The Dark Mirror (67 page)

Some time before sunrise it became possible to move, although Bridei’s legs felt strangely weak, his head dizzy.
He rose to his feet, looking at the three of them: keen-eyed Breth, stifling a yawn; amiable Garth, gray-faced with weariness; wiry, dark Faolan whose customary look of mild amusement had been replaced by something else, an expression Bridei was too tired and sick and sad to interpret.

“Thank you,” he said simply. “I’m going to bed now,” and made his way inside, hoping his back was as straight
as Drust’s had been, his steps as steady on the way. But he did not seek the chamber he shared with Breth and Garth; a flicker of candlelight from Broichan’s private quarters caught his eye, and he walked soft-footed to pause in that open doorway.

It seemed, at first, that nobody was there. Where, on Gateway morning, the druid had knelt in pose of strength and obedience, the stone floor was bare
of all but shadows. A candle burned in a niche. The narrow, hard bed with its neatly folded blanket was untenanted. The shelves held their complement of jar and bottle, sack and bowl and crucible; garlic hung from the roof and a scattering of wooden rods lay on the stone table, sign of an earlier augury. Bridei made to turn away, to seek his own bed until morning. He would not sleep; still, if
he made pretense, at least the others might get some rest.

A small sound held him there in the doorway; the ragged, whispering breath of a man who fights a desperate battle with himself. Bridei took a step into the room. Broichan was standing by the place where a narrow slit of a window pierced the stone wall. His hands, clenched into white-knuckled fists, were by his sides; he had not removed
the dark robe of the ceremony. He was leaning against the wall, quite still, his forehead resting against the cold stone, his eyes shut. There was a look on his face that Bridei had never seen before.
The mask had slipped entirely; guilt, confusion, grief, long endurance were all starkly evident, and on the austere planes of the druid’s cheeks, the candlelight revealed the glistening tracks of
his tears.

Others had tended to Bridei tonight with courtesy, with restraint, with true friendship. He could do no less for Broichan. Like all of them, he had believed his foster father a creature of powerful certainty, beyond the frailties of ordinary men, his mind filled only with plots and plans, with learning and druid magic; he had thought Broichan’s heart had room for nothing but the love
of the gods. He recognized, in this moment, how wrong he had been. All these long years, from that first, confusing arrival at Pitnochie, that first glimpse of the tall, remote figure who was to mold his own future, he had never once thought of Broichan as a man. He had never thought how lonely such an existence might be.

“I’m here,” he said quietly, walking into the chamber, taking up the candle
to light a lamp on the table, pouring water from jug to cup. “Come, sit down, drink. It is over.” And did not say,
for now. For this time
.

“
IT IS AS
well,” said Fola, “that these young women are only novices in the art. Had they seen all, as it appears the two of you have done, I would have a full scale revolt on my hands,
Banmerren empty, the Shining One bitterly offended. What were you thinking of? Such secrets are forbidden even to the wisest among us; the Well of Shades is not a place where women tread. To expose these children thus . . . I’m almost without words, Kethra. As a servant of the goddess, a priestess of experience and dedication, it is unthinkable that you could make such an error of judgment, even
if Tuala led you into it.”

Kethra’s lips were tight, her eyes red. “It wasn’t Tuala’s fault,” she said. “It was my idea. I pressed her to use her gift to this end.”

“The responsibility and the guilt must be shared equally between you,” Fola said, her dark gaze traveling from her chastened assistant to Tuala herself. The two of them stood before the wise woman in her small private sanctum, wilting
under her disapproval. If Fola felt burdened by the role she had played in last night’s ritual, she gave little sign of it. Her back was straight, her features calm. The eyes, however, were chill. “It matters not at all which of you was the instigator and which the follower. It is of no
account which is teacher and which student. You are both skilled and clever. Each of you possesses her own unique
talents in this art. Each of you knows the ways of the Shining One and is open to her voice. Each of you is culpable. Each must live with the aftermath of her error.”

“You wish me to leave Banmerren.” Kethra’s voice was toneless. “I am no longer fit to teach; to spend my days in the goddess’s service.”

Fola sighed. Watching her through a haze of sorrow and confusion, Tuala noted the web of lines
on the wise woman’s face, the discoloration of the skin about the eyes, and realized Fola was indeed old, perhaps almost as old as that druid, Uist, and beset by her own doubts. To deliver Morna thus to the gates of the fortress, to hand her over, to wait out the time of darkness on the shore in full awareness of what was unfolding there in the belly of the earth was a terrible thing indeed;
only a woman faultlessly loyal to the gods’ will might carry it out, surely, and return to the normal pattern of her days with wits intact. They were strong, these holy ones, dauntingly strong. Tuala doubted she herself could ever be so obedient. Her every sense shrank from what had been done last night, even as she accepted its necessity.

“Tuala!”

Fola’s voice broke sharply into her thoughts.

“Yes, my lady?”

“I have not become a different person today merely because you have transgressed so foolishly. Call me by my name. You are one of us now. Or have I been wrong on that score? Perhaps I should take the events of last night as proof that I made a grievous error in admitting you to Banmerren. Your gift is dangerous. It tempts folk to seek knowledge beyond what is permitted. It is
a tool for the ambitious; for those who crave power.” Kethra flinched before the wise woman’s glance. “You should not have agreed to this, Tuala, knowing what was in your command to summon to the scrying bowl.”

For part of what had occurred, at least, Tuala was truly sorry. Still, she could not summon the groveling apology that seemed to be expected.

“Speak up,” Fola said. “Kethra has named
a suitable penalty for herself, and expressed regret. What have you to say?”

Tuala drew a deep breath. “We erred in trying this there, in the chamber where the girls were sleeping,” she said. “Although we never dreamed they would wake, that is no excuse, I know. You should not send Kethra away. She is a fine teacher. Her abilities would be best used here, in mending the harm
that was done by
ensuring the girls understand what they saw and how it links into the lore of the gods.”

There was a brief silence.

“I did not ask you to comment on Kethra’s situation,” Fola said.

“No, my—no, Fola.”

“There was something yet to come in your speech, I believe. You are sorry the girls were involved; I’m relieved to hear that, it is the least I would have expected from you. Is there a
but
to
follow this expression of regret?”

Tuala gritted her teeth. The truth must be told here, even if it meant being sent away; even if it meant Bridei would come to Banmerren at full moon, and she would be gone. Gone. Where was there to go to?

“I cannot regret the act itself,” she said, and heard Kethra draw her breath in sharply. “It has always been my belief that the visions the Shining One reveals
to me are those she wishes me to see for her own reasons. She grants them so I can find my way; so I can guide others. Sometimes it does seem that certain images come because I ask for them, because I want them, but I do not believe a human girl to be capable of drawing down sights the Shining One forbids. The goddess is too powerful to be thus deceived. What I see in the water sets out the
pathway she determines for me, and for . . . others of my acquaintance. Even last night. She showed me that dark ritual because I needed to know it.”

“You horrify me, child. What of Kethra?”

Tuala hesitated. “I suppose it is the same for her; it was the Shining One who sent the vision, not myself, not Kethra. You spoke of power; of the misuse of gifts. This may have been some kind of lesson.”

Fola gave a grim smile. “Indeed. If that is so, it seems to me Kethra has learned from it and you have not, Tuala.”

“We are different, Kethra and I. The lesson to be learned is also different.”

“I see. I might point out to you that, although a human girl may not have the power to summon forbidden images to the seer’s eye, you are not, in fact, a human girl. Is it possible we are dealing here
with matters darker still than we imagined?”

A strange feeling crept over Tuala, a separation, as if she stood there within the lamplit chamber and yet was set apart, behind an invisible margin. It was a chilling sensation of Otherness; of being entirely alone. “This
was
a vision of the Shining One,” she said in a whisper. “I know it. She has guided my steps since the day she brought me to Pitnochie
as an infant. It is not she
who brings darkness, but the one who demands of men such acts as we were shown in the vision; such acts as would break the stoutest heart and tear the strongest will in pieces.”

“Hush, child.” Fola’s voice shook; at last, the aftermath of Gateway could be seen in her eyes. “We do not give voice to these matters. Those images were not for women’s eyes, especially not
an innocent young woman such as yourself. Why would the goddess choose to reveal such grim secrets to you? For what purpose?”

Tuala was mute. The truth was plain to her; it concerned Bridei, and she would not say it. The Shining One was playing a difficult game: giving Tuala the tools she needed to help the one she loved, then setting a high wall between them, a wall that was not merely the barrier
of stone and earth that sheltered Banmerren, but a rampart of custom and expectation, history and protocol, far harder to breach. Perhaps what Fola said was true. Was last night’s vision a warped and twisted thing, conjured from that dark place that lay beyond and beneath the realm of the gods?

“This requires some thought,” Fola said. “Kethra, I will give consideration to your future. What has
occurred must alter the path for you, one way or another. For now you will remain here. These children need guidance; they need explanations from those they can trust. This is your opportunity to prove to me that you are indeed trustworthy. Do not abuse it again, or you will walk from the gates of Banmerren and will not return. Go now.”

Kethra bowed stiffly. Her face was white; it was common
knowledge that she had aspired, indeed expected, to govern Banmerren after Fola. Now she would be lucky to keep a place here at all. Tuala stood stock still while the tutor passed her, features rigid, and left the room.

“As for you,” Fola said in a slightly different tone, “you have shown a certain understanding, a certain compassion, as indeed did Kethra herself, and I thank the goddess each
of you still possesses a little of her inner wisdom. You know I was not present at the Well of Shades; indeed, I had no desire at all to be there, nor have I wished for that in all the long years Drust has enacted this ritual. The part I must play in it taxes me sorely. I envy Broichan’s strength and his certainty. Tuala, I don’t want an account of what you saw. I know what you were seeking. Did
you find it?”

Tuala nodded, saying nothing.

“Tell me, then,” said the wise woman, sharp eyed for all her lack of sleep, “what part did Bridei play in this? Don’t look like that, child. Your expression
is transparent; I know your mind. Did the young man look on in horror? Did he squeeze his eyes shut, not to see? Or was he a model of control, like his foster father? Tell me.”

“King Drust needed
help, when it came to the . . . when they . . . Broichan couldn’t do it by himself, and the king was coughing and fighting for breath. Drust turned to certain men, his close kinsmen, I suppose they were, for that is the rule, as Wid told me . . . No other may touch the . . . no other may . . . The only one who would help was Bridei.” Tuala heard the softening of her own voice as she spoke his
name, the perilous revelation of her secret feelings.

“I see,” Fola said, and there was a weight in her tone that made this a statement of great import; a recognition of momentous change.

“Bridei did it calmly and without hesitation. His face revealed nothing of what he felt.”

“Broichan was ever an apt teacher.” Fola sighed, and rested her chin on her hands. “I’m weary, Tuala; I should take
Luthana’s good advice and rest awhile. You may go.”

“I—am I not to be punished, too?”

“Perhaps it is I who deserve chastisement, for thinking to cage you here,” Fola said quietly. “But yes, there must be a penalty of sorts; it was beyond folly to risk the girls so. You will no longer be housed in the tower. It’s unsuitable for winter anyway. Move your things downstairs; you’ll sleep with the
other juniors in the communal room.”

Tuala felt the blood drain from her face. Not now, not yet; not before the full moon . . .” Oh no, please she began.