The Dark Mirror (69 page)

They came up under the walls of Banmerren. Bridei knew, now, just where the oak tree stood: his plan had been complete in every detail before he had presented it to Faolan. The Gael was not a man who ever went in unprepared. He might follow his own rules, he might go
where others would fear to tread, but he calculated his risks finely. Faolan’s planning was impeccable, his execution faultless: it was no wonder he commanded such a high price.

They were beneath the spot now The bare branches of the tree could be seen above the wall, stark and strong in the cold light of the full moon. Bridei gave a little whistling sound, the call of a night bird, and waited.
After a few moments an answer came, the unmistakable hooting of an owl. She was there. He whistled again, just to be sure, even as he took the rope from his shoulder and readied it to throw. Now the owl-voice was closer, as if she had moved along a branch to the top of the wall.

“What is this girl, half cat?” muttered Faolan. “Aren’t you concerned she might fall and break her neck? That’s quite
a height.”

An image of Tuala perched on the top of Eagle Scar and turning like a wind vane came bright and clear to Bridei’s mind, and with it her small, precise voice reciting: Fortrenn,
Fotlaid, Fidach, Fib
, Circinn, Cain,
Ce
.“She won’t fall,” he said. “If you want to be anxious, worry about me.” He looked up again, thought that perhaps he could see her, a pale form atop the wall, a cloud of
dark hair. He gestured, hoping she would understand, and, holding the rope’s end in one hand, threw the coil upward.

She missed it the first time. Her hand stretched out, grasping; the rope fell back to the ground. Bridei coiled it again. Faolan was scanning the shore, the bushes, the track beyond.

“Remember,” he whispered, “keep it quick. No lingering farewells.”

Bridei threw again and felt
the rope caught at the top. Now he could see, dimly, Tuala’s small crouching figure as she hauled it up and fastened it to a sturdy branch. It hung from oak to ground, ready for a strong-armed man to make an ascent.

“Go on, then,” hissed Faolan. “Keep within earshot; if we’re detected, I need to be able to get you away quickly. If you hear my signal move without delay. You know how much is riding
on your safety. Keep your feet flat against the wall going up . . .”

A little later, somewhat breathless, Bridei reached the top and scrambled less than gracefully to sit astride the wall. This was a narrow purchase; beyond, the wall plunged down to dark gardens and, farther off, the gray stones of a high dwelling house. No lights burned save the pale orb of the Shining One. Tuala had retreated
to a branch of the oak. She regarded him with her solemn owl-eyes, her hair a soft shadow around her small face, her form as sweetly pleasing to him as on that day by the cairns, the day he had first seen that she was a woman. He gazed back at her. Able strategist, subtle courtier that he had become, he was entirely without words for this moment. If Tuala could hear the wild drumming of his heart,
he thought, if she could feel the way he wanted to weep, to shout, to sing, to burst apart with feelings, then she would know the truth, and there would be no need to speak at all.

“You came,” Tuala said. “I don’t have long; I’m not supposed to be here.”

“Nor me,” Bridei said. “There’s a man waiting for me, down below. Can we—?” He was perched somewhat precariously, all too aware of the long
drop on either side of him. He had never possessed Tuala’s instinctive sense of balance.

“We can’t go in,” said Tuala. “I did something wrong, and the tower room’s shut up now. Come over to the tree. You’ll be safer here.”

Bridei eyed the gap: not so very far, save that it was dark, and the ground was a long way down. The branches of the oak seemed no more secure than the narrow stone wall.

“Don’t be afraid, Bridei,” Tuala said. The small, clear voice transported him back to childhood: even as a tiny girl she had possessed such certainty, such inner assurance that one could not but believe her. “Here, take my hand.” She came closer, feet steady on a branch, one arm stretched out toward him.

He reached, clasped, stepped across. He looked at her; she gazed steadily back, eyes clear
as moonlight, deep as a secret pool, lovely as the dew on a
spring morning. He felt her touch in every part of his body. Desire coursed through him, heady and dangerous. Releasing her hand, he moved to sit awkwardly in a crook of the tree where a massive branch joined the great trunk.

“I—” he began.

“I—” Tuala spoke at the same moment.

“You first,” he said, wondering if they would waste this
entirely, between them; wondering if there were any right way to do it.

“I’ve waited so long to see you,” Tuala said softly, “and now there don’t seem to be any words. Not after Gateway. Not after what they made you do.”

He was horrified. “You know of that?”

“I saw it. I looked in the water; I needed to see. Fola was angry, and rightly so. Bridei, that was . . . it was a terrible thing. Dark
and cruel. You were very strong that night. It is no wonder the king looks weary.”

“He clings to life by a thread. Nobody expected he would survive so long. Tuala?”

“Mm?”

He wished she would move closer; she sat just out of reach, leaning against a rising bough of the tree, her knees drawn up under her skirt, her arms wrapped around her. Her hair had grown; it was long enough, now, to be gathered
in a ribbon once more at the nape. Soft curls escaped to frame her face. He observed the fey, winged brows; the neat, small nose; the sweet mouth. His hands seemed to know, without stirring, just how it would feel to brush that pale cheek, to linger on the delicate neck, to caress the soft curves of her with passion and reverence; his body was telling him with utter certainty what joy it would
take in pleasing her . . .

“Were you going to ask me something?” Tuala said.

Bridei wrenched his mind back to the here and now. “You know, don’t you? You’ve worked it out, what they intend for me?”

Tuala nodded. “I’ve known since I was little.”

“You never said.”

“It was best for you to grow up not knowing. To find out in your own time. It’s a heavy thing to carry.”

Bridei did not answer
for a little. “I did not know how heavy,” he said at length, “until Gateway. I did what was required; Drust needed me, and I respect and love him as my king and as the Flamekeeper’s champion on earth. But I don’t know if I can do it again and again, all the long years of a kingship. I am obedient to the gods, as a true son of Fortriu must be. I long to
carry our land and people forward. But .
. . I think perhaps I shouldn’t present myself as a candidate for kingship, Tuala. This is a rite that appalls me, repels me. I speak thus under the eye of the Shining One and hope she forgives my blunt words. If it is set down that Fortriu’s king must enact this sacrifice to appease the Nameless One, then perhaps that king should not be Bridei son of Maelchon. I saw what the ritual did to Broichan,
whom I always believed impervious. He was wracked with shame, shattered and old. Should any man bear that? I’m sorry. I didn’t come here to burden you with this.”

Tuala was looking down at her hands. “You did not want to share it with me?” she asked.

He heard the careful tone, the effort at neutrality, and felt like weeping. “It isn’t fair,” he said. “You are a wise woman now, called by the
Shining One; you live in the daily knowledge of the goddess’s love. The last thing you need is the weight of my uncertainties.”

“You will find others to share them, Bridei.” The voice was very small. “More acceptable others. But I will always be your friend.” The words seemed to him a crushing, final blow; a death sentence. The distance between them was suddenly vast, deep, a yawning gap. She
had detached herself; he heard it in her voice. The Shining One had set an unbridgeable chasm between them.

“My friend,” he managed. “I hope so, indeed; but I will see nothing of you, now you have chosen the path of the goddess. She honors you in this; you will be an asset to Banmerren, I’m sure.” Gods aid him, now he was sounding as prim and formal as if he addressed a distant acquaintance.
His head began to throb.

“Bridei?”

“Yes?”

“You must be king. You must put yourself forward. It’s what has to be. I’ve seen it, and Broichan has seen it. Fola, too, I think. You have to do it.”

“I don’t think I can.”
Not without you
.

“I know Gateway was bad; cruel: terrible. I know about the other things: the battle, Donal. Sad things; sorry things. I wish I had been there to share them. But
you must go forward bravely, as you have always done. There is an answer to this, I’m certain, an answer acceptable to both gods and men. I know you will find it. Promise me, Bridei. Promise me you’ll go through with this.”

He opened his mouth; closed it again. He could not look at her now. Her voice had been suddenly full of the old warmth, her words vibrant and
challenging. What had she meant,
more acceptable others? Who could be more acceptable than Tuala herself? Surely she knew how much he loved her.

“Promise me,” Tuala said again, and at that moment a whistle came from beyond the wall: Faolan alerting Bridei that it was time to go. So soon.

“I promise,” he said, and looked up.

She smiled. Gods help him, how could he see that and not put his arms around her, blurting out his need
like a foolish youth who knew nothing of druids’ discipline? Yet how could he bear to look away? This might be the last time he would ever see her. He must not touch her again; that would be to do her a terrible injustice. He must make a new corner in his mind for her, a separate place, and leave her there pure and untouched, safe within high walls, a servant of the goddess unscathed by the dark
trials, the perilous power games of his own future. To do otherwise would be utterly selfish.

“I have to go,” he said, and watched the smile fade. Her eyes, in an instant, became those of a child who waits alone in the darkness, afraid to sleep.

“It’s better like this,” Bridei said, but his attempt to control his voice was woefully unsuccessful; his words came out in a strangled whisper.

“If
that’s what you want, Bridei.”

“I have to go. Faolan’s waiting. I—”

“Be careful climbing over; here, take my hand—”

“No, I can manage—”

Somehow, on the branch that bridged the gap, it became impossible not to touch, for all he sought to move away, to leave before he lost control completely and made a mockery of Broichan’s teaching. Somehow, she was right beside him, her hand in his, and he
halted, breathing hard, fighting with everything he had the flood of longing that coursed through him, stronger than logic, stronger than common sense, more powerful than the goddess’s will . . . almost . . .

“Not like this,” Bridei whispered. “Not this way . . .”

“Bridei.”

Tuala stood on tiptoe, perfectly balanced, and reached to curve a hand around his cheek, where the swirls and sweeps of
his warrior markings now stood bravely on his fair skin. He felt her thumb moving gently; he saw the look in her eyes, a look belying utterly the coolness of her earlier tone. His hand came up over hers, holding it against his face, and then, despite himself, he brought her palm to his lips. He heard her sudden exhalation, an echo of what was in his own heart.

Below them in the shadows of the
garden, a light flared. Someone was walking up the path with a lantern, perhaps searching.

“Quick!” hissed Tuala. “Quickly, go! They must not find you here!”

He edged across. His hand was still in hers; his fingers seemed unable to let go. At the last moment he turned back, and she lifted her face to his, eyes bright, lovely mouth beguiling as a summer rose, skin translucent under the lamp of
the Shining One. Below, he could hear footsteps approaching.

“Good-bye,” he said unsteadily, and made to turn away. He could do this; he must, for her sake.

“Bridei.” It was a whisper. “I didn’t mean it, what I said before. I’ve missed you so much . . .”

He felt her hands on either side of his face; she drew him toward her. A moment later, her mouth met his, a little shy, a little awkward but
oh, so sweet he thought he might die of it, save for the fire in his body that told him he was very much alive, more alive, indeed, than he had ever been before. He snatched at a supporting branch with one hand; he was in danger of forgetting where he was, so high above the earth that a single step might be sudden death. Her lips parted; the kiss deepened, arousing sensations somewhat akin to torture,
a torture one would wish to last long, until it became something more, something he needed so badly he might sacrifice much to have it . . . but not her safety or her reputation. He must leave. If he were found here Tuala would lose her place at Banmerren and his own future would be in jeopardy. He drew his lips away, hearing the ragged sound of his own breathing, sensing the same in her.
Her hand clutched his, tight enough to hurt.

“Next full moon,” she whispered. “Good-bye, Bridei. Be safe.”

“You too,” he managed, and let go. She waited, crouched near the top of the wall, while he made his descent; when he was on the ground, the rope came snaking down as she released its loop from the oak. Bridei glanced up, but Tuala was already gone. He was alone with the moon, and the silent Faolan, and the thunderous beating of his
own heart.