The Dark Mirror

by Juliet Marillier

  And yet, whatever people might choose to believe, Broichan was a mortal man and he was vulnerable. Bridei had never forgotten that night, long ago, when the news came that his foster father lay gravely ill from poison. He recalled his own desolation and Donal’s kindness. Someone had been clever enough to get under the guard of the king’s druid. Was that assailant the same who had pursued small Bridei through the forest with bow and sword? Nobody had ever said. Perhaps, even now, nobody knew, nobody but those who wished them ill, king’s druid and foster son. It was becoming clear that Broichan had spoken truly: from this point on it would always be thus, each step to be guarded, each day to be lived in the awareness that enemies were ready to strike. If one such adversary were detected and removed, another would simply step up to take his place.

  Drust the Bull . . . Bridei had long wondered how he would seem. Perhaps the king would appear massive, strong and solid like the creature he had chosen as his token; perhaps he would be majestic and bright, as if he carried the light of the Flamekeeper within him. The king of Fortriu was, after all, in many ways the embodiment of this god; his special role in the rituals underlined it. Perhaps it would be disappointing. Maybe Drust would be an ailing slip of a man, a poor thing clinging to the last shreds of life and power. They did say he would be lucky to last the winter.

  The hall was packed with men and women, some seated at the three long tables, others clustered in the spaces between. The air was alive with laughter and talk. From somewhere farther down, music could be heard above the din: a pipe, a drum, perhaps a harp. There was a smell of roast meat and spices and the place was very warm. Logs burned on a great hearth set at one side of the chamber; this vented cunningly through a structure of stone, keeping the hall relatively clear of smoke. The movement of folk there seemed to Bridei like a dance, or maybe a game, a very complicated game of strategy with several different sets of rules. Prepared well in advance by Broichan, he tried to identify certain men, influential men about whom warnings had been provided. The exceptionally tall fellow with copper colored hair to his shoulders must be Carnach, a cousin of the king and a potential claimant. To be watched. The broad-shouldered man speaking to Talorgen was probably another claimant, Wredech of the house of Fidach. Talorgen possessed information about Wredech that might prove useful; he was to be cultivated, cautiously. Where were the king’s councillors?

  Bridei glanced to the far end of the hall, and there was King Drust, seated at a smaller table set crosswise to the others and raised on a dais. There were gray streaks in his dark hair and neat beard; his features were distinguished by a prow of a nose and heavy brows that overshadowed his eyes, eyes that were scanning the chamber even as he leaned sideways to listen to Broichan, who was seated by him. One could not assess a man so quickly, of course. But it seemed to Bridei that there was power in this king’s little finger, authority in every blink of his eye. It was in the way he held himself, upright, regal, relaxed yet aware; it was in the steely intelligence of the dark eyes, the strong set of the jaw, the economy of the gestures. It was in the way Broichan listened to him, and in the tilt of the druid’s head. If the king was indeed gravely ill, he showed it little. There was a line between the brows, a tightness to the mouth that might indicate the presence of pain suppressed by will: no more than that.

  The crowd moved, passed, grouped, and regrouped. There were women in the hall; after the long time of preparation for war and the march to Galany’s Reach and back, it seemed almost odd to see them. Lady Dreseida, clad in silver and black, was talking to a group of elegantly attired women, their hair caught up in elaborate structures of plaits and coils. Gartnait was with his sister, Ferada. She caught Bridei’s eye and gave a nod, unsmiling; he returned the sober greeting. She was an odd girl, clever and prickly, with an anger in her that made her always combative. Interchanges with Ferada were generally interesting, but seldom relaxing. Gartnait, good company as he was for sport or combat practice, had a narrow scope of conversation. Ferada could hold her own on most topics; talking to her at Raven’s Well had made a welcome change from the endless days of preparation for war. However, her company was not something he would seek out here. Ferada generally gave the impression that she was somehow mocking him; that, indeed, she held much of the world about her in contempt. That troubled Bridei, for it seemed to him there was only one world to live in, and that if it had flaws, one should not complain but take steps to change it.

  “Talorgen’s daughter.” Aniel, the king’s councillor, had come up beside Bridei, his bodyguard pausing to speak to Breth. “You’ll know her, I suppose. The girl beside her is Ana, Drust’s hostage from the Light Isles, a fine young woman. It’s been arranged that the two of them spend time at Banmerren with some others, and the girl appreciates that, being a quiet, ladylike kind of creature. Remarkably pretty, too, don’t you think?”

  Coming from the reserved, cautious Aniel, this speech was somewhat of a surprise. Bridei took in Ana’s grave look, her cream and rose complexion, her fall of shimmering golden hair. Sadness overtook him again; he could not put the image of Tuala from his mind, turning and turning on the top of Eagle Scar, her dark curls tossed like a banner in the wind. He had no words for a reply.

  “Be sure to speak to these young women later,” Aniel said, unperturbed. “It’s appropriate that you do so. Another step you must take. See the thin, dark fellow to the right of the king? A dangerous man: Tharan, one of my fellow councillors. Extremely influential, and a fierce supporter of the candidate from the House of Fortrenn, who has a strong claim. It’s a waste of time trying to change Tharan’s mind. On his other side, Eogan, also a councillor, close to the king and possessing some flexibility of thought. An approach from you might have better luck than one from myself or Broichan; we are not universally admired. The small woman is Drust’s wife, Rhian of Powys. She has been an excellent support to him, but is unlikely to seek a role once he is gone. Her brother, Owain; insignificant. Now, it seems we are to be seated; after the meal, the king will call certain men forward to receive his personal thanks. You will be one of them. Are you ready for that?”

  “I think so, my lord.”

  “Good. I see someone’s dressed you well; that’s important, too. Rich but not too ostentatious. You’ll develop your own style in time.”

  This could hardly be answered without giving offense. It was Faolan who had procured these garments, on Broichan’s orders, and wearing them felt decidedly odd after so many days and nights of marching, climbing, eating, and sleeping in the same tunic, trousers, smallclothes. boots. The soft, fine wool, the silver-buckled belt and carefully draped cloak seemed alien to Bridei. He had washed both body and hair; warm water had been brought to their quarters for the purpose, with soap that smelled of rosemary. After that, his brown curls had dried to a wild, untameable frizz, and he had had to endure the humiliation of allowing Garth to work the strands into a neat plait at the back.

  “It’s a new world for you,” Aniel murmured. “Learn quickly; you don’t have long.” Then he was gone; a place awaited him at the high table, near the king.

  Bridei sat with Talorgen’s family, Gartnait on his right, Ferada on his left, the alarming Lady Dreseida opposite. Garth was taster tonight; it had been impossible for Bridei to refuse this. Garth stood behind, by the wall; Breth was strategically placed a little farther down the board, apparently enjoying himself with his friends. However, he took no ale, and ate with his attention on his fellow guests, the entrances to the hall, the shadowy corners and what they might conceal. Faolan’s technique was different. Earlier, Bridei had noticed him several times, always on the fringes, always listening. He had moved from one group to another so unobtrusively folk would scarcely have noticed him; likely he had had an ear to every significant conversation, every little plot, every tossed-away comment in the hall. Now he was seated among a group of men Bridei did not know and appeared to be eating and drinking quietly, keeping himself to himself. The girl with the golden hair was seated at
the high table. She was of royal blood, kin to the vassal king in the Light lsles; it was appropriate.

  “My friend Ana,” Ferada said drily, following Bridei’s gaze. “Pretty, isn’t she?”

  “I hear she is a hostage. So young; she must be younger than yourself, I think. It must be very hard for her.”

  “She’s about the same age as your sister, Tuala. Yes, Ana is homesick. It’s a common affliction at Banmerren. But Ana’s one of those good creatures who makes the best of everything. She never complains.”

  Bridei’s hand rested on the pouch at his belt; he would not reach inside to touch the little item it held. He had intended to cast the ribbon into the fire: an act of sacrifice to the Flamekeeper, a promise of adherence to the path before him, whatever losses it held. Instead, he had put the scrap of cloth away; had kept it close.

  “She is a sweet-looking girl,” Bridei said, noticing Ana’s little smile as she listened to something the councillor Eogan was saying, and the flush of delicate rose in her cheeks. “You look fine yourself tonight, Ferada. The earrings suit you.” Courtesy demanded no less. Besides, even if she were most likely to scoff at his comment, he spoke only the truth. A new scattering of freckles across Ferada’s nose softened her sharp features; the styling of her hair was somehow different, making her less formidable.

  “Ah, well,” Ferada said, looking down at her platter, “we all make an effort here; it’s part of the grand performance our lives become at court.” She cut a sliver of beef and stared at it. “I see you have a taster,” she said.

  Bridei grimaced. “Broichan’s orders.”

  “That seems a bit odd. Aren’t tasters only for men of power and influence? Even Father doesn’t have one.”

  “Bridei’s friend died.” Gartnait spoke through a mouthful of meat. “You know that, Ferada.”

  “If it were I,” Ferada said, “I would not be wanting another friend to die for me.”

  Bridei set down his knife, appetite suddenly gone.

  “Stupid,” said Gartnait, glaring at his sister across Bridei.

  “Oh, dear. I’m sorry, Bridei,” Ferada said, crumbling bread with her fingers. “What else shall we talk about?”

  Bridei said nothing. This was a game for which he had neither the skills nor the inclination, especially not with the hawk-eyed Dreseida listening to every interchange from the other side of the table. Besides, he realized that there was indeed something he wanted to talk about. There were questions he needed to ask Ferada, who was newly returned from Banmerren. They could not be broached now, not with Dreseida listening and others close by. The hurt inflicted by Tuala’s desertion was too new, too raw. He recognized this as an area in which he was vulnerable; in which he must take his own steps to avoid attack.

  “After a season or more on the march,” he said, “we are happy to turn our attentions to this fine food and ale. You will find us somewhat lacking in conversational skills, I’m afraid.”

  Ferada gave a brief laugh. “That would be nothing new for my brother,” she said, and Gartnait made a face at her. “You, on the other hand, cannot use such an excuse, as you don’t seem to be eating, taster or no taster. I think maybe court life suits you no better than Banmerren suits Tuala.”

  Bridei drew a deep breath and let it out in stages. He fixed his mind on the Shining One, perfect, calm, serene. His druidic education, with its techniques for maintaining balance and focus, stood him in good stead at such moments. “The transition can be difficult, I imagine, even for a seasoned warrior such as your father,” he said quietly. “The world of blood and conflict, of nights in the open and supper caught on the run makes this seem . . . artificial.”

  “But it’s the same world,” Ferada said, setting down her cup. “They fight different sorts of battles at court, that’s all. Given the choice, I think I might prefer nights in the open and supper caught on the run.”

  Gartnait scowled at her. It was uncomfortable to be seated between them. Bridei did not remember such antipathy from the summer at Raven’s Well. “You wouldn’t last two days,” Gartnait said. “You’ve got no understanding at all of what it means.”

  “I—” Ferada half rose, cheeks scarlet.

  “Your sister has an excellent grasp of strategy,” Bridei put in quickly. “We’ve spoken of such matters often at Raven’s Well. It is not Ferada’s fault that, as a woman, she cannot experience at first hand the blood and cruelty that exist, the courage and sacrifice men exhibit in times of war. I’m sure she has as thorough an understanding of what it means as any young woman can. But you are right, Gartnait; one cannot know the true nature of war without being part of it. Such events bring out both the best and the worst in men.”

  There was a little silence where they sat, while all around them folk still laughed and chattered, knives scraped on platters and jugs clinked against goblets.

  “Wisely spoken, Bridei,” said Dreseida, unsmiling. “You, I hear, are now considered something of a hero. Amazing; your very first battle, too.” She had a way of making even complimentary words sound like an insult.

  “Many men showed courage, my lady,” Bridei said levelly. “Some died; some suffered grievous wounds. My part in the battle was small.”

  “It is not to the battle I refer; one would hope all of you played a part in that. It is what came afterward that has earned you a reputation: the man who stole the Mage Stone from right under the Gaels’ noses. Remarkable. One could hardly calculate a sequence of events more cleverly to enhance one’s prestige and to win men’s trust. Even their adulation, if what Gartnait reports is true.”

  Bridei could feel the flush in his cheeks. “If Gartnait said that he’s exaggerating. It seemed the right thing to do at the time; an opportunity worth seizing, an act the gods might welcome. Many men contributed: Fokel of Galany; Ged of Abertornie; Talorgen, too. I merely offered what expertise I had. My education made it possible for me to direct the removal of the stone, its passage to the water, and its conveyance up the lake. That was all.”

  “It was, in fact, a substantial all,” Ferada said, her tone for once quite lacking in malice. “A fine thing to do. And the idea was yours; without you it wouldn’t have happened. That’s what Father said.” She glanced across at her mother and fell silent.

  “Thank you,” said Bridei. “I did learn from it. I learned that sometimes risks are to be taken. And I learned to value the fellowship of men. For those gifts I am grateful to the gods. I hope Fokel succeeded in conveying the stone safely to the point where it will stand proudly once more. When next we travel to Galany’s Reach, it will not be for a symbolic victory, but to set our banner there for ever. That land is ours; it will be restored.”

  Dreseida was staring at him, eyes slightly narrowed. It was clear she was framing one of her challenging questions.

  “My lords! My ladies!”

  The chatter died down. The music wavered and faded. It was one of Drust’s guards who had called out, a man evidently chosen for his barrel chest and trumpet of a voice. “Silence for the king!” he brayed.

  Drust rose to his feet. Bridei could see how he rested a hand on the table for support. His voice, nonetheless, was strong and steady. “Welcome, all,” he said. “I extend my hand especially to those just returned from the west, bearing glad news of a victory against the Gaels of Dalriada. For the men who were lost in this noble cause, we offer a prayer for a swift and peaceful journey to the realm beyond the veil. May they sleep soundly in Bone Mother’s arms, and wake to a new dawn of promise. At the feast of Measure we will honor them.” He bowed his head briefly; every man and woman in the chamber did the same. Everyone, that was, except Faolan; Bridei caught a glimpse of the Gael sitting with folded arms and the customary expression of mild amusement on his face. This man was in Drust’s employ? By all the gods, he must have rare skills indeed to be allowed to show such contempt in the king’s own hall.

  “The wives and children of the slain will be provided for,” the king went on, “and the woun
ded receive the attentions of my own physicians, where that is possible. It does this hall honor to receive two of the leaders of this great expedition tonight: Talorgen of Raven’s Well and Ged of Abertornie are with us, and will receive my personal thanks, with gifts. In due course I hope that Morleo of Longwater and Fokel, son of Duchil of Galany and true chieftain of those lands in the west, may also travel here to receive my gratitude. To the warriors who ventured forth to do battle under the leadership of these fine chieftains, I salute your deeds of valor. The Flamekeeper smiles on you; he delights in the acts of brave men and honors courageous hearts. The Shining One looks down on you with love. I bid each of you attend the high ritual here at Caer Pridne; may each of you in turn wear the crown of dreams, and continue to tread your path with the fire of the gods’ inspiration to light your way.”

  The men cheered fit to raise the roof; feet drummed on the floor and fists on the table. Bridei found that he had tears in his eyes. Aware of Ferada’s close scrutiny and, worse still, that of her mother, he paced his breathing and did not let them fall.

  “Come forward, Talorgen, my friend. Ged, come up beside him. Black Crow save us, man, who weaves your cloth? There are more hues in that than any rainbow ever held.” General laughter greeted this. Ged, grinning with good nature, slung his multicolored cloak over his shoulder and came to kneel beside Talorgen. One did not stand upright so close to the king until permission was given.