The Dark Mirror (81 page)

When it was done to his satisfaction, he went back inside and bolted the door behind him, although it was still day. He had done what must be done to protect his boy from the meddling influence that sought to set his path awry. He had
fulfilled his responsibility to the gods. Nothing and nobody must be allowed to stand in the way of this perfect king.

TUALA ROUNDED A
corner and there, below her, were the walled fields, and Fidich’s cottage, and the deceptive trees that cloaked the druid’s house. Sheep huddled for shelter in the lee of the barn. The neat
brown forms of ducks were clustered together under the bushes by the frozen pond. Home . . . She could see the oaks where she had sat long, waiting for Bridei to finish his lessons. She could see the yard where he and Donal had rehearsed their intricate dances of war. She could see the house now, Broichan’s house, where she had sat by the hearth with her two old sages and learned of matters mysterious
and enchanting, diverting and solemn . . . Where she had perched on a bench by Bridei’s side, long ago, and listened to a story . . .
And there
on the
doorstep, what did he
find . . .
A baby
. . . Tuala screwed up her eyes; she would not cry, crying was weak, and if she was to do this, she would at least do it with courage and dignity. The house . . . she was quite close now . . . and it was cold;
her bones seemed to have turned to ice, and she could not stop shivering . . .
The Dark Mirror
, they had said before they abandoned her.
We’ll see you at the Dark
Mirror. She should go on, then, up the hill and over to the west, so she could be sure of getting there before
dusk. There would be no finding the way by night, with the moon in darkness. She must waste no time. But . . . just beyond
that door was the hearth fire of Pitnochie, shelter, warmth, dry clothes, probably hot soup and newly baked bread. That they did not want her hardly seemed to matter. Mara could always be relied upon to exercise plain common sense. There might not be a rapturous welcome, but Mara, she thought, would at least see her warm and dry before she went on her way. The thought of the fire made her tremble
with weariness. Surely just a quick visit would do no harm. It needn’t take long. She hesitated a moment, then turned down between the leafless oaks toward the kitchen door.

There was no sign of guards, nor any tracks of their boots in the soft snow. Across the door an iron bar had been set, a new one, on the outside. Tuala raised a feeble hand to knock, and lowered it again. She was standing
in a snowdrift, up and over the doorstep where she had once lain cradled in swansdown. She stepped back; looked up. No smoke arose from the rooftop; on this coldest of days, the fires had not been lit. Glancing across the fields to Fidich’s house, she saw that there, too, no haze lingered above the roof thatch; no sign of habitation moved near that small dwelling. Tuala walked around Broichan’s house,
peering up at the few places where window openings were set in its thick walls of stone and earth. Each was shuttered tightly; the inside would be as black as night. Lamps might be burning; but why no fire?

Only the tiny window of Bridei’s old sleeping chamber was uncovered, and that was set too high for her to see in. Back at the door, she knocked, the need to rouse them suddenly urgent. This
was like one of those tales, the frightening ones where the world changes while one sleeps, to become entirely empty save for the one lonely wanderer through a sudden nightmare; or those where a girl steps into another realm where time moves more slowly, and when she comes home all the familiar faces are long dead. There was an odd hush about the place, as if everything were holding its breath.
She knocked again; there was no response. Perhaps her efforts had been too weak to be heard. Tuala found a heavy stick and used it to beat a loud rat-atat on the solid oak boards. Once, twice, three times she sent her sharp message. The sound of it echoed away under the snow-clad trees and into the silence of the woods. There was nobody home.

Tuala went over to the barn. Here, at least, there
was some sign of life, the sheep pressed tight on one another for warmth, and a small bird hunting
for insects in a pile of rotting wood. Perhaps the men were within, tending to horses or other stock. Pearl must still be here, and Blaze . . . But the barn, too, was shut up, the big double doors fastened and chained; peeping through a chink in the wood, Tuala could glimpse neither man nor horse,
neither sheep nor dog nor chicken in the empty space inside. Her heart as cold as her shaking limbs, Tuala hugged her cloak more tightly around her and set her steps away from Pitnochie, up through the wilder reaches of the forest, where strong dark oaks were joined by silvery pale birches and thickets of spiky holly bright with winter berries.
Don’t go past the hollies, Tuala
. . . Where had
that come from? Was she a child again, to be held back by keepers, her every move governed by Broichan’s will? Today she was a woman, and she would go on. She would leave this world where there was no longer a place for her, and journey to the realm where she had always truly belonged . . . then she would never be cold again . . . oh, but to see him, just once, just once more, a little glimpse, that
was all she needed . . .

It seemed to take a long time, although Tuala judged the unseen sun to be only at its midpoint when she made her way gingerly down the narrow track into the Vale of the Fallen. Her feet slid on the muddy surface; her hands reached out for balance, clutching wildly, and she felt the stinging whip of briars against already damaged flesh. Foolishly, that brought the tears
she had sworn she would not shed. She sniffed, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, and stumbled on to the foot of the track.

The little valley was deserted. The pool lay dark and still; the ancient rocks brooded in silence, crouched under their mossy cloaks. The swathing creeper had spread more widely since she had last visited this place, and now blanketed one of the seven druid stones
with its exuberant, glossy growth. There was no sign of Gossamer and Woodbine. There was no sign of anyone.

Tuala sank to the ground on the rim of the Dark Mirror. There was no choice but to wait, and hope they would keep their word. They had said they would meet her here and guide her across the margin. They had not said when.

Perhaps it was meant that she should keep vigil thus alone in this
place of ancient truth. Had she not longed for a vision of the one she loved: a last image, so she had something to carry with her into that other world? It was unthinkable that, once passed across, she would not remember him. Now, then, now she must seek it. No matter that, last time she had tried, this gift
had deserted her completely. Sit quiet, breathe deep, open the eye of the spirit. And
find him. Find him . . .

The day passed. Tuala moved beyond cold; beyond weariness; almost beyond the world where she sat cross-legged on the rocks, staring into the chill water. In the deep, sheltered rift that housed the pool, nothing stirred. No bird hopped between the twists of vine, seeking what fodder might be found in the hungry season; no insect hovered above the dark water; no small
fish, darting for cover, rippled the still surface. No image came; not a single one. There seemed nothing to do but sit, and breathe, and wait. Sit until her back became a rod of fiery pain; breathe ever more shallowly, for to gasp in this air was to fill the lungs with ice; wait, until at last they took pity and came for her. The sun was sinking lower; the shortest of days was nearing its end, and
the little glen had grown shadowy and strange. Tuala’s head drooped; her eyelids were closing, she could not stay awake . . .

Abrupt as the flare of a torch, color flashed across the water’s surface. She blinked, lifting her head; the small effort of that set her heart pounding. She stared into the pool.

He was standing in a great hall, no doubt at Caer Pridne. His clothing was rich, a far cry
from the plain, serviceable garments of his days at Pitnochie. He wore blue: a fine-spun woolen tunic and trousers, and over this a short soft cloak of dark gray, braid-edged and clasped with a silver brooch wrought in the form of an eagle in flight. His curling brown hair was plaited down his back. Ah, his eyes, so bright, so full of hope and courage, as if it were the Flamekeeper himself who
looked out thus, the very bearer of Fortriu’s dreams! Those eyes were bluer than the deep sea; bluer than the summer sky; as blue as the petals of a wood violet. There were folk around him and they seemed to be in a jubilant mood, perhaps offering congratulations. There was Broichan, his usually impassive features full of a pride quite undisguised; there was Talorgen, smiling, and Fox Girl looking
elegant in green, and Gartnait with his mischievous small brothers. Many other folk were there, clustering about, offering Bridei their hands, speaking words Tuala could not hear, but which she knew for,
Well done, Bridei! We knew you were the one, right
from
the first
! An
auspicious day
!

She saw him turn a little to the side, reach out a hand, give a sweet smile. He saved his smiles; folk did
not see them often. A moment later, there she was in the vision: Ana of the Light Isles, all rippling ash-pale hair and white silk gown, her lovely face a vision of creamy skin and rose-flushed cheeks,
her grave eyes looking up at Bridei as if he were the only man in the world. He took her hand; she spoke a word or two; he answered. Tuala could see the look in his eyes. He lifted his other hand,
brushing Ana’s cheek with gentle fingers. His wrist was bare of adornment. The green ribbon was gone.

As the image faded, leaving Tuala empty, hollow, drained of the last scrap of anything that mattered, a voice seemed to sound from the top of the path, the rim of the vale. “Come! Higher up! Follow me!”

There was one more part to this: one last, small ritual to be enacted. With numb fingers
Tuala reached into the pouch at her belt and drew out the little talisman of woven cord, the record of her oldest friendship. After long parting, the two strands had been brought together one last time to twine and cling with wondrous delicacy, as if born to be one. Full moon . . . And after that they separated once more, each going on its own journey The cords had almost reached their natural endings,
and were beginning to fray into nothing. Tuala closed her fist tightly around the little thing, gritted her teeth, then threw the cord out into the middle of the Dark Mirror. For all its light weight, the talisman sank like a stone, making a spreading ripple.

“Come! Come up!” called the voice. There was no telling if it was Gossamer’s bell-like tinkle or Woodbine’s deeper tone, or something else
altogether. It mingled with a stranger sound, a sorrowful, eldritch howling like the cry of a small, deserted dog. That, she had heard before in this place.

It seemed to be possible to get up, although it took a great deal longer than it should have done. Her feet obeyed her command to shuffle forward; to ascend with slow, uneven steps the steep path out of the vale. Her hands gripped whatever
came their way; without the support of these thorny, tearing bushes she could not have remained upright at all. By the time she reached the top, Tuala’s breath was coming in sucking, painful gasps. The light was starting to fade now, even up here. She could not go on for long.

“Come! Follow me! Higher! Higher!” Now there seemed to be a whole chorus of them out in the dimness. She could not see
them. The sound led her forward, now on a new path, a way that wound steadily upward between the trees, first a muddy quagmire, then a narrow track densely packed with decaying leaf mold, last a steep scramble up slippery, moss-covered rocks. I
can’t
, was there somewhere in her mind, but the voices were insistent, compelling; it was nearly time for this pain to cease . . . If she could just do
this next bit, if she could just go on a little, soon none of it would matter anymore . . .

“Higher! Higher! Farther! Farther!”

Creeping, crawling, hauling herself up, hands leaving bloody smears on the stones, feet scrabbling for a purchase they could scarcely feel, Tuala fought her desperate way ever closer to the top of Eagle Scar.