Bridei had had time to work out his answer to this, knowing it would be asked of him sooner or later. Donal knew him too well to have misinterpreted that failed shot. “Would you ever encourage a student of yours to get something wrong?” he asked.
“It depends,” Donal said.
“That’s my answer, too.”
“It could be the difference between life and death one day,” the warrior observed. “Yours, not the other fellow’s.”
“If it was a matter of life and death, I would make certain I didn’t miss,” Bridei said. “But if it was just a matter of pride, I’d weigh everything in the balance. Then I’d choose what to do.”
“Mm,” Donal said, pulling an arrow out of the ground and adding it to the ones he was carrying. “I couldn’t have done what you did today. Don’t have it in me.”
“You didn’t have to. You missed anyway,” said Bridei, grinning.
Donal’s smile was more of a grimace. “Wait till that fellow Breth sees what I can do with a staff. Won’t know what hit him. Now go on; lessons don’t stop just because there’s a king’s councillor in the house. I expect those two old rascals are lying in wait for you somewhere with a dose of obscure history. Off you go.”
“Donal?”
“What?”
“Have you seen Tuala, these last couple of days? We’ve been busy, I know, but she wasn’t there at dinner last night, nor the night before, and nor was Brenna. And she’s not here this morning.”
“As to that,” Donal said after a moment, “the lassie’s left Pitnochie. Gone away on a family visit. Brenna took her.”
Bridei felt suddenly cold. Donal’s tone was too casual, his answer too glib. “Gone?” he echoed, struggling for a way to make sense of this. “What visit? What family?” Tuala’s family was here. What had Broichan done?
“Easy now, lad. Broichan gave Brenna a bit of time off, a few days to go and see her mother at Oak Ridge, that’s all. Tuala’s gone with her, and Cinioch as an escort. They’ll be there by now.”
“He sent her away.” Bridei realized he had his fists clenched; he made himself relax them, but he could not stop the anger building inside him. No wonder Tuala had been sad and quiet. No wonder she had seemed to be guarding a secret. What had Broichan threatened her with, to keep her silent? “You should have told me,” he added.
“And break an undertaking to your foster father? He asked us not to mention this to you, Bridei; not until Tuala was well away. He’d have told you himself, all in good time, if you’d waited.”
“Why?” Bridei demanded. “Why would he send her there?”
“So you can make yourself known to Broichan’s guests without any distractions. That’s important, Bridei. Your foster father wants you to make a good impression. Don’t clench your teeth like that, you’re making me nervous.”
“She was sad. She didn’t want to go.”
“Did Tuala say that?”
“She couldn’t, could she? I suppose Broichan threatened her into silence. She’s only six, Donal. Without a bedtime story, she can’t get to sleep. The dark scares her.”
“Brenna’s there.”
“And she’ll miss Midsummer. She’ll miss the ritual.”
Donal’s mouth twisted. “Perhaps that’s what Broichan had in mind. Let it go, Bridei. This is a small thing. It’s nothing in the pattern of your foster father’s plans. Bridei?”
But Bridei was already heading for the house. He wanted an accounting; his foster father must give that, at least. Curse Broichan and his mysterious schemes! You didn’t treat children as if they were no more than an inconvenience to be brushed out of the way when they didn’t happen to suit you. You didn’t send them away to be lonely and frightened. In particular, you didn’t coerce them into keeping secrets from their friends. He would tell Broichan so, and if his foster father didn’t care to hear the truth, too bad.
Righteous rage driving all from his mind save the words he would say, Bridei marched around a corner of the house and halted abruptly. There were riders before the door, a party of six men who must have come up from the east, shielded from view by the birches between house and lakeside way. Broichan was greeting them; Aniel stood nearby, a guard at his back. The new arrivals were warriors, their faces decorated with kin markings and battle counts. They were clad in gear serviceable and practical for fighting men in transit, leather caps and breast-pieces, felt cloaks and heavy tunics, leggings of a uniform deep blue, supple riding boots and protective gauntlets. All bore arms. There was a pack horse, lightly laden. The animals were stocky, bright-eyed, and strong looking.
One man, tall and curly-haired, had dismounted by the steps and was speaking to Broichan. He broke off the conversation as Bridei appeared.
“Ah, this is your foster son, I’ve no doubt. My greeting to you, Bridei! I’m Talorgen of Raven’s Well. It’s a great pleasure to meet you at last. I was a friend of your mother’s before she took it into her head to wed Maelchon and go off south.”
His mother again. Bridei clasped the man’s extended hand. Talorgen had such a disarming grin that it was not possible to do anything but grin back and greet him with genuine good will.
“I’ve a son of your age,” Talorgen went on. “His name’s Gartnait. Shaping up well with bow and sword, but not as clever as yourself, from what I’ve heard.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t bring him with you, my lord,” Bridei said.
“Ah, well, another time,” Talorgen said easily. “His mother wanted him at home, and she can be hard to disagree with.”
“Come,” Broichan said. “I’ll show you your lodgings. Your men will be quartered in the barn with mine. Bridei, will you take them down to the stables and ask Donal to settle them in?” The druid’s dark eyes were scrutinizing his foster son’s face closely. No doubt, Bridei thought, the rage still showed in his expression, although Talorgen’s friendly manner had gone a long way to damping it down. He stared back for long enough to be quite sure Broichan understood he was angry, and why. Then he turned to Talorgen’s men and motioned the way to stables and barn. What he had to say must wait.
At dusk that day the third of Broichan’s guests arrived. When Bridei thought of druids, he generally pictured his foster father, the only one of that kind he had known: a man of incisive mind and daunting intelligence, a man whose worldly power was balanced by a deep reverence for the mysteries. There was another kind of druid he had heard of, the kind that appeared in the old tales. This was a wild inhabitant of oak groves in the deep heart of the forest, a man so steeped in lore, so attuned to magic, that he often seemed to the outer world quite crazed, as if he had stepped across the margin and existed with one foot in this world and one in the other. Such a druid was Uist, whom dusk brought to the threshold of Pitnochie. He came on a milk-pale mare that moved with a delicate, dancing gait, swishing her silken tail. Uist had wild white hair, plaited as Broichan’s was, but not as neatly; the braids were tangled with feathers and twigs and seeds, and wisps escaped them to stand out in an aureole around his head. There was a musky smell about him, like that of a forest creature. Uist’s features were hard to describe, the eyes of changeable color, the face now one thing, now another, as if he were constantly making small adjustments so that nobody would remember how he looked. He seemed old, but stood straight and relaxed, one hand grasping a tall staff of birch wood with a polished stone set at the tip, palest gray speckled like an egg with a darker hue, and three white feathers tied below it with a silver thread. His garments were flowing; they stirred strangely as Uist moved, as if there were some life in the fabric beyond that the wearer’s body imparted. Here and there the robes were rent, as if the druid had moved through briars or brambles. The mare, however, bore no scratches on her gleaming coat.
Uist made no attempt to engage anyone in conversation nor to greet any member of the household beyond his host. Offered a bed in the men’s quarters with Talorgen and Aniel, he said it had been too long since he slept with any roof over hi
s head but an oak canopy and the stars. He would spend his nights in the forest and tolerate the days in the confines of Broichan’s house if that was strictly necessary. He needed the hands of Bone Mother under his back and the eyes of the Shining One looking down on him. If he had not those, he must walk out of Pitnochie within two days or run mad.
“You mean, madder than you are already,” commented Talorgen with a smile, and the old druid’s bushy brows creased in a frown.
The remark seemed to Bridei less than courteous, but Uist only said, “Ah, well, I was lost to your kind of society years ago, my friend, and I don’t miss it a bit. The music, perhaps. Apart from that, kings’ courts hold no attraction. Living wild suits me, and it suits those who whisper in my ears at night. I won’t howl at the moon; you have my assurance of that.”
Bridei was waiting for a moment when he could catch Broichan alone. But as soon as supper was over, his foster father and the three guests retreated to Broichan’s own chamber and closed the door firmly behind them and, angry or not, there was no way he was going to interrupt their private council. Later, Talorgen came out and settled himself by the fire, and soon Donal, Uven, and two other men had him embroiled in a debate about the Gaels. This had all of them shifting knives and tankards and bowls around the table in enactment of a grand strategic push beyond the western end of the Great Glen and out across the isles, an advance that saw the invaders swept before it, back to the land of Erin where such miscreants belonged. Talorgen had fought some of Gabhran’s forces quite recently; his territory of Raven’s Well lay to the west of Pitnochie and a great deal closer to the enemy’s settlements. He had information about the current positions of the Gaels that was new to Donal, and his account of his men’s fierce skirmishes with their forward parties held everyone transfixed. By the time that was over, lamps were being doused and it was time for bed. It seemed Bridei had left it too late to see his foster father alone. But as he walked past Broichan’s chamber to fetch his candle before he went out to the barn, the druid opened the door and stepped out.
“You had something to say to me,” Broichan said. It was not a question.
Bridei’s anger was not as fierce as it had been earlier. Talorgen had said he could come and stay at Raven’s Well as soon as Broichan gave permission for it, and the exciting prospect of traveling outside Pitnochie and practicing his combat skills with this boy Gartnait had greatly improved his mood. But he had not lost sight of the injustice, nor the need for an accounting.
There was nobody else nearby, and Broichan had shut the door on his influential guests.
“You sent Tuala away,” Bridei said, using the techniques his foster father had taught him to keep his voice calm and his body relaxed, though speaking of it brought the anger back. “She was unhappy, I could see it. And you forbade people to tell me. That wasn’t fair.”
Broichan waited in silence, regarding his foster son steadily.
“I think I deserve an explanation,” Bridei said.
Broichan did not speak. His silences could be unnerving, but over the long years of his education Bridei had learned to deal with them. “Why are these people here?” he asked, deciding a direct question was required. “Why shouldn’t they see Tuala? Are you ashamed of her?”
Broichan folded his arms. “You are angry,” he observed. “Pace your breathing. School your eyes. You must learn to mask such feelings, for in the council chamber they do a man ill service.”
Bridei thought he had been controlling his feelings quite well. At least he was not shouting and throwing things, the way Ferat sometimes did. “Will you answer my questions?” he asked.
“My guests are here to meet you. To observe you and to assess how well you have learned, thus far. It is of the utmost importance that you show them your best qualities. Tuala will return when they are gone. It is inappropriate that the girl be present at this time. She does not belong here.”
“She is part of Pitnochie,” Bridei said. “She belongs with me.”
A ripple of something crossed Broichan’s pale features. Bridei could not tell what it meant. “I had thought you almost a man, Bridei,” the druid said. “You demonstrate tonight that you are still a child. Go to bed now. This is a trivial matter, and you will need all your energy for the days to come. We will not discuss this further.” With that, he opened the door and stepped back into his chamber, and the conversation was over. It was deeply unsatisfactory, but Bridei knew he would get no more from his foster father.
As he dropped off to sleep surrounded by snoring men, Bridei told a story in his head, silently, thinking that thus he was in some way true to his promise, even if Tuala had no way of knowing it. Once upon a time . . .
BRENNA HAD SAID, “Don’t go any farther than the holly bushes. I don’t want to have to go searching for you in the woods. There are wolves up there.”
But Tuala couldn’t obey. It was different here; wrong. The house was little and smoky, and Brenna’s mother looked at her through narrowed, suspicious eyes. Brenna’s aunt was even worse. She wouldn’t meet Tuala’s gaze at all and she kept making that sign with her fingers, a sign that meant she thought Tuala was a bad thing, a wicked thing. Brenna herself was unusually subdued. Her mother didn’t approve of Fidich as a prospective son-in-law, what with his damaged leg and the fact that he farmed another man’s land, not his own. The first night, Brenna had cried herself to sleep.
The only thing that was the same was the forest. Here at Oak Ridge, on the way up to the tall peaks called the Five Sisters, the trees hugged the cottage like an enveloping cloak. Brenna’s father had made a living cutting wood and ferrying logs down the lake on a barge. He had died in the forest, killed when he miscalculated the fall of an ash. Tuala thought that was only fair, considering, but she did not say so.
Brenna’s brothers had followed in their father’s trade until both took opportunities to sell their services as fighters for King Drust the Bull. A good axe could be put to a variety of uses. Now it was a household of women and, at present, a place of angry words and bitterness. Each day, as soon as the meager breakfast was over, Tuala fled out of doors and up to the place where the dark, prickly leaves of the hollies made a screen, shielding the house from the wilder reaches of the woods. She’d sit there awhile, watching until it was clear Brenna had stopped checking on her, and then she would slip through, careful not to tear her skirt or tangle her hair on the prickles. A little farther up the hillside she had found a little hollow between the roots of an ancient oak, a tree similar in shape to her favorite one at Pitnochie. When she tucked her skirt in and squeezed up small, she was just the right size to sit there and feel as if she was part of the tree and the tree was part of her. If she listened hard, she thought she could hear a kind of heartbeat in it, strong and deep; she could catch a voice, a huge, slow, old sort of voice that was telling her something remarkable and wise. What had the tree seen, all the years it had held this hillside firm with its roots and shaded the smaller plants with its noble canopy? How many creatures had it nurtured, how many wayfarers sheltered? There were so many tales in all the time it had watched over the Glen, tales of lovers, quests, and journeys, stories of great battles, glorious victories, bitter defeats: this oldest of trees held all of it in its monumental memory, humming the story to Tuala as she sat cradled by its feet. Sometimes, above and behind the deep narrative of the oak, she could discern other voices, high, ethereal, and mocking, or small, rustling, and furtive. She tried to shut those ones out.
At night she told herself the oak tree’s tales again to a background of Brenna’s smothered sobbing. It was not right. None of it was right. But Tuala knew she must be good, whatever happened. If she was not good, Broichan would not let her go home and she might have to stay here forever, here where everyone was unhappy and there was no Bridei.
Brenna had been very firm about the need to stay unseen. They’d traveled early in the morning, barely waiting for sunrise to set off, and Tuala had worn a hooded cloak to conceal her fac
e. Visitors to the cottage at Oak Ridge were rare, for it was an out of the way place. All the same, Brenna had made herself quite clear. “Broichan doesn’t want you noticed. I’m not going to make you stay in the house; that’s asking too much of any six-year-old. But you mustn’t talk to strangers. Not a word, understand? If you spot anyone walking up or down the track, come straight back inside. It’s very important, Tuala. If you attract any attention, you and I will both be in trouble.”
“It’s all right, Brenna.” Tuala had spoken with conviction, noting the shadows under the young woman’s reddened eyes. “I’ll be good.”
ON THE THIRD day she was in her usual spot, crouched among the oak roots with one ear to the base of the trunk, listening with her eyes closed. Her mind was full of the dark, slow voice of the tree. Then, all of a sudden, she was aware that something had changed. Tuala opened her eyes.
There was someone else sitting there as she was, someone not so much bigger than herself, gray-robed, hooded, a quiet, shadowy figure seated a little farther around the bole of the tree, leaning comfortably against a low arch of gnarled roots. Whoever it was had come there without making a sound. Tuala’s scalp prickled. Was it one of the Good Folk, one of those who had left her on Bridei’s doorstep in the middle of the night? Did such a one count as a stranger? As she stared, motionless, the figure turned its head to reveal the features of an old woman, not a furrowed, wrinkled kind of face like Wid’s, but a small, strong sort of countenance with a prominent, beaky nose and dark eyes like polished beads of obsidian. Tuala could not tell if this was a human woman or something else. Mindful of her promise to Brenna, she held her tongue.
“Good morning,” the stranger said.
It seemed rather impolite to respond only with silence. Tuala gave a nod.
“A fine place for listening: you’ve done well to discover it. And a good place for a wayfarer to rest her feet awhile. You don’t object to my sharing it for a little?”
The Dark Mirror Page 13
