The Dark Mirror (65 page)

The night wore on; the fire struggled to remain alight. None of the girls asked to be excused, to retire to the comfort of her bed. Tonight there were too many dark corners in the sleeping quarters, too many odd-shaped shadows. But, one by one, the young women leaned against walls or laid their heads down on tables or stretched
out on benches and were claimed by sleep. When the time for the ritual drew close, only Kethra and Tuala knew it, seated as they were one on either side of the hearth.

“Tuala?”

“Yes?”

“I’ve watched you scrying; I’ve seen the power of the images you can
summon. Why aren’t you using this skill anymore? I had thought, in excusing you from my class, to see you blossom on your own. I had hoped Fola
and I might teach you how to harness your talent to best use. But I haven’t seen you with a scrying bowl since that first time.”

“I think it might be . . . dangerous. Often, what I see disturbs me.”

“The eye of the spirit does not open so the seer can be comforted, but so she can learn,” Kethra said. “One expects to be disturbed; one accepts a draining of body and spirit after such visions.
To shy away from using this talent, especially when you are so strong in it, seems disobedient; a flouting of the goddess’s will. And you are here in Banmerren as her servant. Does not a good daughter of Fortriu obey the Shining One in all things?”

Tuala said nothing.

“Tell me.” Kethra leaned forward, elbows on knees; the firelight showed her questioning eyes, the little lines around her mouth,
the tightly disciplined hair. “Can you summon whatever you wish to find in the water? Can you control your gift to that extent? If you desired it, could you look now and see what unfolds in the dark, secret place at Caer Pridne?”

Suddenly Tuala was extremely cold; it was as if she stood on the brink of the Well of Shades, teetering above a square of inky water. “Sometimes I can command it,” she
whispered. “Sometimes the goddess sends other images. I think, if I looked tonight, that is what would see. The king. The well. But it is forbidden for women to attend that ritual.”

“We would not be attending,” said Kethra softly. “Merely being granted a reflection that somewhat resembled the reality. Are you able to draw another into your vision? To share it?”

“I don’t know” Tuala was shivering.
Kethra’s suggestion had alarmed her; still more alarming was the realization that this was exactly what she herself wanted to do, needed to do, so she could share the dark time with Bridei, step by step, breath by breath.

“If we linked hands,” Kethra said, “and both of us turned our will on this, perhaps the goddess would grant us the selfsame vision. You possess a strong natural talent. I am
practiced in this craft and have tools to keep it in check. Together we might do well.”

Tuala stared at her. Kethra was a wise woman. She must know this was forbidden. It was surely little different from attending the secret ritual themselves, something no woman might do. To spy on this rite was to anger the gods; to risk a terrible retribution. Yet she wanted to do it. Her desire for it
grew
stronger the more she thought about it. Bridei was there. Do this, and she could see him now, right away. She could hold him safe in her thoughts as he endured what must unfold. “Fola wouldn’t approve,” she said.

“Fola would have come to this in time.” Kethra’s voice, held quiet not to wake her slumbering students, nonetheless possessed complete confidence. “Your abilities fascinate her. She
brought you here, I suspect, less for what we could teach you than for what skills you could impart to us. Believe me, if Fola were not required to spend tonight shivering on the seashore, she would be here beside us looking into the bowl. Will you do it? It must be almost time.”

Tuala said nothing, simply rose when Kethra did and went to fetch a ewer of water while the tutor readied the bronze
bowl. The water swirled and settled. She took Kethra’s hands across the table so they stood face to face with the scrying bowl between them, and together they bowed their heads over the surface. The fire was almost dead, the chamber near dark. One candle burned; the faces of the sleeping girls were pale ovals in the shadows. Tuala felt her heart slow, her breathing grow quiet. Then the goddess
claimed her and drew her down into the darkness.

A procession; the wise women approaching Caer Pridne, the rain now retreated, Fola with her silvery hair loose down her back. Another woman walking beside her. No, not a woman, a girl, an ashen-faced, empty-eyed girl with brown curls to her waist and a pristine gown of whitest linen beneath the gray cloak of a wise woman. Morna: the one who had
suddenly disappeared from classes to be glimpsed again only as a shadow, there then gone, the one whose eyes seemed to see nothing but dreams. On her other side was Luthana, expert in herb lore, she of the long days spent digging and pruning and slaving over steaming kettles. They came up to the iron gates of Caer Pridne; Tuala could see the bull stones on either side of the path, formidable slabs
on which the creature’s image showed dimly in the light from torches. Perhaps that man, Garvan, had carved these things of beauty, Garvan, whom she had failed to surprise with a story of desire and self-control. Garvan, whose wife she would be now if she had not chosen the path of the Shining One.

They waited in silence, Morna standing still and pale between the two older women and the priestesses
of Banmerren behind them in pairs, hoods back, hands crossed on their breasts. Fola and Luthana did not adopt this pose; each grasped one of Morna’s frail wrists, as if the girl might drift away
if not thus anchored. Morna was staring straight in front of her through the gates. Just thus, Tuala thought, would a blind woman gaze, not knowing if what lay before her were beautiful or piteous, thing
of wonder or object of terror. Kethra’s grip tightened on Tuala’s hands. Tuala was accustomed to seeking her visions alone; to do so in any company save for Bridei’s had always seemed utterly wrong. When the Good Folk had looked over her shoulder into the Dark Mirror she had felt anger and resentment. Tonight she welcomed the reassurance of Kethra’s presence, the warm reality of her touch.

In
the water, time seemed to pass; the clouds swirled and roiled in the dark sky. Rain came, but the women left their hoods back, their heads bare. At length men appeared within the gates, a file of warriors, two and two, and at their head were three in robes of black: Broichan in the center, his dark hair in the many small plaits of the druidic calling, his eyes shadowy hollows in a face rendered skull-like
by the uncertain light of veiled moon and guttering torches. On his right stood a spare, gray-haired man with tight lips and shrewd eyes. On Broichan’s left was a taller man, hard-eyed and grim in appearance. A pair of guards slid back the iron bolts and hauled the great gates open.

There was an exchange of words: Broichan spoke, Fola replied. A formal sequence of question and answer. With the
ear of the spirit and her knowledge of ritual, Tuala sensed its meaning.

Why come you here?

To mend what is broken. To return what was taken. To pledge ourselves anew
.

What do you offer?

Purity. Obedience. Sacrifice. The relinquishment of self in the essence of the god
.

Is this a perfect offering?

It is perfect
. Fola bowed her head.

It is whole
. Luthana spoke, then released Morna’s hand
and moved away, walking to the back of the line. In turn, each of the women of Banmerren stepped forward and made her statement to the druid; to the dark god whose representative Broichan must be tonight.

It is pure
.

It is full of light
.

It is complete
.

It is willing
.

It is fresh with youth
.

It is obedient
.

It is wise
.

Each woman spoke and retreated, until only Morna stood there, silent,
immobile, with Fola small and straight-backed by her side. Then Fola moved to slip the cape from the girl’s narrow shoulders, and Morna stood before the men in her gown of purest white, a slight, fragile figure in the torchlight. For all the rain and the bite of the winter cold, she remained utterly still.

It is perfect
, Fola said again, and moved to stand before Morna. Fola was a little woman;
she had to stand on tiptoe to bring the girl’s face down to hers. The wise woman kissed Morna on the brow, a formal farewell, then released her and stepped away. Morna’s features remained impassive; she was walking in a different world.

It is good
, Broichan said and, moving forward, he touched the girl on the shoulder. There was no flicker in her eyes, no recognition of change. Then Morna walked
in through the gates of Caer Pridne, following in the druid’s footsteps, and the gates closed behind her, leaving Fola and her wise women outside.

Tuala drew a shaking breath; felt, rather than saw, Kethra do the same. The water rippled and was once more still.

The wise women were by the shore, their cloaks lifted by the rising wind to swirl around them, giving their forms the look of birds
or bats or creatures from some hidden part of the forest, manifestations of Black Crow that were neither quite one thing nor another. Fola was leading them into a circle. No ritual; no greetings, prayers, or elemental weavings. They stood in silence, not touching, like standing stones on a shadowy plain; like a grove of small trees in a secret glen. The wind blew stinging sand around them; it tangled
their long hair, gray, white, russet, fair; it tugged at their clothing and chilled their bodies. Salt spray followed the sand; rain fell on them, mingling with their tears. Even Fola was weeping, Tuala could see it. They did not move. They would keep vigil thus until morning.

The image shifted, dissipated; the water in the scrying bowl grew dark and remained thus for some time. The only point
of light was the candle’s reflection, struggling in the little drafts that eddied through the chamber. Faintly, the sound of sleeping girls’ steady, soft breathing could be heard, a comforting thing.

A pale glimmer on the water: Morna’s white dress, her whiter face. The trance still held, whatever had caused it, prayer, fasting, herbs, long solitude,
hard preparation. A procession wound its way
around Caer Pridne, inside the king’s fortress, no mere line of warriors now but a grander assembly, although there were few torches. This god loved darkness; these men bore only sufficient light to keep their steps on the path. Morna walked among them like a wraith, shadowed by the dark form of the king’s druid. They trod a spiral path, following the wall-walks and climbing the steep steps from
level to level. When they reached an upper court, the warriors formed a great circle around the space, with the white-robed girl and the druid in the center. A deep horn sounded; Tuala could not tell if its note was only in her mind, or if it was borne on the harsh wind all the way around the bay from the king’s fortress to the sheltered house of Banmerren. It was a call like that of a huge wounded
animal crying in distress. Doors opened; a party of men emerged from inside the fortress. All wore dark clothes; all bore somber faces. One could be singled out immediately: the king, no doubt, although he had neither silver circlet nor golden torc, jewels nor other finery, but the same dark robe that shrouded his fellows. His identity was in his face, a gaunt, gray-hued face, the eyes bright
with pain, the mouth stern with discipline, the features blazing authority through a mask of death. Drust’s will was formidable. He stared across the courtyard at the waiting Broichan and the druid sank to his knees. Every man present followed; every head bowed in acknowledgment. It was a moment of utter courage; a demonstration of true kingship.

For a time, then, the water showed only glimpses.
A snatch of Fola, Derila, Luthana, grimly still, standing strong under the scourging of the wind and the gnawing chill of the night. Men walking again, along the hilltop and down a little secret way. The warriors standing back, the torches slotted into holders. Only a few going on as the path grew narrow and deep, descending into the heart of the hill. Tuala could see their faces, illuminated
each in its turn as they walked past the torch that stood at the head of an impossibly steep flight of steps plunging down into the very bowels of the earth. There was the king, stoic and strong-willed, with pain written stark across his countenance. His councillors followed. Then came Broichan, his face a mask, and Morna with her white gown and unseeing eyes. Perhaps she knew nothing, comprehended
nothing; perhaps she knew it all, understood and accepted, traveling now through a realm in which the Shining One saluted her goodness and Bone Mother held out her arms in promise of peace. It was to be hoped, wished, prayed that this was so.

Other men came behind, a tall one with red hair, several more, Talorgen and his son among them. And Bridei; Bridei was there, clad in a long dark robe,
his hair loose on his shoulders and a narrow green ribbon tied around his wrist. Tuala could look, then, at nothing else. She willed her thoughts to reach him, her love to encircle him. He had a headache; she recognized it in the set of the mouth, his hands reaching to brush the high banks as he passed down the sunken way, the line between his brows. He hadn’t been sleeping; purple shadows lay under
his eyes, and he was thinner. He held himself straight and strong for all that, and did not let his mind wander, but watched the others: the king, the councillors, Broichan. Especially Broichan.

The water in the bowl was changing. As Tuala stared down, tiny crystals of ire began to form at ice edges, frosting the surface, and a chill arose that set her shivering and made her nose and ears ache.
Yet the chamber still held the fire’s last warmth; the cat, Shade, dozed on the hearth, curled tight on himself; the girls slept peacefully, covered only by their cloaks. It was the vision that held the chill. The icy breath came straight from the secret place of the god: the Well of Shades.

They made their way down the steps, the path illuminated dimly by candles lit from that last torch. The
fitful light barely revealed slick surfaces of stone, a vaulted roof. At the foot of the steps a chamber opened out, whose floor was not earth nor rock nor rushes, but sudden dark water. Cold; colder than the touch of frost on the hawthorn, colder than the sharp wind that shivers across the fells, colder than the kiss of a dead man’s lips. Around the rim of the well there was a ledge just broad
enough for a man to stand on; one by one the king, the warriors, the councillors moved to take their places here, framing the water. At the far side, opposite the steps, stood the king and the druid, and between them Morna. Among the dark-clad men, the girl shone dimly in the candlelight, as if she were a lesser manifestation of the Shining One herself. The water was ink-dark; neither white-gowned
young woman nor small flickering flame showed its reflection on that forbidding surface.