The Dark Mirror (33 page)

Mara gave her a look, but had nothing to say.

In Bridei’s little chamber with its square, high window, Erip was resting on several pillows; it eased him to be propped thus. Tonight, for all that, his
breath was rattling and rasping in his chest like a stick playing on bones, a ghastly music of death. Wid sat by his side, long, knotty hands folded in his lap, expression calm as the light from lamps set about the chamber played on his beak of a nose, his snowy beard, his hooded eyes. At the foot of the pallet, tall and still in his long robe, stood Broichan.

Tuala froze in the doorway. The
druid’s eyes met hers, impassive as always.

“Oh . . .” she began, not at all sure whether she intended to frame an excuse, an apology, or a plea to be allowed to stay, since her old friend had said he wanted her here.

“Come in.” Broichan’s tone was grave. He gestured to a stool set next to Wid’s, by the pallet. Tuala bit back her words, realizing suddenly that it
must be the druid who had asked
for her; he was the only one who could command Mara’s instant compliance. Tuala moved forward and sat by Erip’s side, taking the old man’s hand in hers. She did not look at Broichan. Perhaps, if she kept her eyes away, he would not know what a coward she was. It seemed she could not be in his presence, even now, without becoming five years old again and beside herself with terror.

Erip was saying
something, his voice a rough thread of sound. “Out . . . rain,” he managed, “Silly girl . . .”

Tuala nodded, swallowing sudden tears. One did not weep at such a time; one sent one’s friend on his journey with hope, with gladness, and with love. “Yes,” she said quietly, “I went for a walk and got caught in a downpour. I should have dried my hair properly, but I wanted to see you straightaway.
Mara said I could come in.” Still she did not turn, although her senses told her Broichan watched her intently.

“We’ve been telling a few tales,” Wid said. “Singing a few songs; remembering old times.”

Tuala glanced at him. It seemed to her the grief that had marked his features in recent days had eased a little, for all the impending loss. Perhaps the sharing of tales had helped both of these
old friends. As for Broichan and how he fitted in, that she could not imagine. He seemed the kind of man who would never have had any friends.

“Where did you go?” he asked abruptly, the question as sudden as a cat’s spring to pin a mouse with its claws.

Tuala made herself breathe slowly, as Bridei had taught her. “To a place in the forest where I can . . . where I can see images of what may
come.”

“Look at me, Tuala.”

She turned to face the druid; his dark eyes fixed themselves on hers. Broichan was pale tonight; the lines from nose to mouth seemed deeper.

“What kind of images? Whose path do you seek to know? Your own?”

She did not want to tell him this. She did not want to tell him anything. The Dark Mirror and the truths it told were secret, private. To tell would be like sharing
a confidence, and Broichan was the last person she would ever confide in. He was the person she distrusted most of anyone. Besides, if she spoke of what had happened today she might let slip that she had not been alone there at the pool.

“I don’t look for anything in particular,” she said, hearing the tight, prim tone of her voice and the way it revealed how she was lying. “I just look for
whatever
comes.” She could no longer hold his gaze; she stared down at her hands, which were clutching Erip’s like a lifeline.

“Tell the truth,” Broichan said. “That is the least I expect of any child brought up in my household. You learned this skill from Bridei, did you not? I cannot believe he did not impart to you some little sophistication in its use.”

Then Erip began to cough and to fight for breath,
and for a while all of them could do nothing but try to aid him in what seemed a losing battle. His body had grown too frail for this choking, thrashing, desperate struggle. At length the spasm subsided; the old man breathed again, but shallowly, each inward gasp a wheeze of pain. There was blood on the sheets. Wid held out a cup of water; feebly, Erip shook his head. He was trying to say something;
he had turned his rheumy, pain-filled eyes toward Tuala.

“. . . Bridei . . .” he whispered.

“Indeed,” Wid said, glancing up at the druid. “What Broichan meant to ask you, Tuala, what he would eventually have asked you in his circuitous, druidic way, was whether your journey into the forest today provided you with any news of our boy. Erip is sad that his prize pupil is not at home; Bridei, too,
will grieve that he could not be at Pitnochie at this time. If you have seen aught of him in your scrying place, and if you will tell it, that could ease Erip’s mind considerably. It is hard for you; we know that.”

It would not be hard
, Tuala thought,
if I did not have that man looking at me with his eyes full of power and hate. To my old friends, I could speak gladly
. For all her unease, she
knew she must tell what she had seen, some of it at least. “I saw him.” It came out in a whisper; Tuala cleared her throat and tried for a more confident tone. “Fighting hand to hand; riding with Gartnait; talking to a girl, I think it must have been Gartnait’s sister. They seemed to be images of now; the season was winter, and Bridei looked much as he did last time we said our good-byes.”

“Did
he seem well? Content?” It was Broichan who spoke, an edge in his voice that had not been there before. It came to Tuala that it was more for himself that he wanted this news than for Erip.

“He seemed well enough.” She recalled the image she had not spoken of, Bridei in the night, beset by some weighty problem. Despite herself, she blurted out, “He wants to come home.”

There was a little silence.
Then Broichan said, “How can you know this?”

“I saw it in his face. He has . . . misgivings.” Now she had said too much
and, whatever pressure Broichan chose to apply, she would not say one word more.

Erip sighed. His fingers moved to pat hers, their touch like a dry leaf, a frond of grass, soft and insubstantial as if he had already begun to quit his clay self and journey to a realm of pure
spirit. “Thank you,” he said, and closed his eyes.

“He cannot come home until Talorgen’s foray is over.” Broichan’s tone allowed no room for challenge. “And it will not be over until well into the summer, even if all goes to plan. The lad must find what resources he needs within himself. What else did you see? A fight, you said. A battle? A major undertaking?”

Tuala looked up at him. “I saw
nothing of that,” she told him. “Only a struggle between Bridei and another man. They had knives. I know that he is safe.”

“How do you know?”

“I would know if he were harmed. I need not look in the Dark Mirror for that.”

“The Dark Mirror,” echoed Broichan quietly. “So you do go all the way up there to the Vale of the Fallen. Why there? What do you see there that cannot be found closer to home?
What secrets? What presences?”

“Nothing that you cannot see, my lord, I am certain. Your own abilities in this art must far surpass mine, untutored as I am.” Indeed, she wondered greatly that he would interrogate her thus. He was a king’s druid, after all; he could surely summon infinitely more powerful visions than her own. “I have told Erip that Bridei seems well and is missing home and his
old friends. He is happy with that news; it is the truth. More, I will not tell.”

There was silence after this, a silence in which Tuala waited for Broichan to order her from the room. Standing up to him had made her break out in a cold sweat. But Broichan said nothing, and when at length she ventured a glance at him, he was simply standing there at the foot of the pallet, watching Erip, his
distant expression showing his mind was on other things entirely In that moment, Tuala recalled something the forest girl had said.
The king’s druid has one weak spot, and that’s his affection for the boy
. It was just possible Broichan’s fierce questions had less to do with his strategies and plans, or with his disapproval of her, and a lot more to do with something a great deal simpler: the love
and anxiety of a father for an absent son. This was a
revelation. The more she considered it, the truer it seemed. The truer it seemed, the more it became possible to view Broichan as a man and not a presence of terrible, overwhelming power.

“Did we ever tell you,” Wid asked, “about the time we taught Bridei to drink ale like a man?”

Tuala grinned. She had heard this account many times.

“It
was like this . . .”

After it was told there was another tale, and another. Tuala contributed some of her own, children’s stories Brenna had told her, tales of wondrous beasts and valiant heroes that Bridei had passed on night after night before she went to sleep, tales he had probably learned from these same two scholarly ancients. Toward dawn, when Erip had moved beyond tales and both Tuala
and Wid were hoarse from talking and gray-faced with exhaustion, Broichan began to recite prayers. He kept his voice low; it was, nonetheless, resonant and strong as he called down the blessings of the Shining One and the Flamekeeper, and finally made a solemn request of Bone Mother, guardian of the great gateway through which this weary old scholar must now pass. Tuala wept then, but Wid did not,
although the predawn light through the small window caught the brightness of unshed tears in his deep-set eyes. Erip’s breathing had shallowed to the least rise and fall of the chest, the slightest trembling of the open lips. His eyes were closed. Tuala held one hand, Wid the other.

“A giving spirit, strong in generosity,” Broichan was saying. “A man whose journey has been long; he has trodden
many paths and has found learning in all that has befallen him, the fortunate and the adverse. Strong in the teachings of the ancestors, for all he tried to hide it when it suited him. Faithful to the tasks he undertook in the name of the gods. A good teacher. Receive him now in recognition of that, above all, for such a tutor is rare: he knows not simply how to make a scholar, but how to make a
man. Ease his passing, for he has been well loved and has loved well in return, but his first love was always for truth. Take his hand; guide him forth, Mother of All, into the shelter of sleep. Let him rest awhile in your care and dream good dreams of his new journey. In your name, Dark Mother, we ask this for our dear friend. And in the telling of his tales we will honor him, and we will remember
him.”

Whether it was the solemn prayer of a king’s druid, or whether it was simple kindness to a good old man, Bone Mother let Erip slip through as
gently as she does any mortal soul. There was no final paroxysm, no ghastly struggle for air; he breathed one long outward breath and was still. Tuala touched her lips to his frail hand and laid it on his breast; Wid placed the other across it. They
sat in silence as the birds began to sing and chatter and chorus outside; as the light of dawn came pale and clear through Bridei’s little window, where the talismans he had placed there before he set out for Raven’s Well rested on the sill: three white stones and the tawny feather of an eagle. Tuala became aware that others stood just outside the doorway, had perhaps been standing there for some
time: Mara, Ferat, one of the kitchen lads, Uven, and a second man at arms.

“He’s away, then,” Mara said eventually. “You’d best come through to breakfast, all of you; Erip wouldn’t want you to go hungry because of him. He always was fond of his meals. After that, I’ll wash him and get him ready. Brenna can come up to help me. There’s some here need sleep; the old man will wait for that.”

THEY LAID ERIP
to rest in a cairn of shaped stones up on the hill not far from the place of the Dawn Tree. The rain eased off just long enough for the ritual to be concluded. Afterward they drank ale, ate a pudding with dried fruits and spices from Ferat’s special store and exchanged tales of Erip’s time at Pitnochie. In recognition of the occasion Broichan remained in the hall for the evening,
but he contributed little, and it seemed to Tuala that his watchful, silent presence made everyone uneasy.

She had sat by Wid all evening, keeping as quiet as she could. Her one attempt to contribute, the recounting of a trick Bridei had once played on Erip and how the old scholar had got his own back, had been greeted with blank-faced silence, as if she had no right to speak, no right to pretend
herself one of Erip’s friends. Wid had chuckled quietly and patted her shoulder. From the others, she could almost feel the chill of disapproval.

The day after Erip’s funeral rites, a visitor did arrive: that same old disheveled druid, Uist, who had come to Pitnochie the summer Tuala was sent away, and who occasionally passed through the Glen on mysterious errands of his own. He greeted Broichan
in his usual way, which showed a total disregard for the niceties of custom, but was undoubtedly honest. He visited the cairn and spoke prayers that nobody quite understood. Then it became
apparent to Tuala that Uist was not going to be staying at Pitnochie, and neither was Wid. Wid appeared in the hall with his warm cloak on and a small satchel on his back and Uist, who had just returned from
his brisk walk up to the cairn, said, “Are you ready?”