The Dark Mirror (77 page)

“Not in the least—” Broichan began,
and fell abruptly silent. A moment later he was following Uist out into the antechamber, and the door closed behind them.

“Amazing,” Faolan observed. “I thought nobody could tell that man what to do.”

“Only another . . . druid,” Bridei said. “Why . . . said it was you? Plan . . . attack? Why?”

“Ah. I should have known that would be your first question. It seemed—expedient. Would you have preferred
me to tell the truth?”

“What . . . truth?”

“That you were on your way to visit a certain young lady in a forbidden place and had neglected to mention it to your guards.”

“You knew?”

“I saw you the time before, don’t forget: eyes full of stars, feet walking on air, all the usual symptoms. I thought it just possible you might be misguided enough to try it again, next full moon. Of course you
didn’t tell me; you knew I wouldn’t let you go. I already had my suspicions as to the source of a likely attack.”

“What are you saying, Faolan? That you told them where to find me? That it’s thanks to you that I . . . that I couldn’t . . .”

“That you couldn’t see her? Is this so important that it erases from your mind a certain question of the kingship of Fortriu? Surely we have not all misjudged
you, Bridei?”

Bridei shook his head and instantly regretted it, for the headache sprang to new life, drumming persistently behind his temples. “Not misjudged . . . misunderstood . . . Faolan . . . ?”

“What is it?”

It seemed to Bridei, through the fog of pain and weariness, that there was a new look in the Gael’s eye. Nobody could call Faolan soft; there was, however, a certain directness in
his gaze now that spoke of a change in the way things were between the two of them. Bridei hoped his instincts were serving him well, illness or no. “I must send her a message,” he said. “Now, straightaway. She would have waited . . . long time . . . She wouldn’t have known why . . .”

Faolan gave a grim smile. “A message to Banmerren? I think not. Do you know we have barely three days until you
must stand up before all of them and declare yourself? We may have eliminated these assassins, but they are not your only enemies. This place is full of powerful men, men from the south; Drust the Boar is expected at Caer Pridne tomorrow. They’re all alert for opportunities to discredit anyone they think will stand against him. That means Carnach, since he’s still thought by most people to be a
candidate. And it means you. This is too great a risk.”

Bridei attempted to seize the Gael’s wrist; his hand felt as weak as a child’s, his grip feeble. “I must,” he said. “I promised . . .”

Faolan frowned. “Promised what?” he asked.

“That I . . . that I would be . . . responsible.” The weakness flowed through his body like a tide, numbing him, slowing him, seeking to sap his will. “That I
would . . . be there . . . when she . . .”

“Bridei,” Faolan said softly, “I can’t do anything tonight. If you had your wits about you, you’d recognize that. I’ll talk to you again in the morning. I think you may have to let this go. After a night’s sleep, perhaps you’ll see that. To do otherwise is not just risking your own future. It’s putting this girl’s in jeopardy as well. Now I think you’d
better get Broichan to make up that potion again, and when he gives it to you, drink it. You’ve been having nightmares. Loud ones.”

“Did I—?”

“Most of it was too garbled for me to interpret; those druids may have made more sense of it. And yes, there was a certain name you spoke a great deal more than others.”

Bridei closed his eyes. “I need her,” he whispered, hating his weakness.

“Hush,”
said Faolan. “Wait for morning. You’ve been through more than you realize. We nearly lost you. Now I will go. Your keepers are no doubt waiting impatiently for readmittance.”

“You said . . . heard . . . nightmares. You . . . here?”

“Night shifts seem to be part of my job,” Faolan said levelly. “I’ve been here, yes. One night I missed, conveying my captive to a place of security. The others I’ve
shared, not always with Broichan’s good will. I think he wanted you to himself. I’d better go; this cloak’s dripping.”

“Put it . . . by fire. Stay . . . just a bit . . .” Bridei found he could no longer maintain a sitting position; he lay back on the pillow, frustration at his helpless state warring with a profound wish for dreamless sleep.

“Feet up,” Faolan said, and tucked the blankets over
him.

“Funny . . . you . . . nursemaid . . .”

“I told you,” Faolan rose to remove his cloak and drape it over the bench by the fire, “it’s what they pay me for: keeping fools like you alive long enough to achieve what’s set out for them. I’m only doing my job.”

“Not paid . . . be . . . friend . . .”

At this, Faolan fell completely silent. Through half-closed eyes, Bridei observed the Gael’s
face, on which a remarkable sequence of emotions passed with rapidity: surprise, sadness, something remarkably like humility, then, abruptly, the blank, hard expression with which it was Faolan’s habit to mask any evidence of what he felt. He sat quiet by Bridei’s bedside, staring at the wall. In time the druids returned to brew their soporific potions, and Bridei drank and slept.

THE SHINING ONE
had shrunk to a sliver; it was close to solstice night and dark of the moon. It was strange how everything was changing. Tuala didn’t feel hungry anymore, nor thirsty, yet it had been several days since the last crumbs of the loaf were finished. She knew that she was tired, and that there was something wrong with her feet, but she could no longer get her boots off to look at them.
This did not seem to matter. Damaged as they were, her feet simply kept on walking, steady on the muddy tracks through the forest. Her hands were raw with chilblains; she wrapped them under her sodden shawl and ignored the pain. It was of no import. She was leaving this world. She was going away. Indeed, she thought perhaps she already had one foot beyond that margin; that she had strayed already
partway into that secret realm. Not only could she go without eating, but she had started to see things, odd things that had never been visible in the forest above Serpent Lake before. There were creatures in the trees, looking down at her; from
every fork, on every branch, something fixed strange, luminous eyes on the girl walking beneath; under each bush, within each tangle of damp undergrowth,
small faces showed, wrinkle-browed, long-eared, spike-haired, sharp-nosed, all kinds, their beady eyes alive with curiosity. On every path, something scampered ahead, heard but unseen. On every climb, pattering footsteps followed. Subtle voices called, eerie in the gloom of the winter day.
Tuala! Tuala! Sister, come home
!

As they came farther down the lake and drew closer to Pitnochie, shelter
grew harder to find. She was reduced to scraping out a hollow in the moldering leaf litter and dragging whatever fronds of bracken she could find over herself in a vain effort to keep out the cold. Once she reached the Dark Mirror, once she had truly crossed that margin, she would never be cold again. Crouched trembling under a massive oak, Tuala thought dimly that it would almost be worth doing
it for the sole purpose of making this shivering stop.

“Not far to go now.” Woodbine was seated on a stump, entirely at ease in the chill of the gathering dusk. The moon was grown so dim, the leaf man was reduced to a shadowy figure, dark on dark. Tuala wondered at that. If she were one of the Good Folk, shouldn’t she be able to find her way by night as these two evidently could? “Another day
or two,” Woodbine announced, “and this will all be over.”

“I wonder what they’re up to at Caer Pridne?” said Gossamer lightly, running long fingers through her silvery hair, which held its lustrous shine even in the dark. “Haven’t you been tempted to seek guidance in the water, Tuala? To see what your Bridei is doing?”

“No.” This was a lie; she had indeed sought a glimpse of him, one day when
her Otherworld companions were absent and a pool of rainwater had presented itself under a cloudy sky. She had crouched by the rim, awaiting the images of the goddess. She had prayed; had breathed deep; had done her best to clear her mind and open her seer’s eye. The water had remained obstinately no more than itself: a pool reflecting gray clouds. Not a single image had danced across its surface,
although Tuala had stayed there until her back ached and her legs were seized by cramps. The Shining One had turned her face away; she had abandoned her daughter. Now, Tuala would not look; if this window were to be closed to her forever, she would rather not know it just yet. If the scrying bowl were to reveal its secrets no more, she would never see him again. Never. “Why would I seek such visions?
Haven’t you told me over and over that this way is best? Bridei will be getting ready to
make his claim for the kingship. Broichan will be preparing him. That’s all. Didn’t you say it will be at Midwinter?”

“Indeed. At solstice time the candidates step forward and declare themselves. At solstice time you step back to the realm where you belong. A satisfying balance; with your education, you’ll
appreciate that.”

“I’m cold,” Tuala muttered, wrapping her arms around herself and clenching her teeth. “It’s snowing, look.” And it was; between the great, bare limbs of the oak, a delicate fall of white flakes was drifting to earth.

“Two days more,” Gossamer said. “It’s not long. We’ll see you at the Dark Mirror.” With that she was gone, quick as an eyeblink. Woodbine had vanished without
a word.

“Don’t—” Tuala began, feebly. “Don’t go” She made herself stop. She made herself breathe slowly; she could do this, she could go on, even if they chose to desert her at the last. She had been alone before. There was nothing new to it. She would simply set her feet forward and walk on to the end of the road.

BRIDEI
INSISTED ON
getting up and dressing. He forced himself to walk to the outer room; to sit at the table there and greet all those who came by to ask after him: Aniel, Talorgen, Carnach accompanied by Tharan, which was somewhat surprising. He thought he made a passable job of it. After a while Breth and Garth ushered the visitors out, then stood over Bridei while he ate a serving of porridge with
honey. He felt like a cosseted child, and told them so.

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” said Breth, grinning. “Now, you need your bed; a man doesn’t get over such an illness in the twinkle of an eye. I’ll help you back to the other room—”

Garth, by the outer doorway, cleared his throat. “More visitors coming,” he said quietly. “Ladies this time.”

“He’s had enough—”

“No refusing these.”

Queen Rhian
swept in, head high, figure clad in finest wool dyed to a soft dove-gray, both becoming and well suited to mourning. Behind her came Ferada, daughter of Talorgen, in a blue gown with a silver clasp at the shoulder, her russet hair dressed high in a crown of plaits.

“Ah,” said the queen, smiling. “I see you are sufficiently recovered to sit at table, Bridei. This is indeed reassuring; from what
they’ve been saying, I expected to find you prostrate and babbling nonsense. No, don’t get up; we’re not here for long. Oh, I see we have forgotten our little gift, Ferada. I’m sure Bridei can spare one of his men to fetch it—Garth, there’s a small pot of rather good chicken broth in my quarters; go and speak to my maid, will you, and she’ll give it to you. It is of my own making. However lacking
your appetite may be, Bridei, you will drink this happily. It’s remarkably restorative. Go on, then, young man!” She smiled, and Garth obeyed without a word.

Rhian seated herself opposite Bridei, regarding him closely with her kindly blue eyes. Ferada stood behind, twisting her fingers together. “A little mead, do you think?” The queen glanced at Breth, who disappeared to the inner chamber; if
he had thought to bar her from Broichan’s quarters, he had been unable to find the words for it under such an onslaught of confident good will.

“Now tell me, Bridei,” Rhian said. “Are you really getting better? This has laid you low a long time. An unusual illness for a healthy young man.”

“I am much better, my lady. I hope to be in full health by Midwinter.”