The Dark Mirror (10 page)

Broichan was not looking so powerful today. He was leaning heavily on his staff as he made his way
up the track with Donal on one side and a fellow called Enfret on the other. The druid seemed to have shrunk in on himself;
he looked neither so tall nor so broad as Bridei had remembered him. And he was pale, almost as pale as Tuala, whose skin carried the gleam of moonbeams. One thing had not changed: Broichan’s dark eyes still blazed with ferocious intelligence.

“Welcome home, my lord,” Mara
said as the travelers came up to the open door. She was smiling, a rare occurrence.

“Welcome, my lord,” echoed Ferat, behind her. “It’s good to see you on your feet. Donal, Enfret.” He nodded at the two of them. Down the track, the other men at arms were walking by a pack horse laden with bundles. “You’ll all be glad of a cup of mulled ale and a bite to eat, no doubt,” the cook added. “A chill
day”

If there was a touch of nervousness in Ferat’s tone, it was nothing to the mouth-drying, paralyzing anxiety that was gripping Bridei where he stood by Mara’s side. At this moment, the baby was in Brenna’s chamber being fed. He prayed that Tuala would not make a noise, not yet; not while his foster father looked so grim and weary. Not until Bridei had managed to collect himself and think
of the right things to say.

“Bridei!” A huge grin split Donal’s face, and he strode forward to clap his young friend heartily on the shoulder. Bridei grinned back, his woes receding; he could count on one firm ally here, at least. “You’ve grown apace, lad. See how big and strong he looks, my lord!”

Broichan looked down, dark eyes, white face, long plaited hair. His features bore more lines than
before, and were as ever governed by such discipline that there was no telling what was on his mind.

“Bridei,” he said gravely. “I am glad to see you well. You have paid good attention to your studies, I am certain.”

“Yes, my lord.” Since Tuala had come, Bridei had got used to being one of the grown-ups, part of a household focused on the needs and demands of someone smaller. Now, abruptly,
he was a child again. “I’ve done my best.”

“I expected no less. Now I will retire to my own quarters awhile. Donal, assist me, will you? No, I don’t need anything—” waving away both Ferat and Mara with a touch of irritation that was quite out of character. “Water, perhaps. I’m sure the men will welcome your offers of sustenance; it’s been a long journey. Is there still an adequate guard around
the perimeters? How many men do you have up by the northern dike?”

They were inside now, Broichan still questioning as he limped toward his private quarters, unable to conceal his need to lean on Donal’s arm.

“I’ll check all that, my lord,” Donal said quietly. “Come, you’re home now, and you must rest. Leave these matters to us.”

“Rest, rest,” the druid muttered bitterly, “I’ve been doing nothing
but rest these two moons past. I can’t afford the time. The days are over before there’s a chance to put two thoughts together. Long enough, that’s all I ask, just long enough . . . a pox on meddlers.”

AS BABIES DO
, Tuala made her presence known in her own time. There was a brief outburst in the shrill infant voice, a protest
soon stilled by Brenna’s soft voice saying, “Hush, hush, wee one, it’s all right . . .” Not long after, Broichan walked out to the hall, purple shadows like bruises under his eyes, knuckles white where he gripped the staff, and stood there before them all, not saying a thing. From beyond, in the small room where babe and wet-nurse lay, there was now no sound. At the table, Donal and the men who
had accompanied him wore their own masks of astonishment. Bridei had been working up to telling them the news, and both Ferat and Mara had been waiting for him to do it, seeing it as his job entirely.

It seemed Broichan was not going to ask the question, so Donal did it for him.

“Tell me that wasn’t an infant I just heard,” he managed. “Got a little secret you haven’t told us about, Mara?” As
a joke, it was pretty weak. Nobody so much as half smiled.

Mara was looking at Bridei, and so was Ferat. There was a silence. A moment later Brenna, the child in her arms, her hair in wisps around her flushed face, for she, too, had been sleeping, appeared from the passageway and stopped dead, her eyes widening at the sight of the druid standing tall and grim opposite.

Bridei rose to his feet.
“My lord,” he said with what confidence he could summon, “this is Brenna. And Tuala. I was going to tell you . . .”

“Bring the child here.”

Such was Broichan’s tone that Brenna, the charming rose suddenly gone from her cheeks, walked forward without question and proffered the small bundle for his examination. The druid’s dark eyes narrowed. From the woolen shawl, Tuala waved a flowerlike hand
in a kind of salute and gave a
gurgle whose meaning could have been anything. Broichan’s mouth tightened. He scrutinized the infant closely, without touching.

“Very well, Bridei,” he said eventually, his tone level. “I’ll hear this explanation of yours in private. Come.” He turned without further ado and limped off. Bridei hastened after him. Behind them, nobody was saying a word.

Broichan’s
chamber was not the comfortably appointed domain of a wealthy landholder, although he was in fact a man of extensive resources. This room was in keeping with what he truly was: a scholar, a mystic, a philosopher. His discipline, his clarity of mind, his passion for learning, all could be seen in the orderly, uncluttered space that was his private sanctum. The only person who came in here when Broichan
was away was Mara. The stone shelves held rows of jars, bottles, crucibles, and flasks, each in its place, each gleaming dully in the light of candles and the flicker of the fire on the small hearth—a concession to his illness, this, for it had ever been Broichan’s habit to endure the cold. He constantly tested the mind’s control of the body. The pallet was made up with fine woolen blankets
and fresh linen, but it was narrow and hard: what meager comforts existed in this quiet space owed more to Mara than to Broichan himself, Bridei knew. There was an oak table and two benches. Scrolls were stored in a frame on the wall, and writing materials, goose quills, ink pots, were set out on their own shelf. A plait of garlic hung by the slitlike window. Dried herbs in bundles dangled here and
there, lending a sweet fragrance to the air, and wizened berries in a brass bowl were evidence that Broichan had attempted, already, to begin some work. Mara might eventually succeed in bullying him into resting, but it wouldn’t be easy. The druid’s cloak hung neatly on a peg; his boots were set by the hearth, side by side. The chamber was spotless; not a speck of dust could be seen on anything.

Broichan closed the door behind the two of them and went to stand by the table, leaning both hands on it. Bridei stood facing his foster father. He held himself very still; it was something he was good at, even when his heart was threatening to jump into his throat from anxiety, as now. He relaxed his hands. He made his features calm.

“Let me tell you what I see here.” Illness had not muted the
druid’s voice: it rang deep and powerful as an ancient bell. “I see an infant that has no business inside the four walls of any human dwelling; an infant that holds danger in every blink of its fey eyes. I see several stalwarts of my household viewing
this infant with expressions of doting indulgence. And I see a young woman who’s most certainly not here by my invitation.”

“I—”

Broichan raised
his hand slightly, and Bridei’s words dried up in his mouth. “I’m not finished,” the druid said calmly. “I see one more thing: I see my foster son, a boy who promised to be good while I was away; to do as I would wish him to do.” His midnight-dark eyes rested on Bridei in terrible question. It became much harder to keep still. It sounded as if Broichan had decided already. Tuala would be gone by
dusk, cast out alone into the forest to freeze, to starve. She would cry and cry, and nobody would come. But no. Bridei clenched his hands so tight the nails cut his palms. Concentrate. Remember.
There is
learning in everything. He remained still, breathing slowly as he’d been taught, keeping his gaze steady. And realized, suddenly, that this inquisition was not, in fact, about Tuala or the Good
Folk. It was about him. It was not about what he had done, but why he had done it. All he had to do was give the right explanations, the ones that complied with Broichan’s way of seeing the world. He could do that. He just had to stay calm, as Broichan himself did, and talk, not like a child, but like a druid.

“My lord,” he began, “Tuala—the baby—came here at midnight on the solstice. The moon
woke me, shining in my window. I went out and there she was on the doorstep.”

The druid frowned. “And where were the other members of my household while you were wandering about the place at night?”

“Asleep, my lord. It was after the ritual.”

“I see. Go on.”

“I—I thought she was a gift, my lord. A gift for—” not
for me
, however much he felt this to be true, “a gift for all of us. A trust.
The Shining One wanted us to take Tuala in: to keep her safe.”

“Bridei,” Broichan’s tone was stern, “don’t tell me you are too foolish to recognize what that small creature is. No human infant ever had such eyes, such white skin, nor such a grave and knowing expression. She’s not some local girl’s by-blow; she’s one of the Good Folk.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Bridei, realizing this was the first
time anyone had actually put this into so many words. “She was cold. She would have died out there.”

There was a pause. “A human child would certainly not have survived the night,” Broichan acknowledged.

“Yes, my lord.” Bridei was working hard to echo the druid’s calm, detached tone. “I know Tuala came from the Good Folk. They brought her here on purpose. The Shining One woke me up so I would
find her. It was meant. We’re supposed to keep her.” Bridei’s voice wobbled a little, despite himself. “Tuala’s a very good baby, my lord. She hardly ever cries. And she has nowhere else to go.”

“I imagine there was a conveyance of some kind? A basket?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Where is it?” Broichan asked flatly.

Bridei felt a prickling behind his eyes; he clenched his teeth tight together.

“Answer
me.” The druid’s voice was a death knell.

“In my chamber,” Bridei whispered.

“Fetch it.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Bridei did not look at the others, could not look, as he made his way to his own domain and returned with the little forest cradle under his arm. All the same, he saw them, frozen as if carven in stone and all staring at him: Donal with his honest features full of amazement, Enfret and
the other men at arms equally surprised, Ferat anxious, Mara grim, and sweet-faced Brenna with the baby in her arms: Tuala, who had become, so quickly, the still center about whom all else turned. She was so small . . .

His feet leaden, Bridei walked back to his foster father’s chamber. It was hard to keep control of his thoughts, for his head churned with them. Tuala had nobody else, nobody
but him. The others only loved her because of the charm, and as soon as Broichan undid it they would be all too ready to cast her out. Her own folk didn’t want her any more than his family seemed to want him—he’d had not a word from them since they sent him here. But at least he had his foster father and Donal and the others. He had a home. Tuala had nothing.

Bridei was at the door now. He could
beg, of course; he could weep and plead like the child he was. Weeping would be all too easy; he felt the tears in his eyes now as he looked down at the scrap of woven leaves and grasses in his hands, the strange winter flowers still bright and fresh, the stones of power threaded on the handles. Who could make enough magic to outplay a druid? The key lay hidden at the bottom, the key that was
Tuala’s only chance of survival. Bridei swallowed. Tears would be a waste of time; pleading was a weak man’s strategy. A druid listens to reasoned arguments, to logic, to proof.

Broichan was standing by the small hearth. His expression gave away nothing. “Put it on the table,” he said.

Bridei did as he was bid. The basket looked very small; already Tuala had outgrown it. “My lord, may I speak?”
he asked.

Broichan’s silence seemed to indicate consent.

“I hope you will not undo the charm,” Bridei said, fighting to sound confident though his lip was trembling. “I know you think I did the wrong thing. I’m sorry I’ve made you angry. But I’m not sorry I took Tuala into the house. I’m not sorry I made the charm to keep her safe. I’m sure that was right. I’m really sure.”

Broichan sighed.
He reached out a hand toward the tiny cradle, tracing the curve of its side without quite touching it. “Bridei,” he said after a little, “you are still very young, for all your manner of speech. You know nothing of the ways of men; nothing of the checks and balances we must maintain to keep our land from falling into chaos, strategies that are far more closely concerned with the misguided actions
of our own kind that with the machinations of the Good Folk. Beyond the confines of the Glen there is a realm of which you have barely touched the farthest fringe. Your education has scarcely begun, lad. And it’s important; it is so important we can afford to let nothing get in the way of it. I cannot spare the time to be ill; my household cannot spare the time for an infant, especially one who carries
such a weight of uncertainty on her small shoulders. To harbor the Other is to invite danger, Bridei. It is to invite the unexpected.”