The Dark Mirror (51 page)

H
IS HEAD ACHED FIT
to split asunder. He walked on, keeping pace, each step a hammer blow to the skull. Tree and rock and hillside swam around him, their forms distorted by the haze of pain. This was nothing, he must go on despite it, for by nightfall they would be home. They would reach Pitnochie, and he could let it go at last. He could share the anguish, the guilt, the wrongness, and then perhaps
this vice that gripped his head, this chill that clutched at his heart might ease a little.

Donal was dead. Donal was dead, not as he would have wished to go, with valor in battle, but in a cruel act of cold-blooded murder. He had drunk from another man’s cup, and he had died in Bridei’s arms, his body wracked and twisted by convulsions. Bridei had not thought himself capable of hate, but whoever
had done that deed, he hated them with a white-hot fury. If ever he discovered their identity, he would punish them as they had punished his loyal friend. He would put his own hands around their necks and watch them struggle as Donal had struggled to the end, gasping, retching, fighting death like the warrior he was. Donal was a good man, a fine, brave, straightforward sort of man. It was not
Donal who had been meant to die. It was Bridei.

It had happened on the very day he and Gartnait received their warrior marks, at Raven’s Well on the journey home. There was a man in Talorgen’s
household with the skill to incise the delicate patterns on the flesh of cheek and chin, employing fine needles and colored pigments; it hurt, but it was a good pain, and they sat together, Bridei and Gartnait,
while the markings were etched into their skin, symbol of their participation in a major battle for their king. Afterward, they talked quietly of times past, mending the friendship they had almost lost in the smoke-darkened settlement of Galany’s Reach. Gartnait made his explanation again, with an apology; Bridei accepted it and kept his doubts to himself.

When the tattooing was over, there was
a feast. Although the lady of Raven’s Well was still away, Talorgen’s household mustered a fine spread of roast meats, a good flow of ale, even puddings. After the march up the Great Glen to Maiden Lake, the men were hungry and fell to with gusto. Fokel of Galany had left them now; his was the responsibility of conveying the Mage Stone to a place where it might be set in earth once more, within
the lands of Fortriu and beyond the grasping hands of the Gaels. The stone lay now near the head of King Lake; Fokel’s men must devise a method to move it overland, a challenge that would exercise their strength and their wits to the utmost. Rolling the thing down a hill had been all very well, but the steep slopes and narrow ways of the Glen would require something beyond ingenuity. There was talk
of summoning druids.

Ale flowed freely at the feast. There were toasts, tales, laughter, and jokes; the jugs passed from hand to hand, cups were set here and there on the board, spilled, drained, shared, refilled. Nobody knew who it was that poured the ale into Bridei’s goblet. Whoever did it was unlucky. Bridei had, in fact, drunk very little all evening, and had eaten only sufficient for courtesy.
The fresh tattoo stung, his head was aching and thoughts of the battle and its aftermath were never far from his mind. He had enjoyed little sleep on the nights they had camped under the trees, journeying up from King Lake. Donal’s cup was empty. Instead of fetching a jug to fill it anew, Bridei had slid his own untouched ale across, knowing he would take no more himself.

“Here.”

And then .
. . oh, then . . . Bridei closed his eyes, the image searing across his mind in all its brutal reality. He remembered every detail, every single moment . . . It had not taken long. Whatever it was, it was powerful stuff. They tried, desperately, to make Donal vomit up the poison. They tried to get him walking, but spasms soon seized his body, arching his back, causing his limbs to thrash and his eyes
to roll crazily. He made noises, hideous, animal
noises. No, it had not taken long; it was one terrible, vile moment after another, a hundred, a thousand moments of horror until, at last, Donal lay in Bridei’s arms, with blood and vomit and ordure staining their clothes, the floor, the benches and rushes all around them. Donal had not managed to speak again, after his first clutch at the throat,
his hoarse whisper of anguish, “Bridei!” He had gone without saying good-bye.

Pitnochie. Think of Pitnochie; think of home. Those things, at least, were strong and sure: the ancient oaks, the whispering birches, the farm with its walled fields and Fidich’s little cottage. The house, low and secretive amidst the screening trees. Broichan, stern and wise, able to find the learning in any tale,
however grim and cruel. Erip and Wid, full of the laughter and wisdom of long lives lived well. And Tuala . . . gods, how he needed Tuala to hold his hand and listen and tell him it would be all right again . . .

THEY REACHED BROICHAN’S
house before sunset, making their way up the hill under the oaks, a smaller body of men
than had fought in the battle for Galany’s Reach. Most had returned to their homes, but Talorgen and his son were heading for court with Ged of Abertornie and a sizable contingent of men at arms, including Aniel’s two bodyguards, Breth and Garth. Beside them came the men of Broichan’s own household who had joined the fight for Galany’s Reach: Elpin, Enfret, and Cinioch. Urguist had not returned;
they had left him sleeping, blanketed in earth, on the shores of King Lake.

On Talorgen’s orders, Breth and Garth were now attached to Bridei, shadowing him as Donal had done, though Bridei refused to let them taste his food. It seemed an outrageous thing to expect another man to die in your place, as if you were somehow of greater value than he was. To see one man die for you was enough for
a lifetime.

The welcome was warm, but the house seemed quiet. They discovered straight away that Broichan was not there. To Bridei’s surprise and dismay, he had gone to resume his duties at Caer Pridne, leaving instructions for Bridei to ride on to court with Talorgen, for it was time for him to meet King Drust the Bull at last. Ferat grinned broadly, admiring Bridei’s warrior marks: “Ah, look
at you now; what a man!” Mara was less voluble, but could not suppress a smile to see him home safe and sound.

Then, quickly, the travelers imparted the bad news, before there were too many questions asked. The battle was won, but there had been losses. Urguist had fallen bravely. And another old friend would not be coming home. Bridei told these tidings himself, knowing how they would hurt.
Donal had been part of this household nearly as long as Bridei had; such a loss would be keenly felt.

“Ah, poor lad,” Mara muttered. That’s a sad death for a fighting man. They’re terrible times, terrible. As well the old fellows are gone from us; it would have distressed them.”

“Erip and Wid? They’re not home? I had hoped to see them—” Something in Mara’s eyes stopped Bridei short.

“Broichan
sent a messenger,” Mara said, looking at Talorgen. “To you, my lord. A long while ago.”

“No such messenger reached me,” Talorgen said. “What news did he bear?”

“Another death. The old man, Erip, was carried off in the winter; a terrible chill. His chest hadn’t been sound, even before. We buried him up on the hill. And Wid’s gone. Gone off with the druids.”

“You’ll want to get the men settled
in,” Ferat said. “Stay a night or two, rest your horses. Let me show you—”

“Where’s Tuala?” asked Bridei. An uncanny feeling had crept over him as he learned of each absence, each loss; it was like being four years old again and having everything taken away.

There was a brief silence.

“Gone,” Mara said flatly. “Long gone.”

Bridei turned his eyes on her and the housekeeper flinched visibly.

“She’s at that place up north, the school for wise women. Banmerren,” Mara said. “There was an opportunity to become a servant of the Shining One, a great chance for such as her. She traveled up there with my lord’s family.” She glanced at Talorgen. “Very suitable. Broichan was much relieved.”

Bridei did not trust himself to speak. Indeed, he was not sure he could form words at all. His heart
seemed to have forgotten how to beat.

“Thank you for the offer of hospitality.” Talorgen spoke into the awkward silence. “We are somewhat travel weary; the men would welcome what supper you can provide, and a warm corner for sleep. We will not trouble you long. Ged and I must both be at Caer Pridne as soon as possible.”

“No trouble,” Ferat said. “Give us a bit of time and we’ll cook you a supper
fit for a king.” And, seeing familiar faces, “Enfret! Cinioch! Welcome home! Elpin, lad! Give me the news!”

ALONE IN HIS
old chamber, Bridei fought to exercise control over himself. He was a man: eighteen years old, a warrior proven, and the foster son of the king’s druid. He was no longer the child who had lain awake here,
looking up at the moon and longing for stories to banish the shadows. He was no longer the small boy who had hidden once in a mere chink in the rocks while an assassin’s blade swept in savage strokes before his body. He was Bridei, son of Maelchon; he had brought the Mage Stone down from Galany’s Reach and had won the friendship of warrior and chieftain alike. Fokel of Galany had sworn lifelong
loyalty; Ged of Abertornie had presented him with a cloak woven in alarming squares and stripes of vivid green, orange, and scarlet. Morleo had invited him to spend a summer at his home by Long-water, where the trout were as big as young seals. He was a man.

He was a man, and his head ached, and his eyes were full of unshed tears. He was a man, and his best friend had died before his eyes because
he had offered him a drink. Bridei laid a clenched fist against the wall by the small, square window, where three white stones still lay in offering to the goddess. He rested his brow on his hand and closed his eyes. Why couldn’t he weep, even here behind a closed door where nobody could see? Why couldn’t he talk, even to Gartnait, even to Talorgen? Why did he need her so much it was like an
ache in every part of his body, a yawning emptiness that pleaded to be filled? What was wrong with him? And why had she gone? How could she do that? Tuala loved the Shining One, and the Shining One had always smiled on her; that had been clear from the moment the goddess had shown him where to find her, a tiny, precious gift of life in the snowy chill of Midwinter. But a priestess, a wise woman: that,
he had not expected. Logic said it was reasonable, even desirable. His heart screamed no.

People went away, he knew that. They went away and never came back. That was the way things were, and you learned to deal with it. But not Tuala. Tuala could not go away; she could not leave Pitnochie. She could not leave him all by himself. It was not right. If she were not by his side, how
could he ever
be what it seemed they wanted him to be; what the gods expected him to be?

He laid his brow against the cool stone by the window. It didn’t help much. The throbbing was a harsh drumbeat; it was like the memory of war. A woman treated as an object of vengeance. A young warrior curled on himself like an infant, quivering with shock. A terrified child. Corpses burning, a dreadful wailing, a lament
from the very bowels of despair. Donal . . . and Erip gone, his dear old friend, his grinning, mischievous, bald-headed sage . . . By the sword of the Flamekeeper, his head must break asunder, surely, if this pain lasted much longer. Why couldn’t he let go? What was it that held back these tears?