The Dark Mirror (44 page)

There was a disturbance now from behind one of the huts. As Bridei turned, he saw a pair of men emerging, dragging another Gael between them. The two were laughing, exchanging ribald quips. The captive was a girl of eleven or twelve, a skinny child in a shapeless,
faded garment. One man held her thin arm in a bone-breaking grip; the other had his fingers in her long dark hair and hauled her along that way. The swirling smoke concealed his features; all the same, the look of him, his stance, his walk, sent a shiver of something indefinable through Bridei. Without quite catching the words, he knew just what they were joking about. The girl’s face was as
pale as her worn shift, her eyes blank with terror. A sudden piercing memory of Tuala clutched at Bridei’s heart, threatening to unman him entirely; what was this world he had suddenly stepped into?

“Release her!” he snapped and, striding across, he used the hilt of his sword in a crippling blow to one man’s forearm. The fellow howled, his grip on the girl’s hair lost. As the other began a protest,
Bridei’s left fist caught him hard on the jaw; it was a punch perfected over many mornings with Donal. The man reeled back and the captive was abruptly released. She whirled, all
skinny legs and flying hair, and fled back the way they had come. Bridei made himself look again, and saw that the man whose arm he had just come close to breaking, one of the wretches who had manhandled this child, was
Gartnait, son of Talorgen; Gartnait, his own friend.

There was no need to speak; perhaps he could not have done so anyway at such a moment. Fokel’s men were coming into the square. At the sight of them the women paled still further, shielding their children with their own bodies. There was a fell look about these warriors; their every move breathed danger. Fokel rapped out orders; all the men,
his own and Talorgen’s alike, obeyed them. The captives were led forward, the guarding weapons now at a discreet distance, but still unsheathed; it was rumored that the women of Dalriada could fight as fiercely as their men. Who knew which might choose at any moment to make a run for it, or to snatch a knife and inflict some damage? In the swirling haze of smoke, the warriors moved and mingled and
were joined by others. Talorgen himself was here now, telling them the fire was nearly out, that the chieftain of the Gaels had been taken, reminding them that there was to be no looting, no harm done to those who were not warriors. The men nodded assent, all of them; their faces gave no indication that here was an innocent man, here an abuser of women, here a courageous fighter, here a fellow
who thought to molest a child. On the surface they all looked the same. Only the gods knew the workings of their hearts.

That night, as Talorgen’s victorious forces sat about their small fires, their joy at victory muted by exhaustion, injury, and the loss of so many of their comrades on the battlefield, a powerful longing came over Bridei to be home again, to be sitting at the top of Eagle Scar
looking down across the Great Glen, with sunlight on his face and the wind in his hair and no sound but the high, pure cries of birds. Tuala would be there, small and quiet by his side. He would drink in the beauty of the place, its wild freedom, its stark loveliness. And then he would be able to tell his tale, and to weep. She would listen, her big eyes grave and wise; she would have the right
words. Then perhaps he might begin to see a way through this.

“All right, Bridei?” Donal had come up quietly and settled by him, cross-legged, chewing on a bone. There had been ample stock for slaughter, pigs, geese; after the long march down the Glen on scant rations, it was a feast. They had broached what ale barrels were to be found in the settlement, but there was little merriment. The bodies
of their fallen comrades lay each
under a blanket, awaiting burial. The enemy were heaped high, with branches and bracken piled around their sprawled limbs. In the morning a new fire would be lit.

Bridei nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“No, you’re not,” Donal said. “It’ll take a while. As I said, the first time’s the worst. The men are talking about you.”

Bridei tightened his lips. He
had already been approached by Gartnait, a Gartnait full of tales of misunderstanding, of the straightforward capture of a prisoner which Bridei had most unfairly chosen to interpret as something else. This had been followed, with some inconsistency, by something between a plea and a threat, that Talorgen should not be told Bridei’s own version of events, or things would never be the same between
them. Bridei had turned his back. What could he say? Things could never be the same anyway. The sound of his friend’s voice sickened him. He could imagine, now, what the other men would be saying about him: young upstart, throwing his weight around, who does he think he is, personal emissary of the Flamekeeper? As for those earlier comments, the ones about women and how much he had or hadn’t done,
he would not allow them to affect him. His attitude to matters of the bedchamber was impossible to explain even to his friends; such men as these would think him a fool. Only Donal knew the truth of it, since explanations had been necessary in order to avoid awkwardness. Donal had many willing female acquaintances, one for every settlement up and down the lake, and some of them had friends. Rather
than keep on declining invitations, Bridei had explained himself early, at around his fourteenth birthday. He remembered it clearly. They’d just returned from a ride in the forest above Pitnochie, the two of them, and they’d been in the stables attending to Lucky and Snowfire, with nobody else about. Donal had made another of his offers, to do with a trip to the nearest settlement and a certain
sweet-tempered, generous young woman who would be only too willing to teach Bridei certain skills that it was perhaps time he began to learn. This had been delivered somewhat diffidently; it had been clear Donal did not want to force the issue.

“Thank you,” Bridei recalled saying in somewhat formal tones. “But I can’t. Not yet.”

“Can’t?” Donal had echoed. “What are you trying to tell me, lad?”

Bridei had struggled not to flush with embarrassment, even though this
was his trusted friend. “Not what you think. Not that I am too young to be . . . capable. Or that I am not disposed toward such activities.”

“But?”

“I made a vow A promise. To the Flamekeeper. It had to do with . . .” It had not been possible to be precise; this was tied up with conjecture, with guesswork, with the thing
that nobody in the household was quite prepared to tell him. “It has to do with preparing for the future in the best way I can,” he’d said, for this was the truth, if not quite all of the truth. “It seems to me I must practice both the deepest loyalty to the gods and a perfect self-discipline. As perfect as I can get it, that is. I made a solemn vow that I would not lie with a woman until the day
I am handfasted. That I will do so only in the marriage bed. That seemed to me to show respect for the Shining One, since all women are reflections of her purity, and also to the Flamekeeper, who values strength and self-control in men. So, you see, I cannot go with you to the settlement.”

“Oh, aye,” Donal had said, apparently unsurprised. “And who heard you make such a vow?”

“Only the gods.”

“Oh, aye.” Donal had returned to rubbing Lucky down, and that had been an end of it.

“They’re saying you saved at least one man’s life today” Donal’s voice brought Bridei back to the present. “They’re saying that if it hadn’t been for you, Fokel of Galany’s Reach wouldn’t be here tonight to reclaim the land his father died for. You did a good thing, Bridei. You did bravely, son. How’s that leg?”

Bridei glanced down. The wound was bandaged with linen now, cleaned and tended to by Talorgen’s own physician. He could hardly remember how he had come by the injury “He won’t reclaim it,” he said. “Only for a day or two; then we have to go back. That will be hard for him: to come all this way and have to leave his lands behind again.”

Donal glanced at him. “We will hold a ritual,” he said. “That
was decided. A symbolic victory; a rededication to the gods.”

“I don’t think we should,” Bridei said. “Not now Not after what has unfolded here. The Shining One can only look down on this in shame and grief.”

If this surprised him, Donal gave no sign of it, nor did he ask any questions. “All the same,” he said, “there should be something. A token of victory;
a sign of hope. Whatever you may
have seen, whatever you may think of it, our men fought bravely here today, Bridei, fought and died, many of them, in the name of Fortriu and of Drust the Bull. And Fokel’s father fought and died, and countless others with him when the Gaels first came to Galany’s Reach. No matter what you feel, we should not walk away as if our comrades’ sacrifice is cause for shame.”

There was a silence.

“And after all,” said Donal, “you do have a solution. A crazy solution, but then Fokel’s a crazy sort of fellow. You going to put it forward?”

Bridei did not answer. In the altered world of today, there no longer seemed a place for heroic schemes, for gestures designed to make the heart soar. In this world darkness walked and had a human face.

“Bridei,” Donal said. “Tell me, come on. It’s not
that, is it, not what I thought? It’s not the battle, it’s something else. Tell me, son.”

“I’m not a child!” Bridei snapped. “If there’s a problem, leave me to solve it myself, will you? What are you, my nursemaid?” He buried his head in his hands, hearing the sound of his own voice, its petulance making a lie of his words.

“I’m your friend.” Donal’s voice was quiet; there was no judgment in
it.

“The men, some of them,” Bridei said, “they were—I came upon them in the settlement, before Fokel’s men got there. They were—they were frightening the prisoners, threatening them, and . . .”

“You’d better tell me all of it now you’ve started.”

“They were going to rape a woman. I saw it. If I hadn’t stopped them, they would have done it. And . . .” No, that was enough. It was more than enough.

“Who?” Donal hissed. “Did you recognize them? What were their names?”

Bridei swallowed. There had been several whose faces he had recognized, but it was Gartnait’s that filled his memory, the eyes not shamed or sorry at all, but angry, resentful, challenging. Gartnait’s voice, torn between lying excuses and pleas not to shame him before his father.

“Talorgen’s men,” he said. “I won’t name them.
It’s too late to undo the harm to those who were hurt, and the captives are safe now” Ged’s men had taken custody of the women and children, holding them under guard within the settlement until the question of hostages was resolved. The enemy chieftain was with Fokel’s troop, manacled and collared. His men were slain; those who had not fallen in battle had been subject to summary execution. To
attempt to convey such a band of captive warriors all the way up the
Glen was deemed too risky, and setting them free had never been under consideration.

“You should,” Donal said grimly. “Talorgen would expect the names. You know how he frowns on breaches of discipline. No matter if these are wretched Gaels, no better than their godforsaken menfolk.”

Bridei was silent a little. There seemed
to be an unspoken question hanging in the air. “Talorgen, I think, might not want these particular names,” he said eventually. “I made it clear to them that I would tell him the full tale if any harm came to the prisoners. And if it comes to that, I will.”

“Oh, aye?”

“Yes. I said it and I meant it. But I hope I won’t have to. Donal?”

“Mm?”

“I made new enemies today. Those men resented what
I did. Our own men.”

“They’d have resented it even if it had been Ged who did it, or Morleo, or Talorgen himself. Those fellows have been a long time without a woman, Bridei. I suppose they see helping themselves to the prisoners as somehow their due.”

“It is a strange attitude, to view a woman merely as an object to be taken; to be so overwhelmed by the body’s cravings that a man must satisfy
them even at such a cost. Such actions are surely the bitterest insult to the Shining One, who embodies womankind at its purest and most wise.”

Donal glanced at him quizzically “We don’t all have your druidic discipline,” he observed, “nor your degree of self-control. These are simple fellows, Bridei. They see things in black and white. It’s a lot easier.”

“In battle, maybe,” Bridei said, remembering the cold calm that had carried him up the hill of Galany’s Reach, the automatic sequence of offensive and defensive moves that had made
him, for a little, an effective and passionless tool of war. “But that’s no way to live your life. Men who act thus act in despite of the gods. Were I a leader, I would not want such men to follow me.”

“They obeyed you today,” Donal said. “If they stopped what they were doing when you stepped in, they obeyed you despite themselves.”

“They obeyed me with eyes full of bitterness and words of scorn
spoken under the breath.”

“You’re young, that makes it worse. Some men don’t like to hear the truth from a youngster, no matter who he is.”

They sat a while longer as the small fires died down and men settled to
sleep close by exhaustion and full bellies doing their work. Today’s undertaking had been a victory for the Priteni; news of it would indeed spread across the lands of Dalriada, striking
fear into the hearts of the enemy. It occurred to Bridei that perhaps war was always like this. Perhaps even the most triumphal, the purest, the noblest victory still felt, in some ways, like a defeat.

Somewhat later, when Donal had fallen asleep by his side, Bridei saw a man walking up the hill beyond the settlement, a lighted torch in his hand. He rose, wrapping his cloak around him, and followed.
The other climbed steadily, using the spiral path that led to the summit where the great stone stood flanked by its guardian trees. It was a brisk climb, but the slope of the hill was even, the sward free of large rocks or bushes. When Bridei reached the top of the path, he saw the other standing by the Mage Stone, the light from the burning brand revealing its intricate patterns of conflict,
triumph, and death in all their wondrous interweaving. It could almost be a depiction of today’s events.