The Dark Mirror

by Juliet Marillier

  “No wonder what?” Bridei could not let it go. Others were listening, Bargoit’s fellow councillor Fergus and, from farther away, the Christian priest, Drust the Bull’s adviser Tharan, and the red-headed Carnach, a contender for kingship.

  “No wonder your victory at Galany’s Reach was a short-lived thing,” Bargoit said bluntly. “Who but a man who looks ever backward would seek to make such an expensive gesture? A whole season wasted, grievous losses sustained, homes and farms neglected, and for what? The momentary seizing of a trifling objective? The symbolic removal of a lump of stone with a few cryptic signs carved on it, an animal or two, a depiction of headless corpses arrayed in rows? No territory gained and precious few useful prisoners taken. One petty chieftain, that was about all, from what they tell me. That’s no way to conduct a war. With that approach, Fortriu will never drive out the invaders. Before you know it the Great Glen will be overrun by Gaels. They’ll be burning your homes, laying waste your farms, slaughtering your children, and helping themselves to your wives.”

  It was necessary to remain calm. Not far off stood Talorgen, suddenly very white, with a grim set to the jaw. Bridei used one of Broichan’s patterns for breathing, unclenched his hands, willed the headache into the background. “Such comments intrigue me,” he said smoothly, moving to seat himself in what he hoped was a relaxed pose on a bench near Bargoit. “May I? Do sit down; let us continue our discussion. Breth, will you ask someone to bring ale? Now,” leaning forward to address the other, “the way I’ve heard it told, Circinn has its own border problems. A different enemy, Angles and others from the south, a multitude of fierce tribes whose incursions inside your lands require great numbers of armed men to be stationed more or less permanently in those parts. A heavy toll on the court, or on whichever chieftains must maintain those outposts. I would not provoke a childish contest here by asking if you, in your turn, have ventured forth into the south and attempted to reclaim the territories lost to your people. I will not ask if your own victories are symbolic or real. I will say that a wise man does not look at his realm piece by piece, as if he believed he could comprehend a whole shore by examining a single grain of sand, or an entire forest in a solitary leaf. I adhere to the ancient gods; I am loyal to them in every way, for they are the very foundation, the beating heart of Fortriu. That does not mean I look backward, Bargoit. My view is backward and forward and on every side. My eyes are open to every opportunity, to every challenge and every threat. That does not render me blind to manifestations of spirit. The two go hand in hand; a man cannot live his life well and fully without the breath of the gods at his back, their whisper in his ear. You accuse us of living in the past. That is incorrect. We carry the past within us; it hums in our veins, it beats in our hearts. It strengthens us on our journey forward; it carries us bravely into the future.”

  There was a little silence. The priest, Brother Suibne, cleared his throat apologetically. “You speak well,” the Christian said. “It is no wonder men follow you. All the same, these gods you talk of are no more than shadows. If they call you to such dark acts as that which must take place tonight, then those voices you hear are manifestations of the Devil; whispers of pure evil. You must turn from them and walk toward the light. There is but one true way, and it is not this, with its harvest of cruelty and death. How can you—”

  “Shh,” hissed a circle of horrified voices, and Suibne fell silent, but not for long.

  “Your gods rule you through fear,” he said. “The way of the one true God is a path of love, of forgiveness, of joy. Trust in him, and you need no longer appease your dark deities with acts of violence that fill you with unease.”

  “You are a guest here.” It was the king’s councillor, Tharan, who spoke now He and a number of the others had moved closer during Bridei’s speech and now the sharp-eyed elder addressed Brother Suibne in a tone calculated to silence the boldest of men. “The king has offered you the hospitality of his hall, as he is obliged to do, since you travel with emissaries from Drust the Boar. We accept your presence among us. But none of us will permit your flagrant violations of ancient custom. They place us all in peril. When you speak aloud of this ritual and of the one it honors you offend the god, and you offend every one of his loyal adherents. This is law. We imbibe it with our mothers’ milk. I will not speak of this again, save to say that in breaking silence on the matter you risk bringing down the god’s punishment not just upon yourself, but on every man here present, be he of Circinn or of Fortriu. I hope I need say no more.”

  Suibne had not even the grace to blush or to mutter an apology. He gave a little shake of the head and touched his hand to the cross he wore on a cord around his neck.

  “Fortriu is full of men, and they are full of words,” Bargoit observed with a lift of the brows. “Young men, older men, men in their dotage. They all sing the same song. This is a time of change, my friends. We of the south have embraced it; our folk turn increasingly to the new faith.”

  “That is not the whole truth,” said the king’s cousin, Carnach. “My own lands border northern Circinn. The tales I hear are of people displaced, wise women harried from the settlements, men of faith dispossessed and turned from their homes, ancient places of worship laid waste to make way for Christian temples. These accounts have not suggested to me a peaceful transition to the new faith under the leadership of Drust the Boar. I would not seek such a man for my own king.”

  This was dangerously close to a clear statement of what it was they were really discussing; too close for comfort. Drust the Bull still lived. Tonight he would perform the ritual of Gateway, a ceremony in which the shades of those departed hung close, and Bone Mother’s outstretched hand was but a hair’s-breadth away.

  “It is an error,” Bridei said quietly, “to assume that because something is old, it is no longer of use. We learn from our elders. We learn from the past; how else can we gain wisdom? I owe a great debt to the tutors who were present for the years of my childhood, venerable ancients, the two of them, and living exemplars of all that is good in a man: wisdom, courage, humor, faith. The old ways are the heart and spirit of Fortriu. Toss them aside and you are left with an empty shell. Discard them and you make of a living, breathing land a dead husk, devoid of meaning.”

  “As the young man said,” the councillor Fergus remarked to Bargoit, “he was raised by a druid, none other than Broichan. We should not be surprised that Bridei expresses himself thus. Such a man thinks in riddles and answers with questions. His mind follows paths far removed from those of ordinary folk such as ourselves.”

  “Bridei expresses only the truths that reside in all of us.” This from an unexpected quarter: it was the gaunt-featured Tharan, the man Aniel had once called dangerous, who spoke. “Whatever our differences, true men of Fortriu share the same loyalties and the same aspirations. We love the gods and we love this land entrusted to our people since time before time. We do not always love one another; it’s in man’s nature to dispute, to jostle for power. For all that, here in the north, at least, our goal is a common one: to adhere to the will of the gods and to clear the invader from our shores.”

  “There was little sign of that in your recent venture, so I hear,” said Fergus. “A few Gaels slain, a momentary presence in the settlement at Galany’s Reach, a circumspect retreat; that can hardly be construed as sweeping the invader away. As for the old gods, they must have wept in shame, surely, to see the great stone wrenched from the earth and manhandled across half the countryside. Was not that an insult to your ancient lore? Besides, your own actions hardly match your claims, Tharan. Where were you when all this was unfolding? Warming your hands at Caer Pridne’s house fires, I imagine.”

  The group of men by the hearth was much larger now; this dialogue had attracted the attention of many. Bridei saw a look of deep offense and mounting anger on Talorgen’s honest features; he observed the twitch in Tharan’s cheek, sign that the most dangerous councillor in Fortriu was not impervious to insults. The kin
g’s cousin, Carnach, was glaring openly; Bargoit maintained his supercilious expression. The Christian priest had wandered off to listen to the music.

  “That is unjust, and you know it,” Bridei said bluntly. He had not expected to be springing to the defense of Tharan, of all men. But he felt compelled to speak. Fergus’s words had been outrageous and could not be allowed to go unchallenged. “Do you and your fellow councillor here ride out to do battle against the Angles, leaving your king without advisers by his side? I doubt it very much. Tharan remains at Drust’s right hand; the Bull’s councillors have served him long and wisely. A good monarch understands the value of such support, indeed, friendship. It is true that Tharan, Aniel, and Eogan are not always of one mind, but that serves only to strengthen the role they play, allowing the king to sift possibilities and be open to ideas. Our councillors do not go to war; we have chieftains such as Talorgen here to control those endeavors, men expert in sorties and defenses and in the daily leadership of warriors. A king does not throw his entire strength out to the farthest reaches of his realm with no thought to the maintenance of what is closer to home. As for our own venture, it was worthy. Talorgen led us with honor and purpose. It was never our intention to reclaim that territory, for the time is not ripe for such an undertaking. We sought to test the water for the future; to put fear into the enemy’s heart. We killed twice fifty and more of the men of Dalriada. We took a hostage of significance, held now in confinement at Fokel’s stronghold. As for the Mage Stone, no man questions the gods. It remains to be seen whether their wrath will descend on us for an act of sacrilege, as you suggest. All I can tell you is that when we performed that feat, it seemed to all of us that the Flamekeeper smiled on us. We felt his love even as we feel the warmth of the sun; his goodwill sustained us and saw us safely home. The power of the gods is beyond measure; it raises us above the cheap taunts of those who would mock our endeavors and scorn our comrades who shed their blood on that field of war.”

  “That’s all very well,” Bargoit said, spreading his hands in a placatory gesture. He was now encircled by angry men. “But your arguments lack something in logic, young man. You spoke in poetic mode before: grains of sand, single leaves and so on. If it is so important for a man to view our land as a single entity, whole and undivided, then surely we need one rule, one court, one king? One faith? If this is truly your belief, young Bridei, then I find myself in perfect agreement. We of Circinn and Fortriu are one people, even if we forget that from time to time.”

  “The Caitt, also,” Bridei said quietly. “You would include them in this unified realm, of course.”

  “The Caitt?” hissed Fergus. “Those barbarians?”

  “Of Priteni blood,” said Talorgen, who now stood at Bridei’s shoulder. “You mention logic. Let us take this to its inevitable conclusion. All would be one: Fortriu and Circinn, the Light Isles and the territory of the Caitt. Disparate realms, but united under one king and one faith. It is not such a leap of the imagination. In my father’s time, Bargoit, and in your father’s time, it was indeed thus. The territories of the Priteni were a single kingdom. It was the decision of Drust son of Girom to admit the missionaries of the Christian faith to the south that split our homeland apart. You advocate now its return to its former state? You’d find no argument against that among the men of Fortriu.”

  Bargoit smiled thinly. “I advocate no such thing, as you are well aware. The old practices are gone from Circinn and will never return. There is another way, one that is open to us now, should Fortriu make the choice to move forward instead of backward.”

  “Fortriu will never turn against its ancient gods.” Bridei felt a shiver through his body, like a cold touch of winter in the bones. “Our good king lives yet, and we pray the gods preserve him to lead us for the seasons to come. I, too, would wish to see our land united under a single leader. Indeed, I believe that is the only way we can secure our borders, both to the west against the Gaels and to the south against the Angles. I believe it is the only course for us if we would remain strong in a time of such change. Such a leader would not be a man who trusted his councillors more than he should. He would not be a man who displaced druids and banished wise women. A true king could never spit in the faces of the gods so. That is what I believe. Such a leader would be strong and good, steadfast in his faith and ready to sacrifice much to carry his people forward with hope and purpose. Drust son of Wdrost is such a man. We love and honor him. And he still lives. To draw the talk, as you have done here, to a future beyond that offends every one of us. But you are his guest. So, I offer you ale, and suggest we move the conversation to other matters. We did begin this, I recall, with a discussion about fishing. That was not only respectful to our host, but a good deal safer. Caught any big ones lately?”

  The men of Fortriu laughed despite themselves. It was adept, and they began, quickly, a lively exchange about the size and quality of trout to be found in the different lakes and what kind of bait was best. Bargoit, lips compressed, did not contribute.

  “Well done,” Talorgen murmured in Bridei’s ear a little later, after they had extricated themselves from the crowd. “You achieved a number of objectives rather quickly, including at least one that surprised me. You got Tharan to agree with you publicly. We might work on that.”

  Bridei nodded, as a sudden weariness came over him. In one sense, Talorgen was right; one should not lose sight of how much was to be gained here, how much lost if one got it wrong. These were powerful men. In the choice of candidates for kingship, theirs were the voices that counted. And yet, as he had spoken today, Bridei had forgotten what was riding on his finding the right words, the right tone. He had not been thinking of his own future, only of the need to tell these men what was in his mind and his heart. Talorgen misjudged him if he thought this had been a calculated bid for support. “Tharan spoke from a love of Fortriu,” he said. “Carnach also. In that, at least, the men of the north are in agreement.”

  “But the south has solid numbers,” said Talorgen. “Circinn will send twelve chieftains to the voting when it’s time. The process allows them an entire turning of the moon to get here. Unless we pray for particularly foul weather, there’s likely to be a full complement. We’ll need to put in some solid work or Fortriu cannot present a united front against that. A single candidate only, that’s what we want. There’s a lot further to go. You look tired, Bridei.”

  “When I’m out there among those men, it almost seems easy,” Bridei said, “as if the gods tell me the right things to say. Afterward, when I’m alone, I remember that I am only one man. That there are other worthy contenders ready to stand against me. That, in the eyes of these chieftains, I am young and untried, a nobody. You have invested a great deal of faith in me: you, your friends, Broichan particularly. I do not wish to fail you. I do not wish to fail the gods.”

  Talorgen looked at him curiously “Had we believed you might do so, Bridei, we would not have pursued this to the end. It seems that end may be closer than we imagined.”

  “Yes; I’ve heard the king’s health continues to fail.”

  “Drust will not be with us much longer. Aniel is by his side today, with the queen. The gods are merciful; they will see our king perform the ritual one last time and then, I believe, he will be called away. This will be a cold winter.”

  Bridei said nothing. He thought of the deep well, colder than any winter, and the voice of the dark god, calling.

  “He will endure the ceremony,” Talorgen said. “Drust’s will is very strong. It will tax him sorely. Are you prepared for this, Bridei?”

  “I must be.”

  Talorgen nodded. “Even Broichan dreads it. It must be done. It is part of what we are; a darkness within us that must be recognized. You should rest. The night will be long.”

  THE SUN HAD NOT shown his face all day. Lowering clouds spread from north to south, from east to west, their bellies heavy with rain. From time to time they released themselves, sending a drumming deluge ov
er the roofs of Banmerren, a thunderous downpour that streamed from the thatch and lost itself in a hundred rivulets snaking across the waterlogged gardens, where even the ducks had retreated under a bush for shelter. Within the walled compound day seemed like dusk, and when at last the sun sank somewhere behind the clouds, night fell abruptly, as if the secret god were impatient to receive his dues.

  The oak was almost bare; rain pooled in the hollows between its exposed roots. The light of Kethra’s oil lamp touched the mounds of leaves, yellow-gold, russet red, nut brown, all turning now in the wet to a common hue of rich decay as the earth reclaimed them to nourish next season’s new growth. The voice of the rain drowned all else. Tuala followed the older woman along the covered walkway and inside the main building, where a hearth fire burned fitfully in the large central chamber, as if all too aware of the power of this deluge. The fire would be quenched before the time of the ritual; such presences as attended this ceremony were known to shun the light.

  It was quiet in the house. The din of the rain had faded from an ear-assaulting roar to a distant rumble as they closed the door behind them. The girls, who generally welcomed the opportunity to gather together and speak of home and friends, to share fifty little secrets they’d been saving up, were unusually solemn tonight.

  Before dusk, they had watched as Fola walked out from Banmerren, hooded head bowed against the rain, and after her a procession of cloaked women making a solemn progress along the path to Caer Pridne. It was whispered that Fola didn’t like Gateway. They said the wise woman preferred to enact the rituals in places of the goddess: here within the sheltering walls, or on the wide strand just beyond, or in the secret hollow of the triple cairns. Not at Caer Pridne, a realm of men and power and ancient darkness. Not this form of the ceremony, in which women’s part was both rarest privilege and deepest shame. But Fola obeyed the gods. She obeyed all of them, even the one that could not be named. So she led her women out, all of the priestesses save Kethra, who would remain behind to watch over the younger girls; all of the green-clad seniors, the historian Derila and her peers. None of the juniors; those who wore the blue robe might not yet learn the conduct of this ritual, and could most certainly not attend its enactment.