Caer Pridne. They told strange tales about that place. Or rather, Erip and Wid had hinted at tales too strange to be told, and had then gone quiet. There was a well, its entry deep under the earth, a place of dark ceremonial. That was as much as her old tutors had been prepared to say.
If the flags were flying that meant King Drust was in residence, while far down the Great Glen his warriors battled the Gaels. Broichan, too, would be at Caer Pridne, restored to his place as royal druid, a place he had relinquished for long years while Bridei grew from child to man. It seemed that wherever Bridei went, Broichan attended him like a dark shadow. He might not be by his foster son’s side on the field of war, but he would be ready and waiting when Bridei came to court, as in time he surely must if Tuala was right about what was intended for him. She pictured, fleetingly, Bridei as a man of mature years, brown curls threaded with gray, and an ancient Broichan hovering nearby, still in control, still manipulating every player in his own long, private game. Fola had said something about his schemes being beyond most people’s grasp. Tuala shut her mind to that vision of the future, lest a certain red-haired woman decide to make an appearance in it. Druids didn’t know everything. Even the most exacting self-discipline, the deepest knowledge, did not enable a man to outwit the gods.
IT BECAME A routine of meals, study, domestic work, sleep. She discovered, after summoning the courage to ask, that every girl got a pillow and two blankets, and that because she was in the tower and had no hearth, she could have three. She learned what the bells meant and obeyed them when she remembered. In the tree, sometimes, or in trance before a rain puddle or a basin of washing water, she lost track of time, moving beyond the world of ordinary hearing. For these lapses, Kethra never neglected to reprimand her.
“What do you mean, you didn’t know the bell had sounded? Where were you, in some other realm entirely?” Kethra’s words stung; despite Tuala’s best efforts to be like everyone else at Banmerren, there was no escaping her origins. However unobtrusive she sought to make herself, she would always look different, and such comments did not help. “The bell can be heard from every corner of house and garden, Tuala. You will be prompt next time.”
“Yes, Kethra.” Once, she had thought Mara unduly bossy. Compared with this irascible tutor, Broichan’s housekeeper seemed both kind and reasonable.
The day’s pattern was easy to follow. They rose early. The students took turns with all domestic tasks, from drawing water to the preparation and serving of meals, from cleaning floors to chopping wood, from tending fires to sewing and mending garments. These duties were scheduled around the times of study; those who had no chores to do on a particular day were expected to practice the skills Kethra or others had taught them: making herbal balms and tinctures, rehearsing the words and movements of ritual, interpreting the stars, and for those who had the aptitude, languages, scribing, and reading. Banmerren had a small library of its own. In addition, the arts of augury, divination, and prophecy were introduced to the blue-robed junior students. The serious study of these aspects of the craft was principally a matter for the seniors, those who had reached a certain level of both competence and understanding. Tuala liked the seniors. There were only seven of them, and they had a universal calmness of gaze and kindness of manner that made her wish she were one of them, not a mere beginner stuck with a gaggle of chattering girls who hardly seemed to know geography from genealogy, astrology from arithmetic. Used to the intense, sometimes fiery tuition of the erudite old scholars, she shrank now into silence during classes. Her very presence among them drew attention; she did not want the raised brows, the wry smiles she knew her questions would provoke.
Two turnings of the moon passed thus, and it was summer. Tuala discovered the best class of the day was history, for which the daughters of noble blood were present along with those students seeking places as servants of the Shining One. Tuala had never thought she might be glad of Fox Girl’s presence, but Ferada, at least, was honest in her approach; she was not a giggly, whispering kind of girl. From her first days at Banmerren, Tuala had seen Ferada watching her at suppertime, when the noble daughters sat at their own table to eat and the others at three long boards under their elders’ scrutiny. At mealtimes Tuala always sat alone. The others left a space on either side of her as if she bore a contagion. This tended to mean the bread would not be passed her way until only the merest scrap was left; it sometimes meant very little to eat at all. Tuala, ever a girl of birdlike appetite, refused to let it worry her. At least it removed the need to think of the right things to say. Evidently it worried Ferada; she watched with a small frown creasing her elegant brows and she exchanged comments with the girl beside her, the one with hair like a golden waterfall and friendly eyes. This girl was interesting. Tuala had discovered her name was Ana, and she was a royal hostage from the islands to the north, required to remain in the custody of King Drust as an assurance that her kin would mount no attack on the coast of Fortriu. Ana had left homeland and family behind, through no fault of her own. She had lived her life between Banmerren and Caer Pridne for four years now, cut off from all she loved. And she was young; less than a year older than Tuala herself. Every time she traveled outside the encircling walls of Banmerren, the talk went, Ana was accompanied by a team of four very large guards, in case her kinsmen might decide her freedom outweighed the risks attached to defying Drust the Bull. At court she was shadowed by armed men. Ana’s cousin was king of the Light Isles, and of lesser status than the monarch of Fortriu. In the four years she had been a hostage, there had been no attempt to win her release. How the fair-haired girl managed that serenity, that air of deepest calm, Tuala could not imagine.
When it came time for history, a shared class, Ferada seated herself on one side of Tuala and Ana came to settle on the other, and after that the three of them sat together every morning. For this hour, at least, Tuala could pretend she was not alone here. One of the green-clad seniors, Derila, conducted this class, a welcome relief from Kethra’s sharp questions and scathing comments. Derila was both clever and fair; she expected every student to participate and dealt kindly with errors. There was no keeping silent in Derila’s classes.
Ferada was clever, too. Her hand shot up in response to every question; if she disagreed with a position she would argue with wit and cogency. Tuala began to reassess her.
Ana, too, was talented in this subject. Less ready to dispute, she nonetheless held her ground in debate and learned quickly, being the kind of student who rises early in the morning to study while others are still abed. Ana was capable of doing fine needlework and reciting the ancestry of the kings of the Folk both at the same time, with no error in either. She could make maps in a tray of sand, and identify which stars meant a fortunate time for a child to be born and which presaged a life of struggle. She could sing and play the harp.
As for Tuala herself, this became the lesson in which she was not afraid to speak. She responded cautiously to a question, then answered another, and was asked to tell what she knew about kin signs and the different ways they were used on the carven stones, depending on whether one were in Circinn or Fortriu. The explanation took some time, for it was a complex issue, often debated with Wid and Erip. The class sat mute, listening, and so did Derila. From then on, the tutor asked Tuala often for elucidation, and sometimes engaged her in discussion after class. It was not quite like the old times at Pitnochie, but it was good.
Scrying was quite the opposite. This discipline, the noble daughters did not study; during these sessions they were allowed to go riding, their own mounts being stabled at the farm outside the walls. Ana’s guards were never far away; they, too, were quartered at the farm while their charge was at Banmerren. In inclement weather the noble daughters sat together sewing and chatting; what Tuala overheard of this generally involved a detailed comparison of various young men of their acquaintance.
Tuala and her fellow juniors gathered in a cold room under Kethra’s gaze, a bronze bowl on the tabl
e before them. Kethra was explaining the rudiments. “You’ll probably see nothing more than your own reflection . . . quite usual . . . need to focus the mind . . .”
Tuala stared at a stain on the wall that was somewhat in the shape of a little dog; she looked at the scratch marks on the benches, the rushes on the floor, the clasped hands of the girl beside her.
“Concentrate the will . . . shut out distractions . . . make the breathing slow and steady as I showed you . . .”
Odha, white-faced with tension, was leaning over the bowl, which another girl had filled from the heavy jug set on the table. Tuala gazed at Odha’s felt slippers; at the door frame; at Fola’s cat, Shade, which sat in a corner glowering. Anything, anything to keep her eyes away from that shimmering surface, bursting with secrets. Anything, not to reveal what she would be able to see there.
“Breathe, Odha. Clear your mind . . .”
A long wait in silence. At length Odha straightened up, small features anxious. “I couldn’t see anything at all,” she said, crestfallen.
“This skill is in the gift of the Shining One,” Kethra told her, not unkindly. “In your prayers, speak to her and seek her wisdom; it will come in time, when she deems you ready for it. Such aspects of our craft are not learned in a day, or a season, or a year, but with exacting discipline and rigorous practice over all the time of our service. This is not a test, child, merely a beginning. Tuala!” Her tone had changed sharply; ice had entered it.
Tuala started. “Yes, Kethra?”
“No doubt you find those rushes on the floor deeply fascinating; perhaps they don’t bother with such niceties where you come from. This is a time for learning, not dreaming. Or maybe you feel I have nothing to teach you, is that it? That you are already expert in all the skills I have to impart?”
There was a ripple of giggles, quickly suppressed as Kethra’s quelling gaze swept around the circle. Tuala looked down at her hands. She did not want to tell a lie; it seemed to her the Shining One would expect the speaking of complete truth here in the house of her wise women. “I don’t think I should be in this class,” she said quietly.
No laughter now, but a general, horrified intake of breath. Kethra’s tongue was universally feared; nobody ever challenged her. Besides, as Fola’s principal assistant, Kethra was known to be a font of wisdom. That her classes were to be endured rather than enjoyed made no difference to that.
“You may be correct in that,” Kethra said drily. “There are some students who never manage to master the art of divination; from whom the images of the scrying bowl are forever veiled. We do, at least, expect everyone to try It is for your elders to determine whether you have aptitude or not. Other tasks can be found for those without talent.”
“Scrubbing floors,” someone muttered.
“That’s not what I meant,” Tuala said in desperation, willing herself to stay quiet but unable to hold her tongue under the wise woman’s gaze, which seemed to place her at the level of something one would squash beneath a boot sole. “I would prefer not to do this here, in a class it’s best performed alone, with prayers and due ritual “
Kethra’s look changed again; now there was something in her eyes that was truly alarming. “Do I have this correct?” Her tone did not match her look; it was silken. “You, a new student, a child of the forest taken in only through the kindness of our senior priestess, are trying to tell me how to conduct my class?”
Tuala shook her head; misery fought with anger in her breast. She met Kethra’s gaze, still doing her best not to let the shining water cross her vision. “No,” she said in the politest tone she could summon. “I am neither wise woman nor teacher. But I have been brought up in the love of the gods and in the strict observance of ritual. I have studied these matters since I was a little child. I am sure you know what is right for your students. All I can say is that, for me and for others of my household, this practice was always a thing of solitude, a rite shared only between seer and spirits.” It was not quite true; she had looked in the Dark Mirror side by side with Bridei, each seeking their own visions. But Bridei was part of herself, and she of him; it was different. “I ask to be excused from this class; I will spend the time practicing alone. Or scrubbing floors, if that is deemed appropriate.”
Kethra regarded her for a long moment. Then she stepped aside, and the bronze bowl was suddenly in full sight, the still water catching the light of two tall candles set on the table close by. The surface danced with images, drawing Tuala closer despite herself. The room went very quiet.
“Your turn,” Kethra said softly. “Tell us what you see, little wild girl.”
By then it had gone beyond choice. The water called her; the vision beguiled her and she must look. Tuala moved closer, and the world of tutor and students, of flickering candles and quiet chamber and stone walls dissolved around her as the eye of the spirit drew her into trance.
A tall woman walked across the mirror, the embodiment of the Shining One herself, clad in robes of silver, her face so radiant Tuala could not look at it, could not see features or expression, but knew they were lovely beyond compare and full of a sweet compassion. On her shoulder was perched an owl, its eyes round and lustrous, its plumage purest white. In the goddess’s arms lay an infant robed in snowy fur; she held the babe tenderly, as if it were a precious thing. She faded away, and in her place a scene appeared so strange that for a little Tuala could not put its pieces together and make sense of them. It was all frenzied activity, men cutting trees, shaping their trunks into smooth logs; men working with ropes, fashioning a net or harness; men digging deep in the earth. Men by the water’s edge building a great raft. Men on guard as if expecting an attack. Some of them she knew: Donal with the rope workers, Enfret on guard, Ferada’s brother Gartnait standing by a wall, not doing anything, just watching with a twist to the lips. Then, a terrible sight: a great mound of bodies, burning. Tuala bit her lip, hearing with the ears of the seer an outcry of women, a desperate keening farewell. It seemed the battle was over; Fortriu had triumphed. But what were they doing?
Then, at last, came Bridei: she felt the tears well in her eyes to see him. Alive; still safe. He stood on a hilltop, the wind in his hair. He was giving orders and men were scurrying to obey them. He looked so tall; so solemn. So much a man.
More digging; astoundingly, it seemed they were loosening a huge standing stone from its bed deep in the earth, lowering it with ropes, many men on these to control the weight until the monolith lay on tree trunks set as rollers. As she stared dumbfounded at the images, the massive thing was conveyed down the hill, men running to move the lengths of wood from back to front, others leaning their whole weight on the ropes to slow the descent, and all the time Bridei beside them, exhorting, encouraging, altering the angle of the precious burden that it might not have to be lifted again, a task surely beyond even such a great force of men. A dark, wild-looking fellow beside Bridei, his mad grin at odds with the tears in his eyes. A long and grueling march, men straining on ropes, hauling forward now on flat terrain, and the runners maintaining their endless lifting and replacing of the heavy rollers. At last the water’s edge, and a complicated transfer with wedged timbers, long levers, and thick ropes, the stone maneuvered from elevated bank to a kind of net cradle within a barge. Tuala wondered if the whole thing would sink without trace; if the gods would punish these men of Fortriu for what seemed an act of outrageous mischief, although the thing they stole was indubitably their own. But, to a chorus of wild cheers—it was a wonder these men had breath left for more than a whisper the Mage Stone floated, nestled in its rope hammock, its vessel borne up by the choppy waters of what must be King Lake, at the western end of the Great Glen. Talorgen clapped Bridei on the shoulder in hearty congratulation. Donal was close by, his tattooed features transformed with pride. Gartnait was not to be seen.
Bridei was smiling. Tuala knew that little smile, and she knew by the shadow in his eyes, the pallor of his skin, the way his hands showed white at the
knuckles that for him this double victory held also some kind of defeat, some perceived failure. Now it was over and they would come home. They would come home, and Bridei would need to talk, he would need to tell someone what burdened him, what it was that set a darkness in his spirit, that confused his thoughts and tugged at his heart. Such secrets as these he could not speak to Donal, not fully. He would not let Broichan see his tears. Bridei would need her, and she would not be there.
She was not sure, afterward, if she had willed the image away or if it had faded of itself. For a long time she stood in a daze, departed from the world of the seer, not quite returned to the other. Then a voice said, “She’s crying.”
Kethra spoke then, her tone quiet, wary. “Hush, Reia. One of the first things you must learn is not to disturb a person in trance. They must be given time to emerge; time to come back to themselves.” Then, after a carefully judged wait, “Tuala?”
Tuala blinked; the candles flickered, the circle of faces came into view, young, staring faces, their eyes uniformly big with amazement. She felt weak, sick; it was so long since she had seen him, too long, and now this . . .
“Sit down,” Kethra said. “Odha, fetch her water. You others, give her some space. Breathe slowly, Tuala.”
The big cat, Shade, chose that moment to stroll over and jump up beside Tuala on the bench; he pushed his head against her, purring, and she reached a hand to scratch behind his tattered ears. That touch was reassuring; it brought the everyday world back in a way human speech had not.
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