The Dark Mirror (16 page)

“Oh, no!” Tuala sprang to her feet, and the little snake, startled, twined itself around her wrist, clinging. “Bridei would never do anything to hurt me! He would never do anything bad, he couldn’t!”

Broichan regarded her. He reached out a hand toward hers and the serpent moved again, gliding to his finger, circling
around, forming itself back into a silver ring. The green enamel eyes stared, unwinking, at Tuala’s small, quivering form. “And you would never do anything to hurt him,” the druid said calmly. “You would not do anything to stand in his way, would you, Tuala? Do my bidding, then. Now and in the future. It is best for Bridei thus; best for all of us.”

Tuala stared at him in silence. For a little
he had seemed almost friendly, like someone she could talk to, someone who would have interesting things
to tell her. Now, abruptly, he was his old self again, and she felt as if she had been somehow tricked. Her fear returned, robbing her of speech.

“I need your promise,” Broichan said.

“Yes.” The word felt as if it were squeezed out of her, despite her efforts to keep it in. “I will go if
you want. And I won’t tell Bridei.”

“Good. You have no choice, in fact.”

“But I won’t lie to him,” Tuala said, unable to help herself. “I don’t tell lies. Not to Bridei.”

Broichan smiled thinly. “Then you must be extremely careful of your words,” he said. “You know what will happen if you make an error, Tuala. Believe me, I do not possess my foster son’s degree of compassion. If I see an enemy,
in whatever fair guise, I strike immediately and effectively before my foe has time to inflict any damage. Bridei has yet to learn the necessity of that.”

Tuala felt cold. He seemed to be saying she was bad; that she should not be Bridei’s friend. That was wrong. It was so wrong she could not understand how anyone could think it. Bridei was her best person in all the world. Hadn’t the Shining
One herself sent Tuala here to be his family? She looked into Broichan’s hooded eyes and a shiver ran through her. “I’m not an enemy,” she whispered.

“Not yet,” said Broichan.

A
LTHOUGH HE KNEW IT
was unlikely, Bridei found himself anticipating an arrival such as occurred in the old tales, the guests riding up to Pitnochie in their rich clothes with men at arms and attendants and pack horses laden with belongings. He thought of banners, of gleaming weaponry, of silks and finery.

In the event, the four of them came severally, their arrivals days apart, and each with
its own unique style. Donal had been testing Bridei’s skills in tracking, and had kept him out in the forest four days in a row from sunup to dusk. By the time the two of them returned to the house, legs aching with weariness and stomachs growling, Tuala was nowhere to be seen; long asleep, no doubt, and the opportunity for a story lost. It was probably just as well. Bridei doubted he could find the
energy for the least tale. He’d have been asleep himself before the princess so much as glanced at the frog. A quick bite to eat and straight to bed was all he could manage; he was asleep before his head hit the straw pallet set beside Donal’s in the barn. Next morning the guests began to arrive at Pitnochie.

There was no grand appearance. What Broichan did, he did discreetly, with an eye to
the protection of his privacy and the preservation of his own interests. First to come was a spare, wiry-looking man of middle years, with cropped, graying hair and a face on which responsibility had set many lines.
His eyes, nonetheless, were full of life, keen with intelligence. The eyes were gray like the hair, and so was the man’s woolen robe: so much for silks and furs. He rode in with a
pair of attendants, big, solid fellows, and all the baggage he brought was a couple of bundles tied behind his guards’ saddles. All three men were well armed; expensively armed. Bridei knew enough by now to recognize a good sword when he saw one and to appreciate a finely honed axe blade. Since the two guards were housed in the barn with Broichan’s men at arms, there was plenty of opportunity for
comparison. The nobleman’s name was Aniel, and he was a councillor in the king’s household: Drust the Bull, that was, king of Fortriu. Bridei knew he should not ask too many questions, but it was hard to hold them back. There was so much he wanted to know.

At suppertime there was talk of the Gaels and the threat in the west. Bridei had studied this in considerable detail with his tutors; he had
made maps in sand, with stones and twigs for markers, had imagined armies deployed up and down the Glen, had learned the nature of this enemy and the history of their destructive forays. The picture he bore in his mind, however, owed little to scholarship. Since he had seen their image in the Dark Mirror, Bridei had known them, not as a foe to be challenged and dealt with as one would any local
raider, but as the force that sought to extinguish the spark in the heart of every loyal son of Fortriu. They were strong, cruel, and entirely without scruples. That long-ago day in the Vale of the Fallen they had killed wounded men, fleeing men, had mowed them down without mercy. The knowledge Bridei had been given in that place he would never forget.

Tuala was absent from supper and so was
Brenna. Bridei observed this without surprise; Broichan considered Tuala too young to sit at table in such company, no doubt, and had sent her off to bed early with Brenna to keep her quiet. It was a pity, really. Tuala would have liked to listen, for Aniel was full of knowledge of the world and Tuala loved to learn about things. She would miss this, and she would miss her bedtime story yet again.

Broichan was at the head of the table. On his right hand was Aniel, and on his left Bridei, a challenging placement, since it meant every time Bridei glanced up from his meat he looked straight into those shrewd gray eyes. It was clear to him that he was being assessed, and he had the feeling this was going to happen four times over before the visit was concluded. Aniel’s two guards stood behind
him, and one of them took a mouthful of each dish before his master ate. It was as well Ferat was occupied in the kitchen; he
would have been deeply offended. As for Broichan, he merely raised his brows at this sign of distrust. Bridei remembered that his foster father had nearly died of poisoning once, and at a friend’s table. One had to accept that there were risks everywhere.

Next at the board
were Erip and Wid, and below them Donal, Uven, and the rest of the men. Mara had taken pity on Ferat and, poker-faced, was helping carry platters in and out.

“I was fortunate to get here in time,” Aniel was saying. “My mission to Circinn was long and arduous, and the challenges were not all in the woeful state of the tracks nor in the vagaries of the weather. Those I have learned to expect and
to deal with. It was the manner of my reception and the pigheadedness of my hosts that dragged it out. I’m not looking forward to my return to Caer Pridne, I have to say. A brief sojourn at Pitnochie is most welcome. I’m hoping to replenish my strength before I convey the bad news to the king.”

“So, Drust the Boar was immovable?” Wid asked through a mouthful of bread.

Aniel gave a wry smile.
“Inflexible, yes, but not through any great strength of will. The man’s councillors do him a great disservice; they poison his mind with their false reporting, and thus ensure he stands firmly in the way of any reconciliation among our people. He relies on the guidance of weasels. Perhaps, in his heart, there’s still a spark of true kingship, but he lacks the strength to nurture it himself, and so
his advisers are able to twist the making of decisions to suit their own ends. It is no wonder the Christian faith has taken strong root in Circinn. The court is corrupt, the king vacillates, what wise women he had are banished, his druids dismissed. If any observance of the rituals still exists in that realm, and I have reason to believe it has not been entirely suppressed, then its observances
are covert, secret.”

“Still, it does survive,” Wid said, extricating a scrap of meat from his beard. “Where a single coal glows beneath the ash, the right breeze can fan it to a flame.”

“One must ensure the fire does not go out completely,” Erip put in.

“As to that,” said Broichan, who had been silent for most of the meal, “there are certain strategies in place, as we know. A man watching here,
another listening there. Folk who can traverse difficult terrain quickly and pass messages accurately. I’d like more. An ally in the Boar’s own household would be useful.”

“A spy in the stronghold of the Christian missionaries could be handy”
ventured Donal. “Find out how they work, how they infiltrate and just who their friends are. Most of the clerics come from Erin, I’ve heard. I’d like to
know if they have allies in Dalriada. We’d be squeezed on both sides, that way”

“Would the king in Circinn press for peace with the Gaels?” Bridei asked, unable to keep silent any longer.

Aniel regarded him. “Broichan assures me you understand that we speak freely here in a way that would be unthinkable outside the home of an old and trusted friend,” he said. “I wish very much that I could answer
your question with an unequivocal no, Bridei. Drust the Boar has not governed Circinn as it deserves. A man who abandons the faith of his ancestors and lets his people turn their backs on all that is right is quite simply not to be trusted, whether he be a king or no.”

“Yet, unfortunately, we need him,” Broichan said. “At least, we need his fighting men. The chieftains of Circinn may have betrayed
their oaths to the Flamekeeper, but they haven’t forgotten the importance of maintaining their complements of well-trained warriors. They must do that; their own southern borders are far from secure. Britons here, Angles there, every man and his dog wants a bite of our land, so it seems. To mount a full offensive against Dalriada our own king needs not just the forces of the north, but those
of Circinn as well.”

“Indeed,” said Aniel, folding his hands on the table before him. “I discussed that delicate issue with Drust the Boar, or attempted to. I see little possibility of winning him over at this stage. The atmosphere was less than cordial. He does need to deploy a considerable force on his southern border, I acknowledge that. All the same, I had hoped he might be prepared to begin
planning for the future.”

“One had hoped for an agreement to a joint council, at least,” Broichan said.

“I did my best.”

“Nobody doubts that, my friend,” said the druid. “The king sent you because you were his strongest chance of influencing Circinn. That even your efforts could not secure their agreement is a sign of the desperate state of affairs.”

“If the Gaels decide to make a move this
season, next season, we’ll be hard pressed to do more than hold a certain line,” Donal said sourly, “and it may not be the line we want. I’d like to see a well-planned offensive, not
merely a scrambled reaction to what they throw at us. It sticks in the craw to know our own kind won’t lift a finger to help us.”

“We all want the Gaels gone,” observed Aniel. “To drive Gabhran and his forces back
across the sea to Erin, that is a mighty challenge, a goal to aspire to. It will not be quickly achieved, not with our own land so bitterly divided. To drive out the Christian faith and win back the hearts of the folk of Circinn to the true way, that is perhaps still more of a challenge. Until the lands of the Priteni are united once again, I do not think that will be possible.”

There was a pause.
It seemed to Bridei that he could almost hear people thinking.

“My lord?” he ventured.

“Yes, lad?” Aniel’s gray gaze was very sharp. Like Broichan, he was a man on whom one could ill afford to waste words.

“I just wondered—if the south won’t help us in the struggle against Dalriada, perhaps we could seek other allies. That would enable us—enable the king—to begin planning for the future, at
least.”

“What allies did you have in mind? Reliable friends are few and far between these days, as no doubt your tutors have informed you.”

“Yes, my lord.” Bridei had debated this particular issue at length with Erip and Wid, and not got particularly far. “There’s the tribe of the Light Isles, those that call themselves simply the Folk. They are strong in battle, so I’m told, and kin of our
own people. They could be called in. I know we haven’t always been allies, but their cooperation could be secured with hostages. And—” He hesitated.

“Go on, boy”

“And there’s the Caitt,” Bridei said, hoping the king’s councillor would not snort with derision.

Aniel’s brows lifted. “One might as well attempt to control an army of wildcats,” he commented. “The ancient name they bear is an accurate
reflection of their true nature. Who in his right mind would volunteer to cross that border as an emissary? He’d like as not be sent back in several pieces, and there’d be no message of thanks attached.”

“All the same,” Bridei said, glad that Aniel had not laughed at him, “they are of our own kind, steeped in the ancient ways of sun and moon, and they are fighters, we know that much. Fierce and
dedicated fighters. Nobody seems
to be threatening
their
borders. Perhaps, wildcats or not, they have something to teach us.”