The Dark Mirror

by Juliet Marillier

  There was no predicting what a druid would do. Heart plummeting again, Bridei stepped forward, reached inside the little basket, drew out the key and dropped it onto Broichan’s outstretched palm.

  “Now pick up the basket.”

  Bridei stood by the hearth, cradling the fragile weaving as if it were Tuala herself in his arms. There seemed to be a lot of tears somewhere just behind his eyes, waiting to stream out, to flood his cheeks and demonstrate that he was indeed a child and helpless to prevent the actions of the powerful, even when they were terribly wrong.

  “A man does not cry, Bridei,” Broichan commented, as if he could read Bridei’s mind. His hand was still open, the small key resting there. “At least, not without good reason.”

  “No, my lord,” Bridei whispered. He could see it: not content with burning Tuala’s cradle, her heritage, her only link with her kinfolk, Broichan was going to make him do it, as a punishment for getting things wrong.

  “My joints ache today,” Broichan said. “Climb up on the bench, lad. Put the cradle on the top shelf next to the rat skulls. Careful, now. Mara’s going to have enough to do keeping me in passable health without any broken bones to attend to. That’s it. Now get down.”

  Bridei obeyed. After all, there would be no burning. But there was still the key. As he watched, Broichan’s long fingers curled around the little scrap of iron, and the druid slipped it into the pouch at his belt.

  “Very well,” said Broichan. “This stays with me from now on, and that means the responsibility is mine and the decisions are mine. If at some time in the future I see fit to send her away, I will do it, Bridei. You will not cross me on this. I have not lived as long as I have, and learned what I have learned, without acquiring a certain level of skill in anticipating the future and in making calculated decisions. My intuition tells me the child presents a threat to us. On the other hand, I suspect it is already too late to get rid of her. Key and basket may have parted company for now. Key might be returned whence it came; basket might be cast in flame. But I very much doubt that either of those actions would cause the folk out there a sudden reversal of their attitudes to the infant. No doubt they took her in, at first, because of the charm you made. But if she has indeed been in the house since Midwinter, I suspect your Tuala has had time to cast spells of her own. If I sent her away I would make a rod for my own back; create a place of discord where it is essential we have a sanctuary for learning. And for healing. My enemies were clever this time. They almost outwitted me. That won’t happen again.”

  “Was it poison?” Bridei asked. For all his incredulous joy that the battle was won, he had not forgotten there was another struggle afoot, one that had nearly cost Broichan his life.

  “It was something extremely subtle with nightshade in it. A combination barely perceptible by taste or smell. He thought he was clever. Perhaps he was a little too clever. There are few with the skills and knowledge to make such a draught.”

  “You know who it was?” Bridei breathed.

  “I know enough. I will be watching from now on. Now, I believe I was attempting to meditate when the infant’s voice shattered my calm. She has good lungs. The key stays with me, Bridei. Never forget that. Her future is not in your hands, but in mine.”

  “Yes, my lord. And . . .”

  “What is it, lad?”

  “Thank you for letting her stay. And—I’m happy you’re home. You’ll get better now you’re back at Pitnochie.” He did not attempt to embrace his foster father or offer any other gesture of affection. One simply did not do such things with Broichan. Bridei hoped his words, his face would tell the druid how glad he was that he had not, after all, had to defy his foster father openly. For Bridei knew he could never have cast the basket in the fire; he could never have let them put Tuala out in the snow. He would have fought for her tooth and claw, like a wild animal defending its young. In doing so, he would have gone against every scrap of teaching his foster father had instilled in him.

  “Go on, then,” was all Broichan said. “Something tells me both of us will have cause to regret this day’s work. I hope very much that I’m wrong.”

  CAN’T CATCH ME?” CALLED Tuala, as Pearl whisked away between the gray-white trunks of the birches like a dancing shadow.

  All too true, Bridei thought, guiding his pony after her. Blaze had been a gift from Broichan, acquired on Bridei’s eleventh birthday. Tuala had immediately claimed Pearl. It had hardly been necessary to teach her to ride. The small girl had a quicksilver lightness, a sense of not-quite-present that she carried with her everywhere. You’d glance away for an instant and look back to find her gone. They were used to it now, all the folk of Broichan’s household. Nobody worried about Tuala getting lost or falling into trouble. It was as if she carried her own charms of protection, ones that were on the inside.

  All the same, Tuala wore a moon disc around her neck, as Bridei did. Broichan had insisted on that. These circles of bone, graven with signs that honored the Shining One and called down her blessing, were a solemn token of the household’s adherence to the ancient pathways of the ancestors. To wear one was a privilege, a sharing of trust. Folk had been unsurprised when Broichan gave Bridei his own such talisman. The bestowing of a charm on Tuala, whose place in the household was less well defined, had been unexpected. Still, Broichan had his own games to play, subtle games beyond the understanding of ordinary folk, and no doubt he knew what he was doing. Bridei did not think Tuala needed a moon disc, really. It was plain to him that she carried the power and protection of the Shining One within her, had done so ever since that midwinter night when he had found her waiting for him, cradled in swansdown and bathed in moonlight. More than six years had passed since then, but her skin still glowed with that odd, translucent pallor; her eyes still held that grave, clear quietness. If ever the moon had a daughter, Bridei thought, that child would be just like Tuala.

  “Come on!” she called from somewhere farther along the path, beneath the shadow of the spring-leaved birches. Bridei touched his heels to Blaze’s flanks and set off in pursuit. It was late in the season, a cloudless day, and they were going up to Eagle Scar.

  Tuala’s natural ability for riding let her dispense with saddle and bridle and cling to her pony as if it were an extension of her own self. But Bridei had worked hard, obedient to his promises. He rode Blaze expertly, and the pony, a handsome bay with a flash of white on his brow, was quick and obedient. They followed the whisk of Pearl’s long, silvery tail, the faint rustle of movement, the white face and black hair of the small rider, weaving in and out between the pale-barked trees, climbing the dappled pathways, skirting moss-covered stones and fording shallow streams until they came to the foot of the last steep climb to the top of the Scar. By the time they got there Pearl was nibbling at a tuft of grass by the massive rock wall and Tuala was nowhere to be seen.

  It was not necessary to tether the ponies; both knew this ride well and would not stray. Bridei dismounted and headed on upward. Tuala would be far ahead; she could climb like a squirrel. The top part of Eagle Scar was a vast granite outcrop, perhaps one monumental stone, perhaps many: its chinks and crevices, its secret places were home to a host of creatures. In all the years he’d been coming up here, Bridei had managed to explore only a small part of it. Every time he climbed up, the way seemed slightly different. Perhaps the rock itself played games just as those oaks did around the druid’s house. Earth secrets, not to be shared with mortal man: the place was full of them.

  He loved to stand at the top of Eagle Scar, where the past lay deep in the bone of the land. The ground was strong under him, the long sweep of the Great Glen was spread out below him, steep slopes swathed in the purple-green mantle of pines and the lighter scarf of birches, sheltering the long, glinting ribbon of Serpent Lake. In that place he would stand balanced between earth and sky, feeling the heart of the stone beneath his feet and the touch of the wind on his face. He would imagine he was an eagle.

  Today, Tuala
was there before him, arms outstretched and rotating on the spot, chanting to herself: “Fortrenn, Fotlaid, Fidach, Fib, Circinn, Caitt, Ce . . . Fortrenn, Fotlaid . . .” They were the names of the seven sons of Pridne, the ancient ancestor from whom the Priteni were descended. The seven houses or tribes were named for them. It was not long since Bridei had taught her these; she was making sure she remembered them. She had chosen to stand right on the topmost rock, her feet balanced on a vantage point no bigger than a porridge bowl. Bridei saw her small figure against the pale spring sky, her black hair lifted by the breeze, her eyes full of light. Behind her, on the other side, was the long drop down the steep southerly face of the Scar. Dead Man’s Dive, folk called it. It was just as well Tuala had no fear of heights. She turned and turned as if to make the world whirl before her eyes.

  “Stop it, Tuala,” Bridei said mildly. “You’re making me dizzy.” He hauled himself up onto the flat rocks just below her.

  She halted instantly, as he had known she would; stood quite still, perfectly balanced, grave and steady. It was Bridei who felt the churning anxiety, the reeling loss of equilibrium.

  “What are you doing, anyway?” he asked her with practiced calm. “Trying to fly?”

  Tuala stepped down from her pinnacle and seated herself at his side, cross-legged. She wore a long tunic of plain woolen cloth and trousers beneath it for riding. The trousers had once been Bridei’s; it was hard to imagine that he had ever been so small.

  “I would like to fly” Tuala said. “Sometimes I think I could.”

  Bridei was unpacking the food he had brought: thick wedges of oaten bread and eggs boiled in the shell. He passed the water-skin to Tuala. “If you’re planning to try,” he said, “it might be better to stand on a bench or a barrel, not a mountaintop.

  Tuala gazed at him solemnly. “I wouldn’t just fall,” she told him. “At least, I don’t think so.”

  “You’re a girl, not a bird,” Bridei said.

  “I am a bird sometimes.” She moved a small, white hand to tuck her hair behind her ear.

  “What do you mean?”

  “In dreams. The moon comes up, and it wakes me, and I fly out through the forest. Everything silver; everything alive and waiting.”

  Bridei did not answer. It was a long time since Tuala had come to Pitnochie, so long that sometimes he came close to forgetting that she was—different. Then she would say something like this, and his memory would bring it all back.

  “Swooping, snatching, feeding,” Tuala said absently, taking a bite of the bread. “Gliding, hunting. Then the moon goes down, and the darkness comes again.”

  “Dreams are different.” It wasn’t much of an answer, and Bridei knew it. “You should be more careful. Just think if you fell down and—and broke your leg. You wouldn’t be able to ride Pearl all summer.” He would not tell her more than one man had died in a sudden descent from Eagle Scar. She was still only a baby compared with himself. “Promise me you’ll be sensible, Tuala.”

  “I promise.”

  The answer came readily; unfortunately, Bridei thought, Tuala’s idea of what sensible meant was somewhat different from his own.

  “What would you be?” Tuala asked him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What bird would you be, if you could?”

  “An eagle,” Bridei said straight away. “I’d glide the length of the Great Glen, looking down over everything, watching it all, guarding it all. You’d have to be a crow, with hair that color.”

  “Tuala shook her head. An owl,” she corrected gravely.

  “You know they sick up pellets of all the bones and claws and beaks, don’t you? All the tails and whiskers and—”

  Tuala gave him a shove, not very hard. “I’m eating,” she said. “Anyway, what about eagles stealing new lambs? They even took someone’s baby once, Mara told me.”

  “It’s all part of the balance,” Bridei said. “Some give up their lives so others can survive. As long as you respect that, everything makes sense.”

  They ate awhile without talking, listening instead to the wild sounds of the Glen: the calling of birds high overhead, the cheeping and chirping of others in the woodland, the soughing of trees in the wind, the furtive rustle of something stirring in a rock crevice. Farther off there was a more domestic noise, Fidich calling the dogs, and a barking response. The farmer was checking ewes up on the fells.

  “You know something, Tuala?” Bridei passed over the egg he had peeled for her and started on another. “Back when I was little like you, I wouldn’t have been allowed to come up here by myself. Broichan wouldn’t have let me.”

  “I’m not by myself,” Tuala said. “I’ve got you.”

  “Yes, well, I didn’t have you then, nor any big brothers to look after me.”

  Tuala opened her mouth. Bridei knew she was about to tell him she could look after herself, thank you very much.

  “But it wasn’t because of that,” he went on quickly. “It was dangerous in the woods back then. There were enemies. They tried to kill me once. And they tried to kill Broichan. Back then, I wasn’t allowed out without two guards.”

  “How did they try to kill you?” Tuala’s eyes were round now, her neat mouth very solemn.

  Bridei began to regret starting this topic of conversation. “Oh, it was nothing much,” he said, carefully offhand. “Maybe we should be going back—”

  “With a sword? With a spell? Did they try to catch you in a trap?”

  “With an arrow,” Bridei said.

  “Did you kill them?”

  “No. But Donal did. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Why did they try to kill you?”

  “I don’t know. Nobody would tell me. Anyway, it’s all right now. That was a long time ago. Whatever the danger was, it’s past. There used to be five guards just for the dike on the northern side and now there’s only one. And we’re allowed out. So count yourself lucky.”

  Tuala regarded him carefully. “You are lucky,” she corrected. “Or you would be dead, and I wouldn’t be here.”

  Bridei shivered. “It wasn’t luck that saved me that day,” he said, remembering. “It was something else.”

  “Donal?”

  “He certainly helped. But there was more. It was as if the earth opened up and let me hide: gave me shelter. Even Donal said it was odd.”

  “She holds you safe,” Tuala said in her small, clear voice. “Safe in her hand. Safe to go on.”

  Her words made the hair on the back of Bridei’s neck prickle. He gathered the eggshells together in a neat pile, saying nothing.

  “It’s all right, Bridei,” Tuala said, as if she were the big one and he the child.

  Back at the house, Bridei led the two ponies around to the stables and tended to Blaze, while Tuala made a passable job of rubbing Pearl down. She had to stand on tiptoe to reach the top of the pony’s mane; fortunately, Pearl seemed to understand this, and lowered her head obligingly while the child took a brush to the tangles.

  “Pity she can’t do the same for you,” Bridei commented, eyeing Tuala’s wind-blown locks. When they set out for the ride her dark hair had been plaited neatly down her back, but it seemed to have a life of its own. The number of ribbons she lost was a standing joke.

  Tuala raised both hands to push the unruly mop back from her face.

  “Want me to fix it?” Bridei asked.

  Tuala came over to stand by him, her back turned. She fished in the pouch at her belt, brought out a small comb, put it in Bridei’s hand. No words were necessary; this was a ritual of long standing.

  “Keep still now.” Bridei had a deft hand for this task, having practiced on ponies. He knew how to comb out Tuala’s hair without pulling at all. As for the child, she stood completely still, almost as if she were frozen; it was a pose he himself had striven for through the control of breathing, through meditation, through sheer force of will, yet Tuala could manage it without even trying. His fingers worked systematically,
weaving the long braid that hung down to her waist.

  “Got a ribbon?” he asked, smiling.

  Tuala shook her head, expression mournful. “I lost it.”

  “Just as well I’ve got one, then.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a length of yellow braid, one of several he had put away for just such occasions. Tuala left them everywhere. He tied the ribbon in a neat, strong knot finished with a little bow like a butterfly. “There you are. Better try to stay tidy for a bit, in case Broichan sees you.”

  “Yes, Bridei.”

  SINCE THE TIME when Broichan went to a king’s council and nearly died, there had been some changes at Pitnochie. A sizeable complement of men at arms still dwelt there, patrolling the borders and providing an escort for the druid whenever he traveled abroad. But there were fewer of them and more other folk now. Brenna had stayed; her sweet temper and natural quietness provided an excellent balance to volatile Ferat and dour Mara. Fidich became a frequent visitor to the house, standing awkwardly in the kitchen and chatting to whomever might be close at hand about shearing or milking or laying drystone walls. It was quite out of character, for the farmer had ever been one to retire to his small cottage when the day’s work was done, apparently happiest in his own company. Donal noted, drily, that Fidich’s visits generally included a brief talk with Brenna, a few words only, such as a hope that she was keeping well, and the exchange of the day’s small news.

  It had taken a long time for Brenna to lose the sad look in her eyes. Tuala had helped; the demands of a small infant had left the young widow little opportunity for dwelling on her own troubles. Of recent times it was increasingly evident that Fidich’s visits had the effect of bringing out the rose in Brenna’s cheeks. Both were awkward and shy. Perhaps, in time, it would come to something.

  There was another new presence in the house. Not long after Broichan came home still sick from poisoning, Bridei had entered the hall one night at suppertime to find the two old men, Erip and Wid, ensconced in a corner ruminating over a game board, just as they had been the very first night he’d come to Pitnochie. He’d greeted them with astonishment.