The Dark Mirror (37 page)

“That’s enough, Tuala.” The druid’s voice was deep and
calm.

“But I—”

“That’s enough.” Broichan turned to his guest. “I regret the intrusion, Garvan. Will you allow me a few moments to deal with this?”

“Surely” the visitor said equably and, setting his cup on the table, he went from the room, not without giving Tuala an appraising look up and down on the way. The door closed behind him.

“Make this good,” Broichan said. “Brief, coherent, and worth
the interruption. I had hoped you might make a better impression on Garvan. After this, he will no doubt think you no more tame than a young she-wolf. Now account for yourself”

Tuala was beyond being afraid of him, beyond even any real comprehension of his words. “I saw—in the water—I saw Bridei, not now, but soon, after the battle. They were feasting, and someone had poisoned his drink, and—”
No, she could not say this. How could she make the worst news in the world brief and coherent? She thought her heart would burst with anguish. The room seemed to reel around her, the candles swirling in mad dances, the strange and wondrous objects on the shelves mixing and blending in a grotesque realignment; the world was awry, nothing was as it should be.

“Sit. Here,” and Broichan was steering
her to a bench, easing her onto it, giving her ale. Now he knelt by her, and the dark eyes met hers, intent, questioning. He had gone very pale; his look, perhaps, mirrored her own. “Tell me,” he said.

“They killed him,” she whispered, the cup in her hand shaking so the ale
spilled over onto her cloak. “I watched him die. Donal, Gartnait, the others, they could not save him. He—he—it was horrible
. . .”

“Drink.” He watched as she took a mouthful. “Now, once more. This was not an image of the present time? Are you quite sure?”

Tuala nodded. “I told you. It was later, after the battle. Gartnait wore both kin and warrior tattoos, Bridei only the battle counts. There’s time to stop this. We have to stop it.”

“Drink again. Now catch your breath. You have run far to bring me this news.”

Tuala felt tears coming. She sniffed, rubbing her eyes like a child.

“So, it begins once more,” Broichan said. He rose to seat himself opposite her. “Now, Tuala, I’m aware your talent in this field owes little to tuition; it is a natural thing, and as such perhaps less than perfectly reliable. On the other hand, what it lacks in control it seems to make up for in strength. You realize, I suppose,
that the visions of the Dark Mirror do not always show an accurate picture of what is to come. They do not represent simple truth.”

She stared at him. “Of course I know. If this were truth, we could not change it. Bridei would die thus no matter what action we took. This is only one possible future, and we can’t let it happen.”

“Indeed not. Fortunately, a few simple precautions will be sufficient
to prevent this particular course of events. I will arrange to have them put in place, although there will be some delay; I must send a message to Raven’s Well, and the track is likely to be snowed under above Maiden Lake. It is the general threat to Bridei’s safety that concerns me more. If an assassin will try poison once, he will try it twice. If poison proves ineffective, he will investigate
other means.”

“You mean Bridei will be killed anyway?” Tuala’s voice was no more than a thread.

“No,” Broichan said. “I cannot allow that to happen. Bridei is needed. The future of the Priteni depends on him.”

“I know,” she said, although she could see from the look in the druid’s eyes that it was not really to her that he spoke. “Does this mean he will not go to battle? Can he come home? He’d
be safe here, surely”

“Home?” Broichan seemed startled at the suggestion; it was as if he had forgotten her while some great scheme unfurled in his mind. “You mean here to Pitnochie? He cannot do so, not before summer’s end. And he must fight in the spring; it is necessary that he prove himself in the field. As for
afterward, I think, at last, it is time for me to resume my place in the world
of affairs. It’s been a long exile. Drust will have his druid back, for a little.”

“For a little?” Tuala queried, trying to make sense of it while swallowing the bitter disappointment contained in his words.

“For as long as it takes.” Broichan regarded her again, this time with a critical look in his eye. “That means changes for you, as well. You cannot remain here at Pitnochie when I am gone.
The household could not well sustain that; there have been enough mutterings already. Go now, tidy yourself, change your clothing, and let us see if you can make a better impression at suppertime.”

Comprehension dawned, and with it horror.

“There’s no need to look like that,” Broichan said levelly. “Garvan is a good man, wealthy, steady. He would be kind to you. And he’s prepared to take you,
or was before you burst in here like a demented wood-sprite. There are few choices for you, Tuala. This is very probably the best of them.”

She was lost for words once more. The old terror, forgotten in the overwhelming need to share her desperate news, now claimed her anew.

“Don’t concern yourself,” he said, misunderstanding. “I will ensure Bridei comes to no harm. Go now; I expect you to show
my guest you can be a lady when required. You may join in the discussion at supper and demonstrate your education. I think Garvan would find that interesting. And get Mara to do something with your hair.”

She was almost at the door when he spoke again.

“Tuala?”

She waited, not turning.

“You did well to bring this news straight to me.”

Tuala heard in his tone how difficult it was for the druid
to speak these words. She nodded and fled.

SUPPERTIME WAS
A trial. It was evident to Tuala that she was on display, set out for inspection as if she were a prize heifer at a farmers’ market. For all the visitor’s evident attempts to conceal this by making polite conversation on safe, general topics, she could see his interest
in his eyes, and a reflection of it in the attitudes of all those who sat at table. Tonight this was a much
smaller group than usual: Broichan and Garvan, herself, Mara, and a mere four of the men at arms, all long-serving and of relatively mature years. The others had been sent off to eat in the kitchen, from where no doubt they were listening in on every word. They were probably counting the
days until the squarely built, thick-necked Garvan loaded her onto his cart and took her off home, a good investment for the future, young, healthy, and educated into the bargain. The more Tuala thought about it, the more her fear was replaced by anger. How dare they seal her entire future thus? How dare Broichan make such a decision without even asking how she felt? Most painfully of all, how could
they do this while Bridei was far away down the Glen, not knowing? Didn’t anyone understand?

Garvan was trying his best, she could see that. It was not his fault he was a big lump of a man with a face like something carved out of a turnip. He asked her about her tutors, talked of the passing of the season, even raised the topic of kin symbols in passing and seemed surprisingly knowledgeable about
it. He was trying hard not to stare at her. She had put on a clean skirt and tunic. She had combed and plaited her own hair; Broichan had been stupid to think she would ever seek Mara’s aid for so intimate a task. Pulling the comb through the tangles, it had been impossible not to remember Bridei doing this for her when she was little and asking her with a smile in his voice what she’d done with
the ribbon this time. His absence was a constant ache in her heart.

There was wine on the table tonight, imported all the way from Armorica, Broichan said; he allowed her a small cupful. It was a heady brew, reminding her of summer, of days past, herself and Bridei climbing Eagle Scar, galloping their ponies through the forest, trying to tease trout out of the lake. Gone, all gone; if Broichan
had his way she might be married before Bridei came home again. Her hands balled themselves into fists. Something dangerous began to awaken inside her, like a little licking flame. There seemed to be a whispering in her head,
Show them. Stand up to them
. Tuala blinked, startled. This voice had not spoken aloud, that was evident; around her the talk continued to flow. Strange; she could have sworn
it was a voice she knew, an Otherworld voice. That odd young man who seemed made of all the twiggy and leafy things of the woods, just so had been his manner of speaking. But the words had sounded inside her, as if they sprang from her own thoughts.

“We might finish the evening with a tale or two,” Broichan suggested.
This was most uncharacteristic; he really was putting himself out to play the
good host. “Would you care to offer one, Garvan? The work you do cannot come without a great fund of lore, I recognize that. Will you share some of it with us?”

Garvan looked disconcerted. “My hands tell the tales for me,” he said, flushing a little. “I haven’t the gift to recount them in fair and powerful words, as your kind do. But I’m sure Tuala has learned many stories worth sharing. Her
upbringing sounds remarkable. Perhaps she will favor us with something.” He glanced at her almost shyly. Perhaps, she thought, he’d suddenly been infected by the same malady as the other men, a fear she might entrap him with her eldritch wiles. A pox on the man. A pox on them all.
Show them. Tell your tale and show them
.

Broichan was about to speak, perhaps to offer a polite refusal on her behalf.

“Of course”, Tuala found herself saying smoothly. It almost felt like someone else speaking. She was icy calm, and a new tale came to her complete and perfect in form, a tale that would reveal her strength and provide a test for the listener, both at the same time. “But first, tell me what craft you ply, my lord. You said your hands tell the tales for you. What does that mean?”

“I am a stone
carver.”

“A little more than that, my friend,” Broichan said quietly. “He is a craftsman and artist of the highest order, Tuala; the ancestors speak through him.”

“You do me too much honor,” Garvan said, looking down at his big, scarred hands, which were loosely clasped on the table before him.

“Hardly,” Broichan said. “Does not your work stand in the court of the king of Fortriu himself? I
can scarcely think of a calling more closely linked to all that is sacred in our land than yours.”

“Save that of wise woman or druid,” said Garvan, smiling. “I hope that is what you need, Tuala.”

“Let us say this tale concerns a stone carver.” Tuala had been expertly trained in the recounting of stories of heroes and magic, monsters and quests. Tonight’s offering would be different: well outside
the repertory of her dear old tutors. “I’ll call him Nechtan. Now this Nechtan was a lonely man and a proud one. He had his craft, and in that he excelled. He’d had a wife once, but she was dead, and his sons had gone off to fight for the king: neither one of them had shown interest in learning the father’s trade. All day long Nechtan labored with mallet and chisel and with his bare hands, coaxing
the fair secrets from the heart of the stone, mysterious owls and proud bulls and strange water beasts, spears and shields and men on horses, riding to battle. By day the stone carver was caught in his dreams, fashioning them into wondrous, eternal form. By night he lay open-eyed and wakeful, feeling in his heart’s core the depth of his loneliness. By night the dreams were fled, replaced by a
shadowy gulf of despair. In that bleak time a yearning came on Nechtan, fierce and dark, but for what he did not know.

“Now it happened in springtime that Nechtan traveled up the Glen, for he had a commission for the king and he needed to visit court to discuss the details of it. The weather was kind; the days were crisp and bright, small birds busy in alder and hazel, leaves starting a tentative
unfurling on the bare branches and a carpet of snowdrops beneath. When it was growing too dark to travel on, Nechtan camped by a little stream and made a wee fire between stones, and he settled to sleep, his blanket rolled around him. He was used to the cold; being in the forest at night didn’t bother him. If he could have slept, he would have. But sleep never came easily to the stone carver.
He lay awake under a gibbous moon, curled up on himself for warmth as the little fire collapsed into glowing coals and then into powdery ash that stirred in the chill whispers of the night breeze. He lay and wished, hoped, longed for something whose name he did not know Whatever it was, he needed it with body, heart, and soul; without it he would surely shrivel away like the last berries of the rowan
left wrinkled on the branch.

“‘Man?’ came a little voice in his ear. There before him, just beyond the remnants of the fire, was a hunched figure in a cloak of ash gray, perhaps an old woman, though it was hard to tell.

“‘Who are you?’ Nechtan asked, mindful of the hour and the place and the only kind of folk one might expect to find by moonlight in such a spot. “What do you want?’

“‘Proper
hearth, proper home, better there than on your own,’ the person said, and Nechtan, getting up, saw that it was indeed an ancient, hooknosed crone, and that her bony finger was beckoning him to follow her.