The Dark Mirror

by Juliet Marillier

  Drust moved out from the table. He stood facing the assembled folk, the tall, dark figure of Broichan a little behind him, like a shadow, and Aniel by his side with a coffer in his hands. Two bodyguards hovered close, flanking the kneeling men; a third was behind the table, others at either end of the dais. Drust was taking no chances. If such precautions were needed now, Bridei thought, what would happen when the delegation from Circinn arrived to stake a claim? What about the other contenders? The place would be swarming with large, heavily armed men pretending they were not doing anything in particular. If it were not so serious it would be almost comical. He wished he could tell Tuala about it.

  “Get up, Talorgen, Ged. We are old friends. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. You’ve won a powerful victory for Fortriu, an achievement that will live long in song and story. In token of the Flamekeeper’s love and gratitude and of his pride in the war you waged for him, I give you this, Talongen,” Aniel drew from the little box an arm ring of twisted gold, thick as a heavy rope, “and for you, Ged, this to clasp those outrageous cloaks of yours.” The gift was an ornate gold brooch of penannular design; Bridei could not see the details, but it appeared to be inset with ovals of enamel in a number of startlingly bright colors. Ged grinned widely, pinning it immediately on his cloak. It seemed this powerful king had a good and amiable sense of humor.

  “Thank you, my lord king,” Talorgen said, bowing.

  “You honor us,” Ged added.

  “You must sit at my table,” said the king. “We shall have music and tales yet. I understand there is a new song; it concerns a certain young man and the moving of an impossibly large object over improbably difficult terrain. My bard has been sweating over it these last two days and nights. That deed brought inspiration to my spirit and delight to my heart. The man who devised it and who led you in its execution is dear to me even before I meet him. Step forward, Bridei, foster son to my own druid.”

  Bridei’s heart lurched. He had known something like this was coming, but not so soon; for him to be next to receive the king’s praise after Talorgen and Ged seemed so inappropriate as to be almost ridiculous. He did have words prepared; he hoped he would remember them.

  He knelt before the king, and felt Drust’s presence as a power, a warmth near tangible; the Flamekeeper’s purpose did indeed burn brightly in his earthly representation. When the king laid a hand on his head in blessing, the touch thrilled through every part of Bridei’s body.

  “You may stand up, Bridei,” Drust said. “We are kinsmen. You have a look of your mother; a little of your father as well. Maelchon I remember as a strong-willed man, a leader of iron purpose who did not suffer fools gladly. He, however, lacked the advantage of a druidic education. He was not raised in the love of our ancient gods, nor in reverence for the fair lands of Fortriu. I have a gift for you, young man. I hear Ged presented you with a cloak. You’re not wearing it tonight.”

  Out of the corner of his eye Bridei caught the flash of Ged’s grin and saw Talorgen’s wry smile. “No, my lord.” If he had walked into this hall with that many-hued garment over his shoulder, he would indeed have been the center of attention.

  “Never mind,” Drust said. “This brooch will do just as well on a plain cloak; let me pin it for you.” As the assembled court looked on in complete silence, the king took a silver clasp from the coffer Aniel held for him, and reached to fasten it to Bridei’s cloak with his own hands. It was a lovely thing wrought like a bird, wings spread wide, with a blue stone for the eye. The eagle in flight: the flame of Fortriu. “Well done, son,” Drust said quietly. “We’re proud of you. I hear you lost a close friend not so long ago. Come, sit by me; you can tell me that sorry tale and then the account of your exploits. Broichan assures me the Mage Stone could not have been moved without the use of druid charms. He and Aniel have a wager on your answer. I have no part in that; my wife frowns on such things.” Drust smiled at the queen, who sat farther along the table, and a becoming dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth. “Come, join us.” He lifted his voice once more, addressing the throng. “Eat, drink, enjoy the music, my friends! And let my bard ready himself for the singing of songs.”

  After that it became much easier, even though the king had, in effect, announced Bridei’s identity to every man and woman there present. The fact that he was related to Drust had to be made public some time, and of course this did not necessarily equate to a valid claim for kingship. That depended on a particular kind of relationship; a contender must be the son of a royal princess of the blood. And Drust had chosen his words carefully. At no point had he spoken Anfreda’s name. It was possible that, between those too far gone in drink to pay attention and those without the wit or interest to put the pieces together, Bridei’s status as a potential claimant might remain unknown to most of the court. For now. After this, he was going to be in the public eye whether he liked it or not.

  Drust was friendly, intelligent, keen to listen. All the same, it was not possible to recount the tale of Donal’s death in any detail. There was only one with whom Bridei might ever share that, since to tell it all would mean letting the listener see his tears. He kept to the bare facts, and the king, his eyes shrewd, moved on quickly to questions about pulleys and levers, barges and rollers. And to queries about how such a large and disparate group of men, weary from a long march and eager to depart for home before the arrival of Dalriadan reinforcements, could yet be mustered to a back-breaking task whose grandeur was matched only by its apparent craziness.

  Explaining it properly required the use of knives, bowls, and goblets in illustration. The king followed each step with lively interest; when Bridei was finished, both Broichan and Aniel claimed to have won the wager. Aniel said all could be explained by force and leverage and balance. Broichan declared that without the intervention of the Flamekeeper, for the stone to be lifted at the start, and the goodwill of the Shining One, which allowed such a massive thing to float at all, the removal would have been impossible. Prayers had most certainly been spoken, invocations chanted as the men labored at the ropes. The gods had smiled on this son and his wild plan; they wanted the Mage Stone in the hands of the Priteni, who had been steadfast in their faith. And so it was restored.

  “And Fokel is left to wrestle the thing up to Mage Lake,” Drust mused, bearded chin resting on his hand. “That, too, was well considered, young Bridei.”

  “It did seem wise to leave it in his hands, my lord king. His folk lost almost everything when the Gaels took their land. Fokel found it hard to walk away from Galany’s Reach after treading his ancestral soil at long last. He is a leader; he may have a reputation as impetuous, but he was wise enough to recognize it was not yet time for him to remain there, so isolated, so far from our nearest outpost. His men, however, are not all so wise. Without a strong purpose, a quest, it might have been difficult for Fokel to force them away. If they had stayed, they’d have been massacred when Gabhran’s reinforcements came. Taking custody of the stone allowed them to retreat and keep their pride.” Bridei became aware that not only Drust but all the other men at the high table were staring at him intently.

  “You discussed this theory with Talorgen and the other chieftains, I take it?” Drust asked.

  Bridei felt a telltale flush rise to his cheeks, as if he were a child caught out in a lie. “Not exactly, my lord king. I’m sure they were aware of it. To put such a thing in the open, at the time, might have appeared an insult to Fokel of Galany. It would have seemed as if I thought I knew what was best for him. Fokel is a fine man; I respect him.”

  “Mm,” Drust said, sitting back in his chair. The tabletop was a jumble of knives and cups, with here and there a crust or bone representing some item in the story. “Broichan, you’ve raised an unusual young man here.”

  “Thank you, my lord king.” If Broichan had been surprised for a moment, before, he now wore his customary expression, one that was entirely unreadable. He could have been feeling pride. He could equally have bee
n feeling nothing much at all.

  “I see you’ve put Faolan to good use already,” the king said more quietly, looking at Bridei. The Gael had moved to sit in the place Bridei had vacated, and appeared to be trying to engage Lady Dreseida in conversation. Her expression was glacial.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Something in Bridei’s tone caught the king’s attention. “Don’t misjudge him, Bridei,” Drust said. “He is the best man you could ever hope for in such a job. Why do you imagine I’ve survived so long?”

  Aniel cleared his throat.

  “Of course, I have excellent advisers,” Drust added, “and a druid of exceptional qualities, although he did choose to desert me for long years. Don’t be deceived by Faolan’s manner, Bridei. He’s an expert.”

  “It troubles me,” Bridei ventured with some hesitation, “that he works against his own people. Why would a Gael make the choice to spy for Fortriu? Why make a life among folk he appears to despise? I’m sorry, my lord king,” catching Broichan’s eye. “I speak too bluntly. I know the man has served you well.”

  “As he will you, while you need him. You should not undervalue his services; they are worth twice fifty silver brooches. Don’t ponder his motives too deeply. And don’t ask him about his past. Whatever lies there is best left where it is: buried. The man is a weapon, a tool, efficient and deadly. Be glad of him, and ask him no question.”

  “Yes, my lord king.”

  At that point mulled ale was served, and little cakes with honey and spices, and the music struck up again. The talk became general; Broichan moved away to engage Talorgen and Tharan in conversation, the king called Ged to sit beside him awhile, and Bridei found himself next to the fair-haired girl, Ana, who had remained completely silent since he had joined the king’s table.

  “My apologies,” he said to her a little awkwardly. If she was anything like the women of Gartnait’s family, she would proceed to put him in his place with a few well-chosen words. “That was somewhat lacking in courtesy. Men have a habit of assuming ladies are not interested in such topics. Your friend Ferada has already taught me that is often incorrect. I am Bridei, son of Maelchon.”

  “My name’s Ana, from the Light Isles. My cousin is king there.”

  Bridei nodded. “Ferada told me. It must be difficult for you.”

  “I’ve become used to it,” she said, toying with the fringed edging of her girdle. “It’s hard at times. King Drust does allow me certain freedoms.”

  “You spend time at Banmerren. I’m told. An education?”

  Ana smiled. It transformed a face already pretty into one of dazzling charm. “A very fine one,” she said. “Of course, Ferada and I and the other daughters of noble blood do not study the more esoteric pursuits, such as scrying or prophecy. We touch on herb lore, which can be useful. We do not learn the full conduct of rituals, only the role a chieftain’s wife may be called upon to play in them. We have a very good tutor in history and politics. Your sister excels in that class.” Ana was studying his face; her wide eyes looked deeply into his and their expression changed. “You miss her,” she said softly.

  Bridei looked down at his hands. He must be tired; he should not have let his guard down thus. He had learned the concealment of his feelings from a master in that art. Perhaps it was the headache, which had eased at the king’s touch and now returned, throbbing like a deep drumbeat behind his eyes. He said nothing.

  “I will take her a message, if you wish to send one,” Ana said. “We will be going back to Banmerren before long. I think Tuala would like to hear from you. Although she does so well at her studies and pleases our tutors with her cleverness, I believe she is quite lonely.”

  It became impossible not to ask. “You speak to her often? She is a friend?”

  Ana twisted the girdle in her fingers. “Tuala doesn’t make friends, not really. She speaks to me and to Ferada, whom she knew already when she came to Banmerren. They gave her a little room of her own, up in a tower. That seemed odd to me; as if they were trying to show how different she was. But I think Tuala prefers it. There’s an oak tree growing outside her door; she likes to sit there. I think maybe she’s dreaming of home. She’s an unusual girl. Like a little wild creature.”

  “Are they kind to her there?” He could not trouble this girl with the question he really wanted answered. Only Tuala herself could give him the reasons for her decision to enter Banmerren and turn her back on him.

  Ana began to answer, then fell silent. The king’s bard had come to seat himself, small harp on knee, in the space before the high table. It was time for the heroic tale of the Mage Stone to be told in all its splendor. Bridei found himself hoping fervently that his own name would be mentioned as little as possible. At the time, it had been a fine thing, uniting the men and keeping his own mind occupied; it had held the dark dreams at bay for a little. He saw no reason for his actions to be in any way immortalized. One did what one had to; if it worked well, it was the gods who deserved thanks.

  Much to his relief, while Bridei’s name was certainly in the account, the emphasis was on King Drust, under whose banner the entire venture against the Gaels had been undertaken: Drust who was the earthly embodiment of that most heroic of warrior gods, the Flamekeeper. Talorgen was in the tale, and Ged with his rainbow warriors. Morleo of Longwater and Fokel of Galany received their dues. There was a lengthy and poetic description of the stone itself, with an interpretation of its carvings.

  The king’s bard had a powerful and smooth-toned voice for the declamation; his long fingers flew over the harp strings, evoking here wonder, there terror, here mystery, there pathos, with the expertise of a seasoned professional and the heart of a true poet. When it was over the assembled crowd shouted acclaim then called for more music. Pipes shrilled, drums commenced to thump out a rousing rhythm and folk began to move the tables aside in readiness for dancing.

  Ferada was approaching, her mother close behind. It was clear they were coming for Ana, who rose to her feet. A decision must be made now; who knew when the opportunity would arise again?

  “Here,” Bridei said, glancing around to make sure Broichan was not watching and fishing the frayed ribbon out of his pouch. “Please give her this.”

  Ana took it and tucked it under her girdle, out of sight. She glanced at him once more, a question in her eyes.

  “If you could keep this to yourself . . . I imagine such communications are forbidden,” Bridei said quietly.

  “No message?” Ana asked.

  Ferada had stopped to speak to her father. Dreseida was looking out over the crowd, her attention on the flurry of activity as couples arranged themselves in a double line down the hall.

  “Only that I respect her decision.” It sounded cold, formal; in no way a truthful representation of what was in his heart. “And that I hope she will be happy. I did not expect that the Shining One would call her thus.” He made himself stop; already it was too much.

  Ana gave a little nod, then all at once Ferada was there to whisk her friend away for dancing, and the moment was over.

  MUCH LATER, WHEN all were abed and a white-gold, waxing moon hung low in the sky over Caer Pridne, Bridei stood on the wall-walk near Broichan’s quarters. The throbbing in his head had made it impossible to lie still, feigning sleep; he might be forced to ask Broichan for some kind of potion in the morning, although he suspected even the most potent brew of druid herbs would be ineffective against this.

  There was a tiny sound behind him. He whirled, knife suddenly in hand, every sense alert.

  “Good,” said Faolan, stepping from shadow to torchlight. “I thought I’d caught you dreaming. Do you make a habit of wandering alone at night? Where are your guards?”

  “Sleeping. I told them to rest. Breth is by the doorway, a matter of four strides or less. He could be here in a moment.”

  “A moment is all it takes to stick a knife in a man’s heart,” Faolan said. “You are incautious. I had not taken you for a fool.”
<
br />   “It irks me to spend my life jumping at shadows. I will learn to do what I must, despite that. Drust’s example is a fine one.”

  “He’s had expert protectors.” Faolan moved to stand by Bridei at the stone rampart wall. There were few torches lit now; all was quiet, save for the hushed sound of the sea as it broke gently over the rock walls sheltering the anchorage below. The moon illuminated, dimly, the pale beach and ink-dark water of the bay. “And so will you. You must learn to take their advice, if you would live as long as he has.”

  Bridei could not let such smugness go unchallenged. “You are young,” he said. “You must have some understanding of how it feels to be restricted thus; to be fettered always by those who seek to keep me safe. I was raised by a druid. I am accustomed to times of quiet, of solitude. I’m used to walking the forest undisturbed. How can I know the gods’ will if I cannot hear their voices? How can I hear them if I cannot stand in their great wild places alone? How can I be what I must be without that?”

  “On such matters, I’m entirely unqualified to comment,” said Faolan, “save to point out that others seem to have managed it before. A number of people express a high degree of confidence in you. Should you become king, you will find it easier to make your own rules. You may dispense with my services; I am contracted only to keep you safe until that point. I care nothing for your need to hear whatever deities you believe may be whispering in your ear. I care only that my job is done well. I don’t expect you to thwart that possibility by taking stupid risks.”

  Bridei did not respond, indeed could not, as a new wave of pain washed over him. He felt his head might split open; with sheer effort of will, he managed not to vomit by Faolan’s feet.