Wredech was left to the mercies of Talorgen. A little gentle pressure was apparently required, no more, to persuade this kinsman of Drust the Bull that it would be wiser to drop his claim, in view of a certain matter of some cattle that had mysteriously wandered, and a purse of silver pieces that had changed hands right under Drust’s nose. Should Wredech’s role in this become public, as it surely would if he declared his interest in the kingship, he would be utterly discredited before his peers. And he would lose the cattle, including a fine stud bull already hard at work among his cows. On the other hand, if he took it into his head to declare support for the candidate Talorgen himself favored, nothing would be said at all. And there could be a small incentive in it, by way of some further additions to Wredech’s growing herd.
Talorgen was working on this; such propositions were not made openly, all at once, but by subtle degrees, working on a man’s fears and his weaknesses. There was nothing for Bridei to do but be friendly and respectful to Wredech when they met, and to avoid the topics of kingship and cattle.
He could not avoid the councillors from Circinn, Bargoit and Fergus, and their Christian priest. Bargoit played challenging games; he was a master of innuendo, trick questions, skillful evasions, and unexpected attacks. Retaining control of himself and the situation taxed Bridei hard; the headache was more or less constant, and it did nothing to improve his concentration. He did not ask Broichan for a potion. The druid was much occupied, spending days and nights at King Drust’s side, brewing cures, burning powerful herbs, saying prayers, perhaps also simply acting as friend and companion, for they had been together long, in the days before Bridei came to Pitnochie.
Bridei had thought, at first, that he would never get used to his three guards. Remarkably soon, in the charged atmosphere of the overcrowded fortress, he began to find the constant presence of one or other of these large men reassuring. If Garth or Breth was at his shoulder, watching for trouble, Bridei could concentrate on other things, such as a debate with Brother Suibne about the nature of men and gods, or a game of crow-corners with the sharp-eyed councillor Tharan, before a tense audience made up of Aniel and the two councillors from Circinn. He knew he was on show; his guards ensured he need not also be watchful, every moment, for a knife in the back.
Faolan left Breth and Garth to share responsibility for the waking hours between them. He was far from idle; he gathered information, looked into men’s pasts, spoke to servants and slaves and performed solitary examinations of the visitors’ allocated quarters while the occupants were busy elsewhere. By night, he watched as Bridei failed to sleep. Whether he himself ever rested, and when, was not possible to discern. He exhibited no signs of weariness.
The young women had gone back to Banmerren some time ago, and were due to return to court any day. Tuala was much in Bridei’s mind. At night he stood on the wall-walk gazing at the moon and imagining her in the gray robes of a priestess, bearing a bowl of water for the rite of Midsummer or scattering white petals at Balance. He thought of her looking into the water of a scrying bowl, her strange eyes open to a whole world that was beyond his understanding. He pictured her laughing, her hair tangled by the wind; his hands knew that head of hair intimately, for his fingers had braided and tied it more times than he could count. He thought of a promise he had made long ago, and how he had done his best to keep it. She was not a child now, in need of his tales to quell her fear of the unknown. She was as old as Ana; a young woman. And she had moved away from him. The Shining One had touched her as an infant, and now reached out to her again, calling her home. What purer form of service to the gods than that of druid or wise woman? How could he grudge her that? And yet . . . and yet . . .
“Bridei?”
“Mm?”
“We’re having a day off tomorrow,” Faolan announced from his dark corner by the steps.
“What?”
“The weather seems set dry. I don’t know about you, but I’ve had a bellyful of all this. We’ll take a couple of horses, ride along the beach, find some of those great wild places you mentioned and tire ourselves out. No kings, no councillors, no priests, no druids. A whole day. What do you think?”
“No Breth, no Garth?”
Faolan did not smile. “They’re due a break. You have me; you don’t need them.”
“So you’ll be on duty”
“I’m always on duty, Bridei. It’ll be a change, at least.”
It did sound good; remarkably good. To escape from court for a whole day would be a wondrous reprieve.
“I’ve told Broichan,” Faolan said. “I’ll procure some rations. Be prepared to leave early”
“You know,” said Bridei, “I’m finding it impossible to believe this is what it seems, coming from you. You are not the kind of man who goes out for a day’s enjoyment when there are other, pressing matters to attend to. If there’s more to this than meets the eye, I’d prefer that you tell me.”
Faolan said nothing for a little. “We may do this more than once,” he offered eventually. “Establish a pattern. It could be useful.”
“For what purpose?”
“To draw an attack,” the Gael said coolly. “Not tomorrow; once we’ve given an indication of where we might be found on certain days at certain times.”
“Wonderful. I’m to enjoy myself riding through the hills waiting for an arrow in the heart.”
“I thought you were supposed to be the best archer in Fortriu,” Faolan said lightly “Don’t let it bother you, Bridei. I know what I’m doing. Caer Pridne is so full of noblemen’s personal guards right now that nobody dares try anything. They’ll be looking for an opportunity. We’re going to give them one.”
“I see.”
“Tomorrow will be safe. Tomorrow you can listen for the voices of the gods to your heart’s content.”
“I’ll welcome the ride. Thank you.” Indeed, assassins or no assassins, Bridei recognized how much he craved the freedom of that, the chance to traverse woodland and moorland, strath and glenside with his eyes and ears open to the wonder of the wild. In Caer Pridne the eyes were full of rich apparel and lying faces, the ears assaulted by chatter, by sly whispers and hissed asides. He had not ridden out with just one companion since Donal . . .
“What is it?”
Curse Faolan; he was too quick. “Nothing. I’ll try to sleep now Good night. May the Shining One guard your dreams.”
“Good night, Bridei.”
IT SEEMED FAOLAN was determined to tire him out. Perhaps the Gael hoped the day’s activity would allow them both a good night’s sleep. But Bridei had grown up on long expeditions through the forest above Pitnochie. He was at home in the wild, attuned to its rhythms since childhood, and to be thus released back into it awoke him in a way the most tense maneuverings, the subtlest games of Drust’s court could not. While the headache did not vanish, it retreated. While doubt still plagued him, to be here under a great stand of pines, looking out across a wide salt marsh where birds moved in endless, flowing masses of gray and dun and white, now rising as one to wheel above the tidal flats, now descending to settle and forage, was to recapture something of that inner wonder that had ever warmed his spirit as he traversed the crags and glens of Pitnochie, alone or with one trusted companion.
Faolan did not seek to fill the great silence with idle talk; his presence was unobtrusive, efficient, accepting. They had warmed up the horses, then galloped them along the wet sand from Caer Pridne to Banmerren. It was not a true contest, but they had challenged each other, all the same; Snowfire had relished the opportunity to stretch himself, underused as he was these days.
At the western end of the bay, the walls of Fola’s establishment rose high among the softening shawl of undergrowth, the groups of wind-shaped pines that made this headland not fortress, but haven. The gates were of heavy iron and were shut fast. It was not possible to see what lay behind them, for the place was set out with a screening wall not far within, probably to deter such curious eyes as his own.
The rule forbidding any man save a druid from entering this realm sacred to the Shining One was well known. Even to think of breaking it was to offend the goddess. For a man who might be a contender for kingship to entertain such a notion was both sacrilegious and foolish. A king must be flawless in his loyalty to the gods. With his intellect, Bridei understood this only too well. His heart, however, beat fast with a longing to breach the wall, to find her, to know the truth.
He could not see the oak tree Ana had mentioned. He did not know on what side of this enclosed place there might be a small tower chamber suitable for one young woman on her own. Close by the school compound was a sprawling assemblage of farm buildings, stables, a barn, a long, low dwelling house. Sheep grazed in walled fields; there was a track down to the tidal flats beyond. Bridei could imagine Tuala there, stooping for shells, her dark hair wild, her skirts tucked up, her small bare feet imprinting the pale sand with tracks as delicate as a tern’s . . .
They rode by, passing to the west across dunes and flats, traversing swamp and heath, stopping to look out over a sandbar that curved across the mouth of a limpid bay where, this morning, a vast flock of geese was flung across water and shore like a living shawl. The voices of the birds filled the remote place with their strange, honking music. It was a reminder that the year was almost come to its end; winter visitors, these, whose sojourns in Fortriu came from Gateway to Maiden Dance, before they flew off to summer in other climes.
“It is less than one turning of the moon until the ritual,” Bridei said, his eyes on the movement of the geese, a wondrous, ever-changing pattern.
“Mm,” said Faolan. “Will Broichan keep the king alive long enough?”
Bridei shivered. “I pray daily that he does.”
“They say Drust is holding on for that purpose,” the Gael said. “His lungs fail him; it is a constant battle for breath. He wishes to perform the ceremony one last time; to pay his dues to the Nameless One before he must step beyond the veil.”
“One does not speak of such matters aloud.”
“Ah. But I am not one of you.”
“All the same. If you live among us and accept our silver for your services, you should heed such prohibitions. This is a god whose rituals are dark and secret. There is peril even in the mention of them.”
Faolan looked at him curiously “You realize, I presume, whose responsibility this particular observance will be next year, and for many years to come?”
“Yes. It is not something I dwell on. The gods make certain calls upon us, according to our position in society. If we love them, as any true son or daughter of Fortriu must, we obey. No more need be said. Besides, I am not king yet. At this stage I am only one among several possible candidates.”
“You know what the ritual entails?”
“Didn’t you hear me, Faolan?”
There was a silence. Then Faolan rose to his feet, heading to the tethered horses. “We cannot ride all the way to your beloved mountains; not today,” he said. “But there is fine moorland, gentle hillocks, secret folds of the land, a river to ford if we ride inland from here. Shall we go on?”
“Places for ambush? Boltholes for hired killers?”
“Maybe. As I said, today is for leisure, and to assess the lay of the land. We must hope this dry weather continues so we can do it again.”
THEY RODE UNTIL the sun was at its peak, giving the horses their heads over the moor, leading them cautiously across the stony ford; when this river was in spate, the passage would be perilous indeed. At length they came to a place of gentle grass-clad hills and narrow, treed valleys. They traversed a moss-coated plank bridge over a gurgling stream, and rode along one such glen to find it broadened to fields. Farther down stood a grove of tall trees, dark, bare elms and spreading oaks in the last of their russet autumn raiment. Bridei touched Snowfire’s neck, halting him, and Faolan reined his horse to a stop. Beneath these guardian trees, sheltered and secret, three round cairns lay, each encircled by a ring of standing stones.
“It is a place of the goddess,” whispered Bridei, dismounting. He could feel the breath of the Shining One in every corner of this sanctuary; there was a stillness here beyond the ordinary quiet of wild places, a sense of both profound serenity and powerful warning. “As men, we can go no closer,” he said.
Faolan got down from his horse. “You may wish to stay a while, all the same,” he said. “Where we cannot go, others can. Move back a little, here, up the rise where there is more cover.”
“What do you mean, others can?”
Faolan was already leading their two mounts back behind the bushes; now he took a packet from his saddlebag and proceeded to settle himself on a flat stone. He was, of course, a Gael, and deaf to the voices of the old gods of Fortriu. Possessed by a powerful need to be gone from that place, a women’s place, Bridei was nonetheless aware that the day was half over, that they still had to ride all the way back and that he was extremely hungry.
“I mean what I say,” he said, sitting beside the Gael and accepting a wedge of cheese, a slab of oaten bread. “No closer; and we should leave here when we’ve eaten. I am glad that I have seen this. I’ve heard tell of this place. Those chambers are very old, a construction of the ancient ancestors. Generations of women have conducted their deep rituals here and offered prayers of reverence to the goddess in her triple form. A man should not set foot among the cairns; even if I did not already know this, I can feel it in every bone of my body.”
“Ah, well,” said Faolan, munching steadily, “a man must still have his dinner; your goddess would surely not grudge us that. Plenty of time. I have mead in this flask; here.”
Autumn was well advanced, but here on the hillside above that secret place of circle within circle the sun had a warmth in it that belied the season. The horses were content to crop the grasses. Faolan sat quiet, eyes tranquil, pose relaxed. The food was excellent, the mead of fine quality; Bridei suspected it was from the king’s personal supply. His headache was almost imperceptible now. A kind of peace crept over him that he had almost forgotten, that sense of deep contentment that came only in the quiet of the outdoors, and then but rarely. He was, after all, the smallest of creatures before the immense, the wondrous tapestry of living things; his own concerns were dwarfed by it. It existed in eternity, strong and sure. The heart of the gods beat in every darting meadow bird, in each gold-brown leaf that spiraled earthward from the oak’s dark branches, in every drop of dew and grain of sand, in pebble and waterfall, broad lake and high tor. The same heart beat in him; here in this place of sanctuary he could feel its steady rhythm, linking him intimately to the life of the Glen and of the land of Fortriu, the land whose leader he might all too soon become. His back resting against the trunk of an elm, Bridei closed his eyes. The retreat of the headache was a blessing, a gift. He had not realized how much it weakened him until now, when it was almost fled.
“BRIDEI?”
The tone alerted him instantly; it was a warning, making silence imperative. His eyes sprang open. The shadows had moved; the sun had edged toward the west. He had been asleep, and for some time. His limbs were seized by cramp; wincing, he struggled to a crouch. Faolan was peering down the hillside between the bushes. He had a finger to his lips. Following his gaze, Bridei saw that they were no longer alone. A number of cloaked and hooded women moved now between the ancient stones, stooping here and there, while others walked farther afield on the banks of the little stream close by. He shut his eyes tightly and turned away.
“The ritual is finished,” Faolan murmured. “It’s safe to look. I waited to wake you until it was done. Now they’re just walking about chatting and gathering herbs.”
“This is wrong; disrespectful,” whispered Bridei. “Spying on women . . . I will not do it. Why did you bring me here? I don’t want to see this.” Yet within him something clamored to be heard, something he fought to suppress: perhaps she’s here, so close . . . If I don’t look now, she’ll be gone, and it will be too late . .
.
“Would you lie to me? I think you do want to see. I don’t know which of these girls is the friend whose absence caused you to look at Banmerren’s walls as if they were a defensive barrier to be stormed, but I think I could hazard a guess. Is she a rare, small creature with skin like snow and tresses dark as a crow’s wing?”
It became, then, impossible for Bridei to keep his eyes closed, his head turned. He looked, and on an instant found her, down by the water where several girls were picking stalks of an autumn-flowering plant and laying them in rush baskets. Tuala was at a little distance from the others and had taken off her enveloping cloak and laid it on the bank nearby. She held a frond of foliage in her small hand and was staring at it as if she hardly knew what it was; as if she had lost track of the task entirely. The coal-black curls had escaped their binding and sprang in wild confusion about her delicate features . . . Her hair, her lovely long hair, it had been chopped short, falling scarcely to her shoulders. Who would do such a thing? It made her look different, older. Older . . . She wore a plain skirt and tunic, blue like her cloak and belted in gray. Was it really only a year since he had seen her? The stark simplicity of the garments served only to reveal that she was no longer the slight child of their last meeting. She remained slender and small, but her figure had acquired subtle curves and sweet contours; it was a delicate poem of young womanhood. And yet, Tuala was herself, from the rosebud lips to the winged brows and cascade of untameable, silky hair. She stood out among these other girls like a young owl in a flock of pigeons.
He must have made some small sound. Black Crow only knew what Faolan could read upon his face. Bridei put both hands up to mask it; in that moment, all of Broichan’s training had deserted him. Self-control? He felt as if his heart were splitting apart. It was all he could do not to break from cover, to run down the hill and . . . and what? Terrify all of them? Commit an act of utter sacrilege, offending the gods most bitterly? Ask Tuala to throw away the life of peace and purpose the Shining One had offered her and follow him instead to an existence of whispered conspiracy and constant guards and knives in the dark?
The Dark Mirror Page 44
