“In my judgment you would do better to wed Garvan,” Broichan told her. “His protection would ensure you of a home in which you were always welcome. His influence would buy you respect and security. Elsewhere, I think it likely the same distrust and suspicion that now dog you at Pitnochie will continue to be present, wherever you go.”
“How soon will they come?” Tuala’s voice cracked. “Lady Dreseida and the others? When must I go?”
Broichan sighed. “When the weather clears they will set out,” he said. “It will be by boat, up the lakes, with men to bear the craft where the waterways are not navigable. If this is your choice, you’d best see to getting your things organized without delay. Mara will know what’s required.”
“It does not seem very much like a choice,” Tuala said, the bitterness of it making her chest ache. “May I not even wait until summer?”
“It would be foolish not to avail yourself of Dreseida’s guards as escort. Her own daughter travels to Fola’s establishment; as well as the training of priestesses, the women there also provide learning for the daughters of noble families. This is highly convenient. None of my own men can be spared to ride with you, nor would any of them be content to take on such a task. For myself, I will leave without delay, for my need to see Drust is now urgent. And I do not go by the paths of ordinary men.”
IT CAME MUCH sooner than she expected, a long spell of dry weather and the arrival up the lake of four boats, bearing the lady Dreseida, her redheaded daughter and two very loud small boys, along with a miniature mountain of luggage and a cohort of grim-faced guards. Lady Dreseida’s presence seemed to fill the household; even Mara wilted under her searching stare. It might have been easier had Broichan still been at Pitnochie. As it was, an already miserable Tuala retreated into herself. She answered questions in a whisper, and soon took to losing herself out in the woods when she thought a new inquisition might be forthcoming. Young Uric and Bedo, for all their shouting and running about, were much easier to tolerate than the women of Talorgen’s family. When the boys asked questions, it was with straight-out, innocent curiosity.
“Is it true you were found under a hawthorn bush?” Bedo asked.
“No. I was left on the doorstep. A foundling.”
“You’re very white. Whiter than anyone I’ve ever seen.”
“That’s just the way I am.”
“Ferada says,” Uric’s voice was lowered a few notches from the customary shout, “you’re not really human. She says you’re a daughter of the you-know-who.”
“I’m just ordinary,” Tuala told him. “I do all the same things ordinary girls do.”
A pause.
“Bridei never told us he had a sister.” Bedo’s tone was slightly accusatory
“I’m not his sister. We were brought up together. We’re friends.” A little word like friends was woefully inadequate to explain it, but the child seemed to accept her answer.
“Mother said you’re going to Caer Pridne with us.”
“That’s right. Not to Caer Pridne, just to the school for wise women.”
“Is that what you’re going to be, a wise woman?”
A breath of cold passed over Tuala; she recalled a vision that had troubled her greatly, herself in gray robes, an outsider, as Bridei smiled at his wife and held his small son’s hand. “I don’t know,” she said.
“Can you do magic? Charms and things?”
The safe answer to this was a flat negative. Tuala found she could not give them an outright lie. “It depends what you mean by magic,” she said.
“If you wanted, could you turn me into something else, a newt or a toad?”
“I’m not sure,” Tuala said, offhand. “Want me to give it a try?”
A look of utter terror appeared on Bedo’s small face; he had turned as pale as linen.
“She’s joking, silly.” Uric’s tone suggested he was not entirely convinced by his own words.
“Another time, maybe,” Tuala said.
“Is that your cat?” Uric had spied Mist where she sat washing herself by the wood pile; it was a good opportunity to change the subject. “Does it bite?”
Bedo hissed something in his brother’s ear.
“Is that true?” Uric demanded. “Is it a familiar?”
Bedo, suddenly red-faced, looked away.
“Like me,” Tuala said, “Mist is perfectly ordinary. She doesn’t mind being stroked, as long as you’re gentle.” Oh, Mist; another friend to be left behind. Tuala’s memory was good. She had not forgotten something Fola had told her when she was so kind and gave her the kitten, about having a cat of her own that didn’t tolerate interlopers. It might well still be at Banmerren, ancient and ill-tempered. Mist would be better off here in her familiar territory with a regular supply of mice to be caught. But to sleep at night without that comforting warmth beside her, a reassurance that she was not quite alone, that would be hard indeed.
She had a task planned for her last night at Pitnochie: a night of full moon. It was something she needed to do if she must be gone when Bridei came home. Unfortunately, the little boys had been housed in Bridei’s old chamber, top to toe on the narrow pallet, and that made her task difficult. She’d no wish to draw attention to herself in any way at all. Dreseida intimidated her; Ferada alarmed and annoyed her. Their eyes, the haughty tilt of their heads, their immaculate gowns and perfectly dressed hair seemed to mock her own plain clothing and general air of dishevelment. Somehow, however tightly she plaited her hair, strands of it always escaped to curl around her ears or down over her eyes. She carried spare ribbons with her just in case. Perhaps the little boys were right; perhaps she would always look wild, however hard she tried to tame herself. Perhaps she would always look Other.
There was a charm that must be worked tonight under the gaze of the Shining One. She had planned to slip into Bridei’s room when all were asleep and perform her ritual as part of a night-long vigil. This, now, was impossible. Still, Tuala reasoned, children slept soundly after a day’s activity. The most vital part of it could still be done if she was careful.
She waited in her own chamber, listening as the household went through its evening sequence of sounds. Voices filtered through from the hall, Lady Dreseida’s guards exchanging tales around the fire with those of Broichan’s men who had been left behind to protect Pitnochie while the others rode to join Talorgen’s battle force. The lady herself and her daughter Ferada would be in the hall as well, but the little boys were already abed. Tuala had heard their high voices from Bridei’s chamber some time ago. Now they were quiet; almost certainly asleep. There was clattering from the kitchen: Ferat’s assistants scouring the suppertime cook pots and rinsing platters. Ferat’s grumbling voice accompanied the din. It was getting harder all the time to remember the cook as the man who had once helped a small girl form bread dough into rabbits and frogs and tiny men, and had whirled her around and around with his strong arms until she squealed with excitement; the man who had listened with pride as she recited the first poem learned by heart, and had laughed at her childish jokes.
Now, the creak of the door to the men’s quarters; booted feet passing. Soon, snoring. They worked a long day. The visitors were very quiet, walking like the ladies they were on graceful soft-shoed feet. The two of them were in their chamber now, Mara’s chamber; while they were here, the housekeeper was sleeping in Broichan’s room. That had impressed Tuala; such a prospect seemed to her alarming beyond belief. Might not the druid manifest as a midnight shade of himself, all piercing eyes and dark, accusatory words? And what if those things in the jars started to move about in the night? The fact that Broichan was far away in Caer Pridne made no difference at all.
The kitchen was quiet now. Ferat and his helpers were done, and had retreated to their own sleeping quarters behind. Mara’s slow, heavy footsteps moved across the hall. There was a creaking sound: she was damping down the fire and setting the screen before the hearth. More steps. She was going into the kitchen, check
ing that fire as well. She’d be casting her eagle eye over all for signs of disorder, dust on the flagstones, a ladle left out, a cloak fallen from its peg. Then there was the grinding metallic sound of the massive bolt being slid into place, barring the door until the night watch came in for their early breakfast. Mara’s steps came back, paused a moment in the hall—what was she thinking about? Was she imagining Broichan, now far off at the king’s court?—then made their steady way to the druid’s chamber. The door opened and closed. Silence, save for Mist’s purring as she kneaded the coarse blanket by Tuala’s knees.
After that, more waiting. There was no danger of falling asleep; the importance of what must be done was too great. Tuala rehearsed it in her mind until sufficient time had passed for all of them to be fast asleep, ensnared by their dreams. Then she put on her favorite skirt and tunic, soft garments of fine pale wool with narrow borders of blue braid. These had once been Brenna’s and were a little large, but they were the first grown-up clothing Tuala had possessed, a gift made before Fidich had barred her from the cottage, and she knew Brenna had spent precious time mending the skirt and altering the tunic for a better fit. The clothing smelled faintly of lavender; long ago, Brenna had shown her small charge how to layer garments with dried herbs to keep them fresh, and while Tuala was ever less than orderly in such matters as folding, she did not forget her supplies of aromatic leaves. To carry such a scent with her made her feel nearer to the forest, closer to the wild world of plants and creatures, a safer world by far than that of men. She left her hair unbound, brushing it and letting it fall down her back, a dark cascade that reached below her waist. She took off her slippers. Bare feet were quieter. Around her neck hung the moon disc she always wore, the pale bone warm against her skin. She slipped from her chamber without a sound and tiptoed to the doorway of Bridei’s small room.
The door was ajar; perhaps these little boys feared the dark and needed the light from lamps kept burning in the passageway to watch over their dreams. Tuala slid through the gap and inside the chamber. They slept, the two of them. Uric was a snuggler, wrapped fast in his blanket, knees up, arms hugged across his chest, face buried in the pillow. Bedo was a sprawler. He took up his own share of the bed and half his brother’s as well. His blanket was on the floor; Tuala picked it up and laid it lightly over him. The boy did not stir.
Through the tiny square window, the Shining One sent a beam of cool light; she was moving now into the patch of dark sky that could be glimpsed through this opening, and by the time her full, perfect form was framed there, Tuala must have everything ready. On the sill, Bridei’s own offerings still lay; she could see they had been moved. Boys are curious creatures and these two, no doubt, had examined the eagle feather and played games with the white stones. No matter; the innocent’s touch cannot harm the sacred. Tuala replaced the talismans the way Bridei had laid them and, reaching into the little bag she had brought, began to add her own, each with its particular words of power. A charred twig, pale at one end, charcoal dark at the other:
Rising flame, rising sun
Blade of Fortriu, chosen one . . .
A feather, not the barred pennant of the eagle this time but a soft, downy scrap of white, perhaps from the breast of a snowy owl, a winter creature:
Breath of promise, wings of life
Ancient wisdom, banish strife . . .
Tuala drew a little stoppered flask from her bag, uncorked it, sprinkled droplets of water on the sill, once, twice, three times.
Flowing, giving, subtle, free
Clear and honest ever be . . .
Lastly a handful of earth, rich and dark, scooped earlier from the forest floor. She laid it gently beside the other tokens.
Ancients hold you safe and strong
Past and future be your song
Clothed in spirit pure and bright
Lead your people forth to light . . .
The Shining One moved slowly, her careful dance bringing her into the window, framed for a little by its old stone edges, letting her light fall on the offerings and, beyond them, on Tuala’s pale face gazing up at her, whispering her charm. Now was the most important part, the part she must say before she was taken away from Pitnochie forever. The goddess must understand how crucial this was. If Tuala herself were not here for Bridei, someone else must take up the task, the listening, watching task; the task of loving him for what he was, and not for what he must become. Without such a watcher, his burdens would in time become too heavy for any man to bear. This Tuala knew in her heart; there was no need for visions on the water.
Her hand reached again into the little bag, drawing out the last item left: the talisman that was the unfinished tale of herself and Bridei, the times together, the times apart, the glad reunions and terrible farewells. If she had the power of a goddess, Tuala thought bitterly, she would simply weave the two strands of cord together, clinging, twining, cleaving one to the other, and she would keep them thus indivisible forever. But she was no supernatural being. Forest child she might be, but what power she had in her was surely no more than an ability with hearth magic, the kind anyone could do if they put their mind to it, little spells of limited efficacy and limited danger. She’d never have been able to turn a child into a newt, even in the unlikely event that she’d wanted to. And she could not protect Bridei from a future of loneliness and perplexity and terrible choices, not if she was to be separated from him forever. But the Shining One could, and if Tuala was anyone’s daughter, she was the child of the moon, born of winter shadows and snow under the oaks, of frost twinkling in cold light and of bare-branched birches stark under a midnight sky. Now, therefore, the most solemn prayer must be spoken while the goddess had her eyes on her small, pale daughter; while the Shining One turned her impartial gaze in through this little window. Winding the twisted cord about her hands, Tuala began to whisper the words.
“Hear me, Bright Mother, hear your daughter. I call upon your power, your love, your shining purity. Through you I call the Flamekeeper, embodiment of true courage, and I call the fair All-Flowers, who casts her gentle gaze on everything that lives and breathes on the earth. Through you I call Bone Mother, keeper of ancient tales, holder of the songs of the Priteni since time before time.”
The moon looked down, silent. The only sound in the little chamber was the faint whispering breath of the two sleeping children.
“I seek nothing for myself. If it is your desire that I leave this place and serve you as a wise woman, I must accept it. Your will is beyond question. It is for Bridei I need help. You know the path that awaits him. I see in his journey choices that would drive the sanest man out of his wits, betrayals that will wound him to the core, peril at every turn and a loneliness to freeze the warmest heart. Without me, who will know his need for counsel? Without me, how can he let his tears flow? Alone, he will bear a load too heavy for the strongest man. No leader can carry such a burden and go on. But he must go on. And I must go away. What was once home to me is home no longer.”
The Shining One was beginning to edge out of the window, seeking to move on in her journey.
“I ask, then,” Tuala said through brimming tears, “that I may pass this care into your hands, Great Goddess, Bright Mother, illuminator of us all. You know he will be king; you know the strength he has in him. You know also that he has what some would call a weakness; a readiness to understand the mind and heart of his adversary, an open spirit that will give him pause even in the moment his arm wields the sword of justice. Take him in your hands, Bright Lady; comfort him in the dark of night when his heart is filled with unease. When his mind is shadowed by doubt, cradle him in your arms and give him rest. I ask this in the name of all the gods, and in the name of all that is sacred . . .”
There was a little knife in Tuala’s belt; setting the cord down, she took the weapon in her hand and raised it to sever a long, thick lock of her dark hair, leaving a ragged end at her brow. There was only one more part of this to be done and then, if she had
performed it perfectly, the Shining One would give her a sign and she would know that, however much her own sorrow lay in her breast like a cold stone, Bridei would walk forward under the goddess’s protection. She raised her hands and drew breath for the final charm.
“What are you doing?”
Tuala’s heart thumped; she spun around, arms still outstretched before her. The girl who had been standing behind her flinched back, eyes widening. The knife was pointed straight at her chest. Tuala sucked in an unsteady breath and lowered her arms.
Ferada crossed the room to the bed in two strides, a vengeful spirit clad in soft slippers and embroidered nightrobe, red hair plaited neatly down her back. “Tell me!” she hissed. “What are you doing in my brothers’ bedroom? Why have you got a knife?”
Tuala did not seem to be able to get her heart under control, nor her breathing. The Shining One had almost left the window and the rite was not yet complete. She tried willing. Fox Girl away Go, go now, quickly, so I can finish this and keep him safe, but the red-haired girl stood her ground, lips tight, eyes glaring and suspicious.
“Well?” demanded Ferada. “Speak up!”
“I mean your brothers no harm.” Tuala’s voice was less steady than she’d tried for. “And it’s not their room, it’s Bridei’s. This is my house, not yours. I can go anywhere I like.”
Ferada’s lips curved in a little smile that was entirely without humor. “My mother’s unlikely to be impressed by such childish arguments when I tell her I found you in here in the middle of the night with a sharp knife in your hand,” she said. “If you want her to include you in our entourage for the trip to Caer Pridne, and I have to say she’s far from enthusiastic about the idea, you’ll need to do rather better than that.”
The Dark Mirror Page 29
