The Dark Mirror (78 page)

“Ah, yes, Midwinter . . . You have
a little leeway. As long as you are restored to us by the assembly itself, that is what really matters. My husband thought highly of you, Bridei. You owe it to his memory to do your best. Don’t forget that.” Perhaps a tear glistened in her eye, but she was a queen; it would not be allowed to fall.

“You are gracious, my lady. It was a sad loss. I can never hope to equal him, but I will offer my
best, I promise you.”

“Mm-hm.” The queen fell silent a moment as Breth returned with a small jug of mead and three cups, and set them on the table. “I’m sure you will, son. May the breath of the gods inspire you. It is a time of great change; daunting change. We’ll all need to be strong. Now,” Rhian rose to her feet as if suddenly reminded of something, “I need a word with Broichan. Is he within?”
She glanced at Breth, then walked with complete confidence to the inner door, rapped sharply, and went straight in. Breth, a look of alarm on his features, hastened after her.

Ferada picked up the mead jug, pouring the pale liquid into two cups. Bridei was taken aback by the change in her. She had ever seemed a poised, confident girl, whose assurance had often made him feel awkward and ill at
ease. Today she looked pale and drawn; her hands fumbled clumsily as she
set the jug down and placed a cup before him. But he would not spend time on that; an opportunity had presented itself and he must seize it quickly before the others returned.

“Ferada, I need you to take a message. A message to Banmerren. Can you do it?”

She stared at him blankly; it was almost as if she didn’t understand
the words.

“To Tuala. It’s urgent. Will you?”

She was still holding her own cup; her hands were shaking so much the mead slopped over the rim. “To Tuala . . . oh . . .”

“Just let her know what has happened. That I have been sick since the night of full moon; that I couldn’t . . .” By all the gods, what ailed the girl? Surely he was not imagining her state of agitation; her face was sheet-white,
the freckles standing out starkly, and her lips were pressed together in a thin line. Something was terribly wrong. He must put her at her ease. The thought of mead turned his stomach; still, if he took a sip or two, pretended nothing was amiss, perhaps she would relax and listen to him.

He reached for the mead, but somehow Ferada’s hand knocked his at that moment, and the cup she had filled
for him tipped over, sending a stream of liquid across the stone tabletop.

“Oh!” gasped Ferada, reaching to set the empty cup upright.

Bridei had avoided the worst of it; he moved the jug aside, out of the pool of mead. Evidently none of those in the inner chamber had heard the small commotion; the queen’s voice could be heard from beyond the door, briskly cheerful. “What is it, Ferada?” Bridei
asked her, observing that she had turned still paler. “What’s happened? Is it Gartnait?”

“What? Why would it be Gartnait?” Her voice was shaking; she made a futile attempt to scrub the front of her skirt, where the mead had darkened the blue of the woolen cloth to storm-gray, with a tiny kerchief. “Bridei, I need to tell you something.” Her voice shrank to a whisper. “It’s about Tuala. She’s
run away.”

“
What?
”

“Bridei, you’re hurting me.”

Bridei realized he was on his feet and gripping Ferada’s shoulders hard; she was wincing with pain. “I’m sorry,” he said, releasing her as his heart continued to drum, fast and urgent. “Run away? Where? When?”

“Soon after full moon. A few days after. Nobody knows where.”

Now he was cold; colder than winter. “What do you mean, nobody knows? They
must know!”

“We’ve had no news. One night she just disappeared. Fola sent men out looking, from the farm. They didn’t find any tracks or anything. Then Ana and I came back here. I haven’t heard anything more.”

Bridei’s head reeled; where to start, which question to ask, what to do? Thirteen days, he had been unconscious thirteen whole days, while she . . . “Why didn’t they tell me? Why didn’t
anyone tell me?” So long; so far; he must go, now, straightaway . . .

“They probably knew how upset you’d be,” Ferada said, attempting to mop the table top with the sodden kerchief. “They’ll want you at your best for the presentation.”

“A pox on the presentation! All this time, on her own, in winter—what are they thinking of? What’s Broichan doing here, when—Pitnochie, that’s where she’d have
gone. Surely he could have tracked her, found her . . . If she reaches Pitnochie she’ll be safe, and I can go for her . . .

“I don’t think she’d be wanting to stay there,” Ferada said soberly. “She said they didn’t want her; she seemed quite unhappy there when I passed through. If she’d been able to stay at Broichan’s house, she’d never have chosen to go to Banmerren. Didn’t you know?”

Voices
within the inner chamber were approaching the door; the queen was returning.

“Tell me,” Bridei hissed. “Quickly!”

“Broichan made her choose. Marry a man who had offered for her, or go to Fola. She didn’t want marriage. Banmerren was the lesser evil. She never wanted to leave home. Bridei, I need to warn you—you must be careful—”

“What man?” The words came from a cold place within him, a place
with no room for forgiveness.

“Garvan the stone carver. Tuala said he was a good man, but she couldn’t . . . She believed the goddess had made the choice for her. Before she left Pitnochie she . . . she . . .”

“What? Be quick.”

“She cut her hair and shed her blood to make a charm of protection for you. She didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want to go. But there’s no place for her there anymore.
If she’s gone home, it’s not to Broichan’s house.”

Bridei stared at her; Ferada looked back, her eyes full of shadows. “What will you do?” she asked him.

“Find her,” said Bridei. “Find her before it’s too late. Will you cover for me?” His cloak was here, and a pair of Garth’s boots in the corner. It was a slim chance; perhaps the only one. If any of them was alerted, Breth, Garth, Faolan, Broichan—Broichan
who had lied to him, Broichan who had betrayed him—he would be stopped. They thought only of the presentation, the assembly, the long plan now at last reaching fruition. They did not think of a girl out in the snow, a girl wandering alone in the depths of winter, entirely without friends. His gut twisted within him. “Tell them Faolan came for me; that we’re in consultation privately
and will return here by midday.”

“How will you—”

Bridei did not wait to hear her words. Time was precious; time was life and death. Willing strength to his limbs, he seized the boots, threw his cloak over his shoulder and slipped through the outer door to the wall-walk. Then, summoning the charm of concealment, he headed for the stables.

IN HER PRIVATE
chamber at Banmerren, Fola stood alone, a bronze bowl on the table before her. She had been long in trance. The visions in the water were gone now, but the wise woman held her stillness, searching deep within her for the voice of the goddess, a light to reveal the pathway ahead. Acceptance was slow to come, slow and painful. They had been wrong, both she and Broichan. They had
let ambition, pride, and self-belief cloud their judgment. They had not heeded what the Shining One made plain from the start: that the unthinkable was indeed to be accepted, that the impossible must be embraced or all would fail and their long efforts be thwarted at the very last. It was bitter to swallow; it was a lesson in humiliation. So simple; so obvious; yet they had not seen it, the two of
them, each dedicated to the gods, each living a life of celibacy, of obedience, of scholarship, and self-discipline. Each without lover or children. Fola knew it now for truth. Perhaps she had known, deep inside, the very first time she met Tuala under the oaks, tiny, intense, brimming with feelings and fighting to conceal them. As for Broichan, perhaps he could never accept it. His plan had been
perfect, every factor calculated, every small detail attended to. Fifteen years of his life sacrificed to it; fifteen years given to the great cause of Fortriu’s unity: the creation of the perfect king, the making of the leader who would bring this benighted realm forth into light. If Broichan would not bend, if Broichan could not accept
that his edifice was built on a flawed foundation, then
all would indeed be lost. If Broichan held his own judgment surer than that of the goddess, perhaps they deserved to lose.

Fola began to awaken her clay self, stirring fingers, toes, changing her breathing, blinking, stretching. At length she bowed, palms together, and moved to return the water from bowl to jug. Then she called Luthana, sought outdoor cloak, sturdy boots, a snug woolen hood against
the cold and, accompanied only by the herbalist, made her way out through the gates of Banmerren and across the windswept sands to Caer Pridne.

A CHOICE. SNOWFIRE
, eagerly watching, ready for him, anticipating a fine ride such as Bridei and Faolan had enjoyed across the moorland to the place of the three cairns. Snowfire
was strong and willing, but he would not well endure this long race through the winter dark. Lucky, with whom Bridei had been unable to part; tall, mottled Lucky, the ugliest horse in the royal stables . . . Donal’s mount was a hard worker, a stayer; age had only improved him. The men had made sure he was regularly exercised, and he was in good condition. He was not known for speed, for all his long
legs. Quick, quick, choose and be gone; any moment now one of the minders would get suspicious and start a search. Take a horse, any horse, and just
go
. . . By the half-door, a white shadow moved: Uist’s mare, Spindrift, that eldritch creature with her snowy, perfect coat, her silken mane, her waterfall of a tail and her odd eyes, as fluid and tricky as the wild druid’s own. She looked at Bridei,
shifting her feet a little as if to say,
Come on, make up your mind
. She would go swiftly, tirelessly . . . She would go as the best of ordinary horses could not go, heedless of snow and rain, moving unscathed through woodland and marshland, maintaining her steady pace all the way to Pitnochie.

Bridei had forced himself thus far, exerting control over his uncooperative body by will alone. Nonetheless,
he was greatly weakened; there was only so much the mind could do. He opened the half-door. It was necessary to clamber to a mounting block and thence to a rail in order to reach the mare’s back; a clumsy performance. Bridei leaned forward, hands on Spindrift’s neck, and whispered in her ear. “Take me home.” He hoped she would understand. He would need all the strength he had left to remain
on her
back and keep breathing; he would have little capacity to guide her. He had brought nothing; no food, no water, no weapons, no supplies of any kind. No time. He must go now, before he was discovered, and hope this rare creature could outrun the best his keepers could muster. Somewhere in his mind there still lingered the election, the men and women who depended on him, the question of destiny.
But those things had shrunk to an acorn, a hazelnut, crowded out by the weight of his fear, his fury, his burning need to find his dear one quickly, quickly, before he lost her forever.

“Go,” he whispered, and in a whirl and a flurry, graceful as a swan in flight, the mare bore him out from Caer Pridne, making her way southwestward toward the Great Glen. A pale presence in the winter gloom, she
moved with the confidence of a creature who goes under the protection of powers older than time, and on the soft ground behind her, she left not a single mark.