool showed no battle. Instead, it was the ritual of Midsummer over again, with the household gathered on Dawn Tree Hill and a brown-haired child treading the spiral path to the light. But this was a time to come. The child was young, no more than six years old. The man who presided over the ceremony, who cast the circle and led the prayers, was not Broichan
but Bridei; not a dark-robed druid but a man in his prime, broad-shouldered, tall and handsome, with bright blue eyes and a long plait of curling hair the color
of ripe chestnuts. The wise woman who spoke with the voice of Bone Mother was not hawk-nosed Fola but a younger priestess, slight as a birch, white-faced, clear-eyed, her dark hair tumbling down the back of her austere gray robe. The eyes
of these two met and met again; but when the ritual was over, the mead shared, the bread divided, it was another woman who stood at Bridei’s side, a girl whose shapely figure was clad in the fine gown and fur-edged cloak of a noblewoman, a girl who wore a little circlet of flowers on her russet hair and a smile on her face that was just for the fine man who bent his head with familiar kindness
to hear her words. The boy who had carried the candle now stood beside them, a miniature version of his father. Familiar faces could be seen: Ferat, Mara, Fidich and Brenna with their children. Donal was not there, nor Erip and Wid. Tuala could not see Broichan. But she saw herself, when the ritual was over, standing alone under the Dawn Tree, her face in shadow, her eyes bereft. She saw herself
turn and slip silently back under the shelter of the birches, leaving the family of Pitnochie to their joyful celebration.