The Dark Mirror (75 page)

“Stop babbling and listen to me. By all the gods, I sometimes wonder why folk think you clever. I have a job for you. Not special confidences this time, he’ll be too weary for that. Just a sickbed visit, just yourself and Bridei alone together. Be sweet, be charming, be a girl, if you can stretch to that. I wish you to administer a . . . I hesitate to call
it a love potion, that sounds so crude, but in effect that is exactly what it is. You’ll make an opportunity, you’ll see Bridei alone and you’ll slip it into his drink. Make sure his eyes are on you when he takes it.”

“
What?
” This was so unexpected that Ferada thought she had misheard.

“Weigh it up, Ferada. Bridei or Cealtran. A healthy young man, whom you already tolerate quite well, or a pot-bellied
ancient with creeping hands. I know which I’d choose.”

Ferada was lost for words.

“You could be queen,” her mother said softly. “Is that enough power for you, daughter? This will be easy. I have a little ring here, a trifle of a thing, with a cunning hinged setting; a few grains of the powder can be concealed within and released into a cup of water or ale with ease, arousing no suspicion whatever.
They’ll let you in. Blush, smile, flutter your eyelashes.
Convince the guards that you are a woman in love. Make sure it’s Breth or Garth on duty and not that wretched Gael.”

“But, Mother, this doesn’t make sense at all. You’ve always disliked Bridei; you just implied that you despise him. That you think he doesn’t have a will of his own. Why would you want your only daughter to wed such a man?”

“Answer me one question, Ferada,” said Dreseida very softly. “What have I told you about marriage, over and over since you were an infant? What is the one reason to wed, the one basis for choosing a spouse?”

“Strategy.” Ferada’s tone was full of bitterness. “We marry for power. For influence.”

“Good girl.” Dreseida smiled, making her daughter shudder. “If, against all common sense, Bridei is
to be king, then I must accept it. But only if it is my child who becomes his queen. So he is a bore, more content with his books and prayers than with the councils of the powerful. Never mind that. He’s a man. He can be influenced. Even Broichan can be influenced. So, you will do as I ask. Unless, of course, you really do prefer Cealtran.”

Ferada swallowed, desperately searching for words. Oddly,
the feeling that was strongest in her at this moment seemed to be relief. “I . . . You know that I have no desire to wed, Mother. If I must do so, I would rather not rely on old wives’ potions to snare a mate. Why can’t Father just ask Broichan if he’d consider this match? It’s entirely suitable. Indeed, Father has hinted more than once that he views it as desirable.”

“There is no time for that.”
Dreseida’s voice was cold. “I want it settled now. I want it certain. The moment the boy is sufficiently recovered to see his friends, you’ll do this. And you’ll keep quiet about it. It will reflect far better on you in the future if it’s believed Bridei chose you because he admires you and thinks you suited to be queen of Fortriu. In that, your talk of old wives’ potions is entirely accurate.”

“In a way” Ferada said, “I am heartened by this. By your decision. I would prefer not to marry Bridei. I would prefer not to wed at all. But you’ve allayed my fears on one point. I thought—I was coming to think—no, I realize that was foolish. Of course you wouldn’t put Gartnait up as a contender for the kingship; that would be too cruel.”

Dreseida had turned away as her daughter spoke. Ferada
could not see her mother’s face. The voice, when it came, was under iron control. “The ring is on the table, there, by the candle stand. Take it. Use it. If you don’t go
through with this, Ferada, believe me, your life won’t be worth living. The moment the boy is sufficiently recovered to see his friends, do it. I’m relying on you.”

“Couldn’t this wait until Bridei is fully recovered? Perhaps
until after the election? I don’t see—”

“Ferada.” It was that tone again; the tone that caused ice to trickle down the spine of the listener.

“Yes, Mother?”

“You’ll do this now Within two days, if possible. Get it wrong, and what awaits you will be far worse than the elderly Cealtran, I promise you.”

“Mother . . . Ferada drew a deep, shuddering breath. “This is—it seems wrong . . .”

“Enough!”
Dreseida’s voice was a whiplash; Ferada cringed, despite herself. “Don’t think to criticize me! Believe me, time is of the essence here. I am perhaps the only one at court who understands what is at stake. Now that Drust is gone, I am the truest of the blood: I and mine. Be glad this is all I ask of you, Ferada. And don’t ever think to challenge me, for there is no doubt who would be the victor
in such a contest. Now go.”

“I will; but—”

“Go!”

“Yes, Mother.”

IT WAS A
hard and weary journey. Tuala had thought it might be quick with Woodbine and Gossamer to guide her; could not such creatures change their form at will, glide above the wintry land, dive deep in bottomless lakes, fly swift as swallows on currents
above the Glen? If she were of their kind, could not she do the same and bridge the gap from Banmerren to Pitnochie as easily and lightly as she had danced across the wall from rooftop to tree, heedless of danger? Could not she be as an owl of the forest, a salmon of the river, a deer, a hare, a creature running free? It seemed not; at least, not yet.

“You’ve been too many seasons among human
folk,” Gossamer said. “We warned you long ago. It’s weakened you; softened your will and diluted your magic. A little time in the realm beyond, and everything will come back to you. Meanwhile, you’re going to have to walk. We’ll watch over you.”

But as Tuala maintained a dogged progress in the general direction of
the Glen, spending her nights huddled in the shelter of outhouses or sodden haystacks,
eating a moldering loaf that was all she had managed to snatch before her midnight flight from Banmerren—out through a tiny window while her keepers were at prayer, up the tree, onto the wall, then descending in the one, brief moment of proof that she was indeed more than human, for she had closed her eyes, imagined herself an owl, and jumped—she realized her companions were every bit as elusive
and unpredictable now, when their help made the difference between life and death for her, as they had been in easier times. Sometimes they were there beside her, encouraging her with kind words, with songs and tales; sometimes she would wake at first light, cramped, chill, and despondent, to find herself all alone. When that happened, she trusted her senses to find the path and blessed Erip’s
lessons in geography and the lore of sun, moon, and stars. Such an education made it unlikely she would ever be lost.

She had thought herself beyond caring about anything, after last full moon. But certain matters worried her. It seemed to be getting colder, and from time to time snow fell, lightly still, but setting a deep chill in the bones, so that she was never quite without a longing for
fire. Her boots were soaked right through; her feet were a mass of blisters. Why didn’t Gossamer and Woodbine feel the cold? When they returned, slipping down beside her in the straw behind a pigpen, the best refuge she could find, she asked them this question and received a familiar answer.

“You’ve been too long among them. Your tides have begun to move in the pattern of theirs. When we are
home, you will recover quickly. There, there is no more heat, no more cold; there is no more pain.”

“But . . .” Tuala ventured, “it might not mean that. Maybe I’m cold and tired and hungry because I’m
not
one of you. Maybe I’m human, like Bridei.” To speak his name was bittersweet: a charm of love and loss.

“Huh!” scoffed Woodbine, settling himself more comfortably in the straw. “Didn’t you
fly down from the walls of Banmerren? A human girl would have broken her neck.”

“Then maybe I am half and half: the offspring of a union between your kind and the human kind.”

“We’d know,” Gossamer assured her. “It’s rare. Think about your tales. Consider Amna of the White Shawl. She didn’t even bother to keep that wretch Conn for more than a night at a time, and in the end she finished him
off. His weakness disgusted her. What would such a one as she want with an
infant that was half his? She certainly wouldn’t deliver it to the door of a dwelling of human kind, all wrapped up warm against the winter. She loathed the man. He couldn’t satisfy her. The last thing she’d concern herself with was the survival of his child.”

“But you said—Woodbine said—Amna was a made-up story,” Tuala
protested. “And what about the owl woman? She had children. It does happen. Besides, whatever I am, my parents didn’t want me. If I do belong among you, if my mother and father were indeed of the Good Folk, why didn’t they keep me? No, don’t vanish, answer the question! Why won’t you tell me? Don’t I deserve the truth if I’m to come with you? What if I walk across this margin you speak of and find
that even there nobody wants me?”

“Is that what you believe?” A coldness had entered Gossamer’s voice. “You wish that we leave you here to seek your future among these human folk who have treated you so unjustly, so unkindly? Where would you go?”

“I don’t want that,” Tuala whispered. “I only want to know who I am. And I want to get warm and dry. It seems such a long way”

“Hmm.” Woodbine regarded
her with his round, strange eyes. “I can’t do much about the cold. Light a fire, and we’ll have farm folk out to see who’s wandering on their land with an eye out for a fat sheep or two. How long have we been on the road? Three days, four?”

“Four,” Tuala said grimly. “And we’ve barely reached. Serpent Lake. It’s almost dark of the moon, and I think it’s going to snow.”

“Yes,” said Woodbine.
“A man on a horse could travel the distance far more quickly, of course, given a fortunate conjunction of weather and moonlight. He’d need a mount of exceptional qualities. As for our kind, we do not make our journeys idly. Each follows its own particular pathway and unfolds in its own perfect timing. We cannot transport you home in an eye blink, which is what they say druids do. But we can move more
quickly now. Dark of the moon is good.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Tuala. “It means we can’t go by night, not unless we want to stumble into a bog, or fall in the lake and become fodder for the serpents.”

“Dark of the moon is the right time to end our journey,” said Gossamer. “Dark of the moon falls at Midwinter; it is a conjunction of great significance, almost as great as that of the night you were
found on Broichan’s doorstep, a vision of light and hope. Then, the Shining One revealed her true beauty in all its radiant power; this time, she hides her face from the world of
men and from our own world as the season turns. Who knows what may unfold on such a night? At Caer Pridne, the candidates for kingship will stand up and declare themselves. Your friend will be among them; a certain young
noblewoman will be close by, smiling on him, applauding him. And we will be in the woods above Pitnochie; we will stand by the Dark Mirror. One step, that’s all it will take, and you will be forever free of these human cares. In that realm, all your questions will be answered . . .”

F
ERADA,” SAID ANA GENTLY
, “I think you’re sewing that onto your skirt.”

“Oh.” Ferada looked down at her work, muttered an unladylike oath, and proceeded to unpick a line of crooked stitching, her mouth tight. The two of them were sitting by lamplight, for the winter day was dark even so early in the afternoon, heavy clouds obscuring the face of the Flamekeeper, who burned low and weakly so close
to solstice time. Ana’s embroidery was exquisite: a pattern of tiny flowers, cream on cream, each with a narrow border of duck-egg blue.

“What’s the matter?” she asked now, observing the impatient movement of Ferada’s hands as the red-haired girl jerked the thread out, almost tearing the fabric. “You’re upset about something, it’s obvious. You look exhausted. Are you still thinking about Gateway?”

“How can I not think about it?” Ferada’s tone was grim. “After I heard, I couldn’t decide if I despised Fola for letting such atrocities happen or admired her for her unflinching obedience to the gods. I still can’t decide. Such a ritual could only have been devised by men. How could any right-thinking woman accept it? I can’t believe the Shining One would allow it to continue, year after year.
It is so wrong.”