“You wouldn’t want to say that too loudly,” Donal murmured, “true as it undoubtedly is. Talorgen would have been better to leave Fokel right out of it, if you ask me. But he couldn’t. It’s Pokers own land; his own place. How could Talorgen not tell him what was planned? Calculated risk. Caused him a few sleepless nights. Still, it’s more men, and they’re good fighters.”
“Mm,” said Bridei. “The question is, whose orders do they obey?” He was becoming increasingly uneasy about the venture. He agreed with Talorgen’s plan; it was the only one that made sense, given their numbers and the position of their target. He approved of the idea of a ritual on Galany’s Reach, for in any great venture the role of the gods must be recognized and honored. Yet he felt in his heart that it fell short of what was required. What price this symbolic victory if the banners of Fortriu were torn down the instant Talorgen’s forces were out of sight? What price the joyous celebration of Rising when the Mage Stone still stood in enemy territory to be ignored, reviled, perhaps even defaced? Did that show due respect for the ancient powers that were bone and breath of the land? Deep inside him, Bridei knew it was not enough.
“Of course,” Donal observed, wringing out a sodden garment of indeterminate hue, “Drust will use the hostages to win concessions from Gabhran, if he can. Capture a chieftain of high birth, or the kin of such a man, and you gain quite a bit of leeway. Talorgen does think ahead. You’re looking very doubtful, Bridei. What’s eating you? Having scruples again?”
“Just thinking.” Bridei hung his own undergarments on a supple willow branch, suspecting that by nightfall they’d have dried only to a clammy dampness. He settled on a mossy rock, watching the men as they enjoyed the unexpected time of respite: some were fishing, some heading off up the hill with bows and quivers, some tending to their small domestic tasks. A good many were rolled in their blankets, fast asleep.
“Thinking about what?” Donal asked casually.
But Bridei did not answer. In the back of his mind a plan was forming, a plan so wild he could not believe it had come from his own head. It was a crazy idea, the kind that sprang from emotion and not from a balanced consideration of risks and opportunities. All the same, it was there, grand, implausible, utterly mad: a symbolic act that would ring out in the tales of Fortriu like a great bell of hope.
“No,” he muttered to himself. “No, I don’t think so.”
“What?” said Donal.
“You’ve been to Galany’s Reach, haven’t you?” Bridei asked him. “How close is the hill to the lake shore? Can you draw me a plan, here on the earth?”
TUALA VOWED TO herself and to the Shining One that from now on she would be strong. She recalled that Bridei had come to this house when he was very small, that he too had been quite without friends or family, and that he had managed it all remarkably well. He had even made friends with Broichan. True, if Bridei’s upbringing had been different, perhaps it would not be so hard for him to smile now. But there was no doubt Bridei had made the best of his opportunities, and she owed it to him to attempt the same.
With Erip laid to rest and Wid gone, there were no more lessons. Mara made it clear she did not want Tuala’s help around the house. Brenna’s cottage was forbidden, and the men were not talking to her. What was she to do? It was folly to attempt the trip to the Vale of the Fallen with winter’s grip still hard on the land, and all her movements furtively watched by one or another member of the household as if she might suddenly turn into some kind of evil sorceress and cast a spell on them.
There were moments when she wished to do just that, and wondered what would happen if she tried; but Tuala did not try. It was one thing to give those powers a little exercise in the presence of trusted friends like Erip and Wid. To employ them before those who already feared her would be touching a match to dry tinder.
She practiced scrying in the relative privacy of her own chamber, using a little bowl of bronze that she had found in a store room. It was a strange vessel with clawed feet and dragon handles. Remembering the precepts of her teachers, Bridei among them, she tried to extend her skills and find new ways of using them. What was the purpose of such activities if not learning? Thus, she practiced the summoning of images related to a theme or strand, such as kingship, or the ancient lore of symbols, or Pitnochie itself: the secrets and memories that resided deep in the thick stone walls, the heavy woolen hangings, the dark, smoky chambers. The place had seen many inhabitants, chieftains, families, other druids such as Broichan, although there were fewer of those. His had been an unusual path. He had dwelled long years at court, fulfilling the role of king’s adviser and moving among men of affairs. Later, he had returned to reside here as if he were more wealthy landholder than spiritual leader. Appearances were deceptive; Tuala did not need the images of the water to tell her that Broichan was both of these things and a great deal more.
Sitting too long over the scrying bowl made her neck sore and her eyes weary. Sometimes the visions made her sad; sometimes they made her stomach turn. She could not always work out what lesson was to be learned from them. A child’s body broken and maimed; men dying in their blood, others helpless to save them; a little dog crouched by its fallen master: what did those images tell but that the world held cruelty and loss, and that humankind brought its own tragedies on itself? She understood this already; there was no need for the water to show her this lesson over and over. Sometimes she dreamed the same signs and portents at night, with the bowl emptied and shut in a box. When that happened, she made herself stop awhile. It was something Bridei had once warned her of, that the overuse of certain skills of magic could lead one to obsession and thence to madness. A great part of the craft lay in knowing when to stop.
She was aware that she was getting tired. Sleep did not come easily, and the dreams were a tangle of staring eyes and clutching fingers, of knives in the heart and cords around the neck, of people going away and never coming back. Often she did not feel like eating. At the table it was as if she did not exist, folks’ eyes sliding over her, their comments excluding her. The only one who looked her in the eye was Broichan, and his stern features seemed to hold either remote disapproval or a kind of appraisal that unsettled her still more, for there was a calculation in it that told her the druid was making plans.
As the season passed there came more and more clear days, and Tuala fled the house to make her way up into the forest once more. It seemed to take much longer now to reach the Vale of the Fallen, and her legs ached from the walk. The cold of early spring made her chest hurt, and each breath was an effort. How everything had changed, she thought as she rested, leaning against the moss-covered trunk of a birch. How had she become so tangled up in misery that she could not even summon the strength to look around her and see what she and Bridei had marveled at back in the days of their childhood? There was so much of beauty here: the neat, small tracks of a foraging creature, a stoat or marten; the intricate tracery of a skeleton leaf, still clinging vainly to its parent tree as, little by little, time stripped it of its substance, leaving only the delicate remembrance of what it had been. The many pale shades of willow bark; the first brave green of bluebell shoots in sheltered hollows; the cry of a hunting bird high overhead and the sudden rustling retreat for cover of a small animal in the leaf litter: had she forgotten the magic in these everyday things? What was wrong with her?
The Vale was dim today. The spring sunlight could not penetrate its depths; the foliage dripped with moisture and the vapor hung low over the blackness of the pool. The shapes of the seven druids hunched under their cloaks of lichen; Tuala could almost see them shivering. Somewhere in the back of her mind a little dog was howling, a mournful sound that clutched at her heart, awakening her own sorrow with its forlorn note of loss.
Tuala sat on the flat stones. She had told herself she would not look today; that she would simply see if her two strange visitors reappeared, ask them some questions if they did, and then go home. She was too tired to deal with the v
isions of the Dark Mirror. Common sense told her their power would overwhelm her today.
She waited a long time. She waited until her back ached from sitting still and her mind had gone over the reasons for their nonappearance fifty times over. Of course they would not come to her summons, being creatures of the Otherworld: who did she think she was? Perhaps she had offended them last time when she caused the Dark Mirror to show only images of her own choosing. Maybe they had given up on her because she had not come back for so long. Perhaps they were punishing her; after all, she had scarcely welcomed what they offered.
“Come on, come on,” she whispered. “I don’t want much; just an answer or two.” But time passed, and above this rift in the earth the sun moved close to day’s end, and Tuala knew they would not come this time. She had already stayed too long; she must set of now or she would be out in the forest after dusk.
Just a quick look, she told herself; just one look, so this would not have been for nothing. She would keep control and make herself stop after a little. If she saw him, a glimpse, a single image, today’s venture would have been worthwhile.
Bridei at table, among men; Donal at his left, instantly recognizable by the big jaw, the close-set eyes, the flowering of blue symbols across the skin of his face. In this image Bridei, too, wore the warrior’s markings, the signs of manhood freshly graven on the fair skin of the right cheek, showing he had fought and survived on the field of war. Garnait, who sat on the other side, bore a similar pattern, but Gartnait wore also his kin signs, which were generally given to a young man of high birth at the same time as the others. On the left cheek, balancing the warrior’s blazon, Talorgen’s son bore the hound and shield of his father’s clan, and above it the crescent and broken rod of his mother’s lineage: the royal blood of the Priteni.
They were happy, relaxed, Donal joking, Gartnait tossing back his ale and laughing, even Bridei almost smiling as he listened to them, although his eyes bore a shadow. Others were at the board, men Tuala did not recognize, some in warriors’ garb of leather and felt and coarse woolen weave, others more richly dressed with here and there a coat of red-dyed fabric, a belt with a silver buckle, a braided headband. There was meat on the table, a haunch of venison of which not much was left. There was a fire. This was a victory celebration.
Someone called for a toast. Tuala could not hear the voices, but the mood and purpose of the gathering were plain. All rose to their feet. A tall man spoke formal words. They raised their goblets and drank.
She felt the pain an instant before she saw it; her throat tightened, her heart lurched. Then, on the water, Bridei dropped his goblet and put both hands to his throat, his face suddenly gray, his eyes staring horribly, grotesquely, his mouth gaping open. For a little nobody noticed; they were shouting, drinking, carried away on the tide of revelry. Tuala could not breathe; her fists were clenched so tightly the nails cut into her palms. Do something, quick, quick . . .
Donal saw, moved like the wind, clearing the way with brawny arms, easing the stricken man to a bench, calling for room, for help. Gartnait seemed frozen in shock, staring uselessly. Tuala could not bear to look; she could not drag her eyes away. Somewhere, in the distance, she heard her own voice whimpering like a beaten child’s, no, no, no . . .
It is not a pretty sight when a man dies from poison. At least this was quick. She saw what Donal tried, his honest features contorted by desperation: the struggle to make Bridei vomit out whatever it was, the fingers down the throat, the salt draught poured into the foaming mouth to wash, futile, down the stricken man’s clothing to the ground. The attempt to get him to his feet and walking, defeated when convulsions seized him, making his fine young body into that of a jerking, hideous puppet. At last, nothing to be done but hold him as he died, and weep. To close his eyes, touch his cheek with a roughened, gentle hand, fight for words and find there were none.
Even as the images faded and dispersed, Tuala threw herself facedown on the cold ground, her hands clawing at the earth. A wailing came from her like the cry of a wounded animal, a sound she would not have believed she could make. The power of this rent her gut and shredded her heart; it was too much to be borne. She sobbed and screamed in furious abandonment. Above the voice of her own grief she could still hear that lonely howling that was almost constant in this place: a little dog’s lament. It was as if the creature sat right beside her; as if they grieved the selfsame loss.
She wished the earth would swallow her; how could she go on after such a vision? All the same, after a time she picked herself up, shaking with sobs, brushed the worst of the mud from her clothes, and sat with head in hands, forcing herself to apply common sense as Erip and Wid would have bid her do. The battle over, both Bridei and Gartnait with their warrior signs already complete: this was not a vision of now, it could not come to pass until well into the spring, for such a party of warriors could not readily travel down the Glen to the territory of the Gaels until Balance at least, Wid had said so. Set off too early and there could be snowdrifts, flooded streams, blinding mists, rock falls. Bridei was not dead. She would know if he was dead, know it in her heart, instantly. This horrible thing had not yet come to pass. There was still time to stop it.
Tuala got to her feet, dizzy and faint. Broichan; she must take this news to Broichan. She had already wasted enough time with her weeping and wailing, time she could not afford to squander. She tied her cloak tighter, gritted her teeth, and ran.
FROM THEIR PERCH on a tree branch high above the Vale of the Fallen, the two of them watched her go.
“She’s young yet,” the ivy-clad boy observed. “A difficult test, this, and a distressing one.”
“There’s another trial waiting when she gets home,” the girl said, “and that one’s all of Broichan’s making. With this druid as a player, our work will be too easy”
“Not easy for Tuala.”
The girl turned her light-filled eyes on him. “It is necessary.” Her tone was cool. “They must be fully tested, the two of them. Each must prove as strong as the other. Each must balance duty with loyalty, love with purpose. Would you go into battle with a weapon not properly tempered? Would you build a house with green timbers?”
“I understand,” the boy said. “I find it difficult to stand by and observe, nonetheless. This is a good child. And when all’s said and done, she’s ours.”
“Good?” the girl scoffed. “Of what worth is that, if she flees her responsibilities at the first touch of unkindness? Tuala has a hard road ahead. We must ensure she develops sufficient endurance to walk it as the Shining One requires.”
“And the young man?”
“Bridei’s path is mapped. All that we need do is continue to watch him. There will come a time when the gods set him one final trial; we may play a part in that. Not yet. This season he faces the tests of men.”
THE TERRIBLE IMAGES stayed with Tuala all the way home, giving wings to her feet. She arrived just as the sun was setting. In the kitchen, Ferat and his assistants were busy with a heavy joint on the spit, but they turned to stare as she flew past, her hair in her eyes, her breath coming hard. Mara was setting platters and knives on the table in the hall. When Tuala whisked past her to rap loudly on the door of Broichan’s private room, the housekeeper began to say something, her voice sharp with disapproval, but Tuala took no heed. There was room for nothing in her mind but the one picture, the terrible dark future she must change at all costs. When Broichan did not answer, Tuala thrust the door open and almost fell into the room.
“I must tell you—Bridei—” she gasped. “You have to—” She looked across the chamber and fell abruptly silent, chest heaving from her long flight in the cold.
Broichan was not alone. He had been standing by the small hearth, ale cup in hand, and beside him was another man, a stranger, solidly built and plain of appearance, perhaps one of the local landholders or a minor chieftain. The fellow was looking at her with undisguised curiosity and not a little surprise. Belatedly, Tual
a became aware of the trail of mud her boots had left on the clean floor, the strands of wild hair in her eyes, the way both hands were clutched into her shawl like desperate claws. Her eyes were probably staring and crazy. Broichan’s only response had been to raise his eyebrows a trifle. His self-control had always been remarkable.
“I . . . sorry,” she managed, inclining her head briefly to the stranger; no matter what the circumstances, one must always greet such folk correctly “The light of the Shining One attend you in this house. I am sorry to intrude, but I must speak with you, my lord,” now turning her gaze on Broichan again, “please, I must tell you . . . it’s Bridei, he’s in terrible danger . . .”
“That’s enough, Tuala.” The druid’s voice was deep and calm.
“But I—”
“That’s enough.” Broichan turned to his guest. “I regret the intrusion, Garvan. Will you allow me a few moments to deal with this?”
“Surely” the visitor said equably and, setting his cup on the table, he went from the room, not without giving Tuala an appraising look up and down on the way. The door closed behind him.
“Make this good,” Broichan said. “Brief, coherent, and worth the interruption. I had hoped you might make a better impression on Garvan. After this, he will no doubt think you no more tame than a young she-wolf. Now account for yourself”
Tuala was beyond being afraid of him, beyond even any real comprehension of his words. “I saw—in the water—I saw Bridei, not now, but soon, after the battle. They were feasting, and someone had poisoned his drink, and—” No, she could not say this. How could she make the worst news in the world brief and coherent? She thought her heart would burst with anguish. The room seemed to reel around her, the candles swirling in mad dances, the strange and wondrous objects on the shelves mixing and blending in a grotesque realignment; the world was awry, nothing was as it should be.
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