The Dark Mirror (11 page)

Bridei swallowed. “A man must learn to deal with surprises, my lord,” he managed. “That’s what Donal says. It’s important in a fight.”

Broichan’s lips twitched. “The Good Folk have powers that are a great deal more perilous than a sudden knee in the groin or
a well-placed kick to the ankle,” he observed. “This girl-child may seem sweet and harmless now But you cannot know what she will grow into. Her influence could undermine everything I’m striving for—” He broke off, as if he had said more than he intended.

“My lord,” Bridei said, “I’ll work as hard as I can; I’ll learn everything you want me to learn. I’ll do whatever you want—”

“Stop right there.”
Broichan’s eyes had a dangerous glint in them. “I don’t make bargains with children. Beware your own words, lest they come back to burden you in a time when you have forgotten their solemnity. What if I said I wanted you to burn the cradle and give the key back to its owner? What price your promise then?”

Bridei’s face went hot, not with shame but with anger, a helpless fury tangled up with something
even worse, the sense that he had truly disappointed his foster father, whose good opinion meant everything to him. Almost everything.

“I will keep my promise,” he said, and felt a tear rolling down his cheek, much to his horror. “I don’t know what you want me to be, a druid, a warrior, a scholar. But I know I must learn. I’ll work as hard as you want me to work; harder, if I can. My lord . .
. I want Tuala to stay at Pitnochie. How can it be wrong? The Shining One brought her here.”

There was a lengthy silence. Broichan had turned to stare into the fire, his hand resting on the wall beside the hearth. The chamber was quiet. The small basket remained on the table. A feather or two, a fragment of withered leaf had dropped to the polished surface of the oak.

“I could teach Tuala things,”
Bridei said. “Numbers, stories, songs. I could teach her to ride. In my spare time, of course.”

“Of course,” Broichan said grimly. He was still looking away. “I don’t like this, Bridei. I was not expecting such a homecoming.” He turned and moved to seat himself at the table, carefully, as if he were an old man. Bridei saw the gray pallor of his face, the way his hands were clenched as if to hold
back pain.

“My lord?”

“Yes, Bridei, what is it? Pour me a little water, will you . . . Thank you, boy”

“You’re not going to die, are you? They didn’t—?”

A ghost of a smile passed the druid’s lips and was gone. “We all die, Bridei. But no, my enemies have not made an end of me just yet. I, too, have made a promise; mine requires of me another fifteen years in this world, twenty perhaps, and
I intend to get the best use out of every scrap of time I have. I cannot afford distractions. I do not go out of my way to invite trouble to my hearth, and I don’t expect those who share my home to do it either.”

“I was doing what the moon bid me,” Bridei said. “Letting in a little bit of the wild. Don’t you remember, you said it’s all joined together, the Glen, the creatures, the growing things?
If you hurt one part of it, it all gets weaker. Keeping Tuala safe is a good thing. Good for all of us.”

“I’ve taught you all too well,” Broichan muttered. “So, we bring her up, like an orphaned fox, then set her loose again to wreak havoc?”

“No, my lord. We bring her up, and leave the door open.”

Broichan sipped the water Bridei had given him. His brow was furrowed;
there were deep grooves
from his nose to the corners of his tight-lipped mouth. Unexpectedly, the lips stretched, and he chuckled.

“If I’d wanted to train you as a mystic, Bridei, I’d have sent you to be raised in one of the nemetons, where they’d have done a much better job of drumming the lore into you,” he said. “All the same, already you talk like a druid.”

Bridei waited. His heart was still thumping, but in a
corner of it hope flickered.

“Give me the key,” Broichan said abruptly.

There was no predicting what a druid would do. Heart plummeting again, Bridei stepped forward, reached inside the little basket, drew out the key and dropped it onto Broichan’s outstretched palm.

“Now pick up the basket.”

Bridei stood by the hearth, cradling the fragile weaving as if it were Tuala herself in his arms.
There seemed to be a lot of tears somewhere just behind his eyes, waiting to stream out, to flood his cheeks and demonstrate that he was indeed a child and helpless to prevent the actions of the powerful, even when they were terribly wrong.

“A man does not cry, Bridei,” Broichan commented, as if he could read Bridei’s mind. His hand was still open, the small key resting there. “At least, not
without good reason.”

“No, my lord,” Bridei whispered. He could see it: not content with burning Tuala’s cradle, her heritage, her only link with her kinfolk, Broichan was going to make
him
do it, as a punishment for getting things wrong.

“My joints ache today,” Broichan said. “Climb up on the bench, lad. Put the cradle on the top shelf next to the rat skulls. Careful, now. Mara’s going to have
enough to do keeping me in passable health without any broken bones to attend to. That’s it. Now get down.”

Bridei obeyed. After all, there would be no burning. But there was still the key. As he watched, Broichan’s long fingers curled around the little scrap of iron, and the druid slipped it into the pouch at his belt.

“Very well,” said Broichan. “This stays with me from now on, and that means
the responsibility is mine and the decisions are mine. If at some time in the future I see fit to send her away, I will do it, Bridei. You will not cross me on this. I have not lived as long as I have, and learned what I have learned, without acquiring a certain level of skill in anticipating the future and in making calculated decisions. My intuition tells me the child presents a threat to us.
On the other hand, I suspect it is already too late to get rid of her. Key
and basket may have parted company for now. Key might be returned whence it came; basket might be cast in flame. But I very much doubt that either of those actions would cause the folk out there a sudden reversal of their attitudes to the infant. No doubt they took her in, at first, because of the charm you made. But if
she has indeed been in the house since Midwinter, I suspect your Tuala has had time to cast spells of her own. If I sent her away I would make a rod for my own back; create a place of discord where it is essential we have a sanctuary for learning. And for healing. My enemies were clever this time. They almost outwitted me. That won’t happen again.”

“Was it poison?” Bridei asked. For all his incredulous
joy that the battle was won, he had not forgotten there was another struggle afoot, one that had nearly cost Broichan his life.

“It was something extremely subtle with nightshade in it. A combination barely perceptible by taste or smell. He thought he was clever. Perhaps he was a little too clever. There are few with the skills and knowledge to make such a draught.”

“You know who it was?” Bridei
breathed.

“I know enough. I will be watching from now on. Now, I believe I was attempting to meditate when the infant’s voice shattered my calm. She has good lungs. The key stays with me, Bridei. Never forget that. Her future is not in your hands, but in mine.”

“Yes, my lord. And . . .”

“What is it, lad?”

“Thank you for letting her stay. And—I’m happy you’re home. You’ll get better now you’re
back at Pitnochie.” He did not attempt to embrace his foster father or offer any other gesture of affection. One simply did not do such things with Broichan. Bridei hoped his words, his face would tell the druid how glad he was that he had not, after all, had to defy his foster father openly. For Bridei knew he could never have cast the basket in the fire; he could never have let them put Tuala
out in the snow. He would have fought for her tooth and claw, like a wild animal defending its young. In doing so, he would have gone against every scrap of teaching his foster father had instilled in him.

“Go on, then,” was all Broichan said. “Something tells me both of us will have cause to regret this day’s work. I hope very much that I’m wrong.”

C
AN’T CATCH ME?” CALLED
Tuala, as Pearl whisked away between the gray-white trunks of the birches like a dancing shadow.

All too true, Bridei thought, guiding his pony after her. Blaze had been a gift from Broichan, acquired on Bridei’s eleventh birthday. Tuala had immediately claimed Pearl. It had hardly been necessary to teach her to ride. The small girl had a quicksilver lightness, a sense
of not-quite-present that she carried with her everywhere. You’d glance away for an instant and look back to find her gone. They were used to it now, all the folk of Broichan’s household. Nobody worried about Tuala getting lost or falling into trouble. It was as if she carried her own charms of protection, ones that were on the inside.

All the same, Tuala wore a moon disc around her neck, as
Bridei did. Broichan had insisted on that. These circles of bone, graven with signs that honored the Shining One and called down her blessing, were a solemn token of the household’s adherence to the ancient pathways of the ancestors. To wear one was a privilege, a sharing of trust. Folk had been unsurprised when Broichan gave Bridei his own such talisman. The bestowing of a charm on Tuala, whose place
in the household was less well defined, had been unexpected. Still, Broichan had his own games to play, subtle games beyond the understanding of ordinary folk, and no doubt he knew what he was doing.
Bridei did not think Tuala needed a moon disc, really. It was plain to him that she carried the power and protection of the Shining One within her, had done so ever since that midwinter night when
he had found her waiting for him, cradled in swansdown and bathed in moonlight. More than six years had passed since then, but her skin still glowed with that odd, translucent pallor; her eyes still held that grave, clear quietness. If ever the moon had a daughter, Bridei thought, that child would be just like Tuala.

“Come on!” she called from somewhere farther along the path, beneath the shadow
of the spring-leaved birches. Bridei touched his heels to Blaze’s flanks and set off in pursuit. It was late in the season, a cloudless day, and they were going up to Eagle Scar.

Tuala’s natural ability for riding let her dispense with saddle and bridle and cling to her pony as if it were an extension of her own self. But Bridei had worked hard, obedient to his promises. He rode Blaze expertly,
and the pony, a handsome bay with a flash of white on his brow, was quick and obedient. They followed the whisk of Pearl’s long, silvery tail, the faint rustle of movement, the white face and black hair of the small rider, weaving in and out between the pale-barked trees, climbing the dappled pathways, skirting moss-covered stones and fording shallow streams until they came to the foot of the last
steep climb to the top of the Scar. By the time they got there Pearl was nibbling at a tuft of grass by the massive rock wall and Tuala was nowhere to be seen.

It was not necessary to tether the ponies; both knew this ride well and would not stray. Bridei dismounted and headed on upward. Tuala would be far ahead; she could climb like a squirrel. The top part of Eagle Scar was a vast granite outcrop,
perhaps one monumental stone, perhaps many: its chinks and crevices, its secret places were home to a host of creatures. In all the years he’d been coming up here, Bridei had managed to explore only a small part of it. Every time he climbed up, the way seemed slightly different. Perhaps the rock itself played games just as those oaks did around the druid’s house. Earth secrets, not to be shared
with mortal man: the place was full of them.

He loved to stand at the top of Eagle Scar, where the past lay deep in the bone of the land. The ground was strong under him, the long sweep of the Great Glen was spread out below him, steep slopes swathed in the purple-green mantle of pines and the lighter scarf of birches, sheltering the long, glinting ribbon of Serpent Lake. In that place he would
stand balanced
between earth and sky, feeling the heart of the stone beneath his feet and the touch of the wind on his face. He would imagine he was an eagle.

Today, Tuala was there before him, arms outstretched and rotating on the spot, chanting to herself: “
Fortrenn, Fotlaid, Fidach, Fib, Circinn, Caitt, Ce . . . Fortrenn, Fotlaid
. . .” They were the names of the seven sons of Pridne, the
ancient ancestor from whom the Priteni were descended. The seven houses or tribes were named for them. It was not long since Bridei had taught her these; she was making sure she remembered them. She had chosen to stand right on the topmost rock, her feet balanced on a vantage point no bigger than a porridge bowl. Bridei saw her small figure against the pale spring sky, her black hair lifted by the
breeze, her eyes full of light. Behind her, on the other side, was the long drop down the steep southerly face of the Scar. Dead Man’s Dive, folk called it. It was just as well Tuala had no fear of heights. She turned and turned as if to make the world whirl before her eyes.

“Stop it, Tuala,” Bridei said mildly. “You’re making me dizzy.” He hauled himself up onto the flat rocks just below her.