The Dark Mirror

by Juliet Marillier

“Foster son,” Bridei corrected.

  “What’s that?”

  “Broichan is not my father. He’s teaching me. When I’m bigger I will go home.” Bridei was not sure this was so, but he could not think what else his foster father might have in store for him.

  “Oh, aye?” That was what Donal always said. It meant maybe yes, maybe no: a safe response. It was the sort of response that would ensure Donal stayed in the druid’s household longer than the old men had.

  “I want to gallop,” Bridei said, touching his heels to Pearl’s flanks, and the two of them were off under the oaks, along the hillside above the lake. It was hard for Donal, tall on a big horse, to match the pony’s pace in such terrain, and Bridei led him all the way to a place where the hillside dropped away steeply in a tangle of briars and brambles. The oaks grew on the lip of this sharp cleft, but within its shadowy confines were only smaller trees, their kind hard to discern, for all grew awry, in shapes wizened and strange. A mist hung above the rift even on this clearest of days; there was an eldritch stillness in the air that breathed fear.

  “What’s this place?” asked Donal, coming up beside Bridei and dismounting with a well-practiced roll from saddle to ground. “Got a bad feel to it, I reckon. We’d best not linger here.”

  “There’s a path,” said Bridei. “Look.”

  The way was not easy to see, for clutching fern tendrils and twiggy fingers of low bushes reached across to conceal it. The mist hung less than a man’s height above the winding track, which was narrow and formed of hard-packed earth: not a natural gap, but a made one.

  Donal was hesitant. “You been this way before, lad?” he queried.

  Bride’ shook his head.

  “Don’t like the look of it, myself,” the warrior muttered, making a little sign with his fingers. “We’d likely go down there and find ourselves in some wee clearing all surrounded by Good Folk making merry, and wake up in the morning in a strange realm we’d never come home from.”

  “Just a quick look?” Bridei asked, for this seemed an adventure. The pony shivered, twitching her ears.

  “There’s no quick looks in such a spot,” said Donal tightly, mounting his horse again. “That’s one of those doorways they speak of, I can see it clear; look at the stones there by the top of the path. A ward, they are, set there by folks like you and me to keep those others from coming where they’re not wanted. Or a warning to our kind not to go down there. Come on, lad.”

  Bridei was not a willful child; to disobey did not occur to him. Besides, it was clear Pearl was as eager to go home as Donal was. As they rode back to the house, the hidden valley teased at Bridei’s mind, a puzzle demanding to be solved.

  THERE WAS A right and a wrong way to ask the druid questions. One did not raise them casually over supper. To do so was to receive the response of a raised brow, an enigmatic smile, and silence. Some questions, Bridei was learning not to ask at all: inquiries about his mother, for instance, or about why he could not go down to the settlement where, the men had mentioned, there were other boys of about his own size. There would be no good answers to these. The place for questions was in the context of a lesson, and they must be presented as relevant to the day’s topic.

  Fortunately, at that point in Bridei’s education Broichan was dealing with charms and wards of a domestic kind. Bridei had already learned that there were three types of magic. Deep magic, which was of the earth and the sky, the stream and the flame, the slow dream at the heart of things, that was the magic longest learned, hardest known. High magic was used by sorcerers of the most powerful kind, and sometimes by druids. High magic was perilous; it could change the course of wars and bring down kings. These days it was rarely seen. Lastly, there was hearth magic, and that was what they had been studying. Hearth magic could be employed by anyone, as long as people were careful. Small errors could make it go wrong; a man might end up with things upside down, so to speak, if he did not apply the charm in exactly the right way. Ordinary folk such as the cottagers up and down the lake made use of it to placate or fend off the mischievous presences that came out of the woods at full moon, or clung to fishing boats on the lake on misty days.

  Take babies, for instance. Everyone knew a newborn was not safe until a key had been tucked into its cradle: that small charm ensured the Good Folk would not steal the infant out of the house and leave a wee figure woven of sticks and grasses in its place. The key secured the child to its home. Or there were doors, which had to be protected against the possible entry of meddlesome spirits. There were lots of different ways to do that, burying salt or particular herbs, for instance, or hammering iron nails into the wood.

  They had been working on this kind of thing for several days, and Bridei knew now why juniper bushes grew by the entrances to cottages in the Glen and the reason for the chalk circles on front doors. These were the most basic of charms, easy to set yet powerful in their effect. The forest harbored many forms of life. Wolves stalked the lone traveler; a wild boar could turn on a hunter, gouging and raking with tusks and trotters. Common sense and skill could take care of those threats. Foxes came to steal from the henhouse and eagles to carry off early lambs. Vigilance and good husbandry could fend off such dangers, for the most part. A farmer would always carry some losses; that was the way of nature, so both man and the animals might survive. Creatures were one thing; not to be underestimated, certainly, but within the capacity of ordinary people to deal with. The Good Folk were another matter entirely. Good Folk. The name was misleading. People used it, Broichan told his pupil, so as not to give offense.

  “There are other names for them, you understand, Bridei,” he said gravely as they sat on a stone bench before the ashes of last night’s fire. Early light was beginning to seep in, chill and pure, through the colored panes of the round window in the druid’s hall. It made a pattern on the flagstones, red, violet, midnight blue. Bridei edged his cloak up around his neck, burying his hands in its folds. He would not let the druid see him shiver, though every part of him was cold. “Names I would not speak aloud out of doors, for to anger these folk is to invite their mischief. Their true names are such as . . .” Broichan’s tone shrank to a whisper, “the Urisk, that dwells in the spray behind the waterfall and follows men at night crying his loneliness; or the Tarans, spirits of little children that died in the cradle; or the Host of the Dead. There are many such, all different, all perilous in their own ways. Many are fair-seeming. And we give them a fair name. That in itself is a ward against harm.”

  Bridei nodded, hoping the druid could not hear his teeth chattering.

  “They are to be respected at all times,” Broichan told him gravely. “Respected and feared; I cannot add trusted to the list, for such folk do not understand the word as we do. Our concepts of loyalty and trust are incomprehensible to them. Nonetheless, a wise man knows the importance of such beings in the scheme of things. We are all interdependent, plant and creature, stone and star, Good Folk and humankind alike. Now”“Broichan rose to his feet—”stand up, shut your eyes, and list for me what charms you have seen in place to protect my house against unwanted entry.”

  Bridei stood. There had been no study for this, no tour of inspection, no preparation: simply the ever-present expectation that he would watch and learn, every moment of every day. Eyes firmly closed, he saw in his mind the long, low house of gray stone, the thatch darkened with rain and frost, the roof-weights hanging on their heavy ropes. He pictured the margins of the house, the plants that grew there, the pattern of the encircling paths. Then the doors, the openings, each chamber, each corner. He listed them for the druid as fully as he could: juniper, ferns, and rosemary, a path of white pebbles in a circle, a box of holed stones under the front steps. Three nails in the back door, a triangle. Wreaths of leaves and thorns over doors, a plait of garlic.

  “And?” Broichan asked.

  For a moment Bridei’s memory wavered; he took a deep breath and went on. “The window, the special one—it’s round like
the full moon. That’s the Shining One’s blessing on all of us. The colored glass is so the—the Good Folk can’t see where the entry is.”

  “And?”

  “And—ordinary things, not magic. Mara leaves out bowls of milk. Ferat puts a loaf under the rowan trees. Then the Good Folk won’t hurt the cows or the horses.”

  “Anything more?”

  There was a pause.

  “A man never finishes learning,” Bridei said. This was a favorite statement of his foster father’s. “But that’s all I can think of now And I have a question, my lord.”

  “You can open your eyes, son,” the druid said. Bridei blinked, and saw to his relief that his foster father was setting wood on the hearth. Broichan was good at lighting fires; all he needed to get the flames going was a muttered word or two and a click of his long fingers. The pine logs flared, caught, and began to burn brightly. Warmth spread out into the chamber, touching Bridei’s numb fingers, his freezing nose, his aching ears.

  “Sit down, lad. Ask your question.”

  “What does it mean when there’s a little pile of white stones set by a pathway? Does it mean pass or don’t pass?”

  His hands were thawing nicely now. Broichan snapped his fingers and one of the kitchen men brought oaten porridge, milk, and a jug of mead on a tray.

  “Eat your breakfast, Bridei,” said the druid, with a faraway look in his eyes and a little frown creasing his brow. “Tell me, has Donal been leading you on pathways you should not have been treading?”

  A spoonful of porridge halfway to his lips, Bridei flushed.

  “No, my lord. I led him. We did not go down that pathway, the one with the stones. Donal said it was better not. The horses were frightened. Donal said I should ask you about it.”

  “Before you go back to explore further, you mean?” Broichan did not sound angry.

  “Not if you say no, my lord. Do you know that place?”

  Broichan poured mead for himself, ignoring the porridge. He took a mouthful, considered, set the beaker down. “I have another question for you first,” he said.

  Evidently the lesson was not yet over. Bridei put the porridge bowl back on the tray and sat still, waiting.

  “You’re not unobservant. You’ve an eye for what protects the house against intruders. I want you to consider your response again, and this time don’t answer the question like a child reciting something learned, answer like a druid, with your wits.”

  Bridei thought fast and hard. He was not sure what response Broichan wanted. Perhaps the clue was in the question itself.

  “It’s not just the Good Folk,” he said, considering the possibilities. “There’s other kinds of danger. Kinds you can’t use spells for.”

  “Go on,” said Broichan.

  “Donal teaches me riding,” Bridei was thinking aloud now, “but he’s a kind of guard, too. There are lots of armed men here. I know you call up mists, and set charms on the trees so they move around. Not many people come here. And you always carry a knife hidden in your robe. I think there’s danger. You don’t go away much, even though you’re the king’s druid. Erip said you’re the most inf—infer—influential man in all of Fortriu.”

  “What does that mean? Influential?”

  “You can make people do what you want,” Bridei ventured.

  “Hah!” The sound Broichan made was almost like laughing, but there wasn’t anything glad about it. Bridei fell silent, concerned that his answer had displeased the druid.

  “Would that it were true,” Broichan added, picking up a spoon and prodding with evident distaste at the cooling porridge, on whose surface a gray skin was forming. “Would that wisdom might prevail in this confused and benighted land, Bridei. One druid, however influential he may be, cannot summon sufficient power to heal Fortriu’s ills.”

  Bridei considered this, his breakfast forgotten. “But you can make fire, and change the weather, and you know lots of things, spells and charms, plants and animals,” he said. “Aren’t you more powerful than anyone? Even kings?”

  Broichan looked at him, dark eyes watchful as a hawk’s. “Your porridge is going cold,” he said. “Best finish it. Even the boldest warrior does not choose to ride into battle on an empty stomach. That’s what Donal would tell you.”

  Bridei was becoming used to Broichan’s manner of speech by now. He swallowed the congealing mess and kept his thoughts to himself. He suspected it was not the Good Folk, with their trickery and strangeness, that were most to be feared. The danger came from elsewhere: from the world of men.

  Bridei finished his breakfast and left the hall with his question still unanswered. When he went to the stables at the appointed time, the druid’s black mare, Sibel, was waiting, saddled, beside neat, small Pearl and long-legged Lucky. Broichan and Donal were deep in conversation, but both fell silent as Bridei approached.

  “Take us to the place you spoke of, boy,” said the druid. “Show us the stones, the mist, the way in. Approach it with due caution. Apply your learning. We don’t blunder about in the woods; you may be letting your pony do the work, but you must help her tread as you would go on your own feet, never losing the heartbeat of the earth beneath you, nor the awareness of what is above and about you. Always travel through the forest as a part of it, Bridei, not as an intruder. That way, you require no charms of protection. Shall we ride?”

  It was a fair morning. The air held the crisp cold of autumn; the first frosts were not far off. The ways were thick with fallen leaves, brown, gold, russet, ocher, heaped here and there in great piles like a dragon’s hoarded treasure. Still they fell as the breeze stirred the branches, here a whisper of yellow, here a fragile teardrop red as blood. The horses’ feet made a soft crunching sound as they passed. Bridei could see the vaporous cloud of Pearl’s breath and the smaller one of his own. He was glad he had worn his sheepskin hat.

  Mindful of the druid’s instructions, Bridei rode with care, looking around him. There were odd things in this forest, he knew that already from his walks: things you thought you saw out of the corner of your eye, and then couldn’t see anymore when you tried to look straight at them. Flashes of red that weren’t leaves; sudden ripples of movement that weren’t passing birds. Bushes growing where there had been nothing the day before but moss-covered rocks; sounds like laughter or singing in places far from the nearest dwelling of men. Bridei shivered. Good Folk was a friendly name, a cozy name. What Broichan had told of them was a different matter.

  The riders passed beneath great oaks and halted on the rim of the sudden cleft in the hillside. Bridei dismounted. The little pile of stones was still there. On the other side of the path, now, stood an identical miniature cairn. Between them the steep track, veiled in its vaporous shawl, plunged into the depths of the hidden vale.

  The others had gotten down from their mounts. Donal held both bridles. Broichan, eyes hooded, features impassive, was watching Bridei.

  “The choice is yours, lad,” said the druid. “Interpret the signs and tell us what to do.”

  “We go on,” Bridei answered straightaway, his heart thumping with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. “Pearl was scared to go this way last time. She’s not afraid today, see?”

  “All the same,” Broichan said, “we will leave the horses here with Donal for safekeeping. The kinds of trouble he can protect us from will not pursue us into such an eldritch place. On the other hand, there are certain forces in these woods with a particularly keen eye for fine horseflesh, and this shrouded glen seems just the kind of place that would be to their taste. Your little Pearl will be a great deal safer up here with an iron-wielding warrior of Fortriu by her side than down there, however willing she may be to follow you.”

  Donal appeared more than happy to be left out of the expedition. He tethered the horses and pony loosely, then settled himself against the massive bole of an oak, long limbs splayed among the roots, apparently resting. It was a deceptive pose; the look in the half-shut eyes, the strategic position of kni
fe and dagger within one quick snatch of the hands, were familiar to Bridei. Donal had already given him some lessons that were not to do with horses.

  Walking down the steep track in the druid’s wake, Bridei had an uncanny sense that the creeping plants, the clutching bushes, the thorns and spines and prickles were drawing back upon themselves; that the smothering, tangled blanket of growth had made a choice to let intruders through on this particular day. He wondered if this was the result of a spell cast by Broichan, for he knew the druid had considerable mastery over forces of nature; he had seen how the trees around Broichan’s house seemed to move about, tricking the eye and concealing what lay behind them. There was no sign of magic now. Broichan was simply walking down the hill, booted feet cautious on the precipitous slope, his staff in one hand while the other held the hem of his long robe clear of the ground. If he was casting a spell, it was not by means of the hands, nor by any words of incantation. The magic, Bridei thought, was here already.

  He was not sure what he had expected to see: small people hiding under toadstools, perhaps, or grimacing, long-toothed faces protruding from the undergrowth, or the Urisk rising from the mist and shadow, all sad eyes and piteous, reaching hands. As it was, there was only the gray-blue shawl of vapor and the path leading deeper and deeper into its blinding thickness.

  At last the ground leveled and, as if it were indeed at the mercy of a druid’s enchantment, the curtain of mist retreated, and they found themselves right on the brink of a dark, deep pool. One more step, and its waters would have swallowed man and boy alike. Bridei teetered a moment, then found his balance. Broichan had become suddenly very still. As the shreds of mist parted, other landmarks began to reveal themselves: squat, lichen-crusted stones set about the tarn like animals crouched to drink from the inky water; a creeper winding and binding all around, its spearhead leaves colored dark as jewels, its flowers tiny spots of purest white. Other than that the earth was bare; no ferns or bushes grew here, no bracken softened the pool’s margins or fringed the rocks, save for that one luxuriant growth that wandered in profusion, following its own wayward path. The stillness was complete. Not a bird sang anywhere; not a creature stirred in the undergrowth by the track; not a fly disturbed the mirrored surface of the dark pool. It was like another world, a realm untouched by human hand, untrodden by human foot. It was so quiet that Bridei thought he could hear his own heart beating.