The Dark Mirror

by Juliet Marillier

  A fork of lightning split the sky, illuminating pale shore, dunes like snowy hillocks, wind-ravaged bushes. Darkness fell again as the thunder cracked close at hand, deafening him. A moment later they erupted from cover. Bridei’s heart lurched. He grabbed for his knife, whirled even as hands seized him, three men at least, one behind, one on either side. Rain hammered down, sudden and violent. His fingers slipped on the knife. The man on his back was dragging him to the ground, another was trying to stuff something into his mouth . . . Bridei slashed wildly, heard a shriek of pain, felt the knife fall as something blunt and heavy smashed across his wrist. A white light flashed; he heard shouting, perhaps his own name. An instant later there was a jarring blow to the back of his head, and the world turned to darkness.

  THE CHAMBER SWAM into focus: woolen hangings softening stone walls, a lamp on a chest in the corner, someone bent over a shelf, pouring an infusion from a steaming kettle to a cup. A pungent smell arose; it was one of Luthana’s brews, crammed with healing herbs and bitter to the tongue. Voices came to Tuala’s ears, not close but outside somewhere. Fola’s voice, held quiet. “I don’t think she can stay here. Not after this. If she persists in such behavior we risk losing her anyway”

  The figure by the shelf turned. It was Luthana herself, cup in hand, elderly features kindly. Memory returned; Tuala turned her face into the pillow.

  “Come, child. You must try to drink. You’ve had a terrible chill; this will give strength to your heart and help clear your head. Come on, Tuala, I know you’re awake. Sit up; let me help you . . .”

  It seemed pointless to drink; pointless to try. Nothing made sense anymore. What was the Shining One doing? The illuminator of pathways had obscured the road before Tuala’s feet; had snatched from her the one chance she had of making the future bright and good, as she had always believed it must be. Always, always, even in deepest despair, when the folk of Pitnochie turned against her, when she cut her hair and passed the care of Bridei into the hands of the goddess, when Broichan sent her away, Tuala recognized that a tiny, hidden part of her had still believed in that future, a future in which she walked forward by Bridei’s side, a life in which her love would make him strong enough for the great task the gods had laid on him. Despite all, in her secret heart she had clung to that. Why else had the Shining One delivered her to Bridei’s own doorstep and ensured that he would be the one to find her? Why else had the goddess allowed her an education such as no other girl in all Fortriu was granted? They were bound together, the two of them; bound in a sacred trust, and in a love that had grown, wondrously, from the innocent devotion, the comfortable familiarity of childhood to a deep, strong thing, a heady, tumultuous thing, the burgeoning passion between man and woman. She had felt the pull of that as she touched his hand; as her lips sought his with a hunger that surged in her like a spring tide. She had believed Bridei felt it, too, for all his restraint. His kiss had seemed to speak the words for him.

  Yet he had not come back. All night she had waited, until under a pale dawn Kethra had found her wretched and soaked, still clinging to the bare branches of the oak, her teeth gritted, her eyes squeezed shut, and on her cheeks hot tears mingling with the rain. She had been too cramped to move; they’d had to send two of the more agile seniors up a ladder to get her safely to the ground. After that it was all a blur. She supposed she had slept awhile. She had no idea where she was; there were no such small, private chambers in the students’ area of Banmerren. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered beyond the misery of it. Bridei hadn’t come. It seemed she had been wrong. He did not love her, save in the affectionate manner of a brother and friend. He had decided to move on without her. Or Broichan had decided for him. Didn’t Broichan decide everything?

  “Good, child,” Luthana said, tipping the cup against Tuala’s lips. “All of it, now. Later we’ll try some soup. Don’t shake your head like that, you’ll make me spill it. You must eat. We nearly lost you. Don’t make a mockery of Bone Mother’s decision to let you stay awhile longer. That’s it, good. You can rest now. Fola will come in later; she wants to talk to you.”

  “H-how—?” Tuala could hardly find her voice; her body felt shaky, weak, like a garment pounded on the rocks to utter limpness. “How long—?”

  Luthana’s gaze was shrewd, compassionate. “You’ve been gravely ill, Tuala. That was a strange thing to do, indeed; I cannot understand what drives you to such wild and pointless behavior. You’d do well to seek the wisdom of the Shining One; to ask for her direction.”

  Tuala closed her eyes. The Shining One? Hardly. Perhaps, once, the goddess had illuminated her way, had smiled on her daughter in recognition and love. Now she had turned her bright gaze away. Who knew what she wanted? “Please,” Tuala whispered, as the wise woman rose to her feet. “How long have I been here, like this?”

  “Three days,” Luthana said. “In a fever for most of that; you had us very worried. The worst is over now. If you make an effort to eat and apply your mind to what Fola tells you, you should be out of bed in a day or two.”

  “Where—?”

  “You’re in the wise women’s quarters, Tuala. Fola thought that more appropriate. The junior girls have had enough disruption already this winter, as you’ll be well aware. Here, we can keep an eye on you. Now rest awhile. You’ll see Fola later.”

  Keep an eye on you. That translated loosely as, stop you from doing anything like this again. It hardly mattered now if she was some kind of prisoner. Nothing at all mattered, really. Without Bridei there seemed no point to any of it. Without his love and without the love of the Shining One, life shrank to something so small and insignificant it was hardly worth having. Perhaps the best thing was simply to curl up here in this little room, close her eyes and wish the world away. Luthana could hardly force her to eat . . .

  Time passed. The two of them were there with her in the quiet chamber, as they had been in the tree, keeping up their commentary, maintaining their blend of coaxing, persuasive argument, and blunt analysis.

  “It’s as I expected.” Gossamer’s voice, light, mocking, but with a softness in it. Compassion was not in the nature of the Good Folk; still, these two had made themselves close to Tuala. If they cared nothing for her, why were they here at all? “He desires you, or did so when he came here; that was plain enough. But men’s desire is short-lived. A moment of heady arousal, a few second thoughts, and by next full moon he’s off pursuing more appropriate quarry. That girl Ana, for instance. No doubt Bridei saw the error of his ways and transferred his attentions to her.”

  Tuala held her silence; she had not the energy to protest. Where once she would have thrown these cruel words back in the forest girl’s face, now she found them all too believable.

  “You’re sad,” said Woodbine, settling himself on the bed by her feet. He was no heavier than a cat. “That isn’t so surprising. You thought he would put you before the kingship. You were wrong. You thought you had a sort of haven here, a second best, at least. That was wrong, too; Fola doesn’t want you anymore. You’re becoming a liability, unpredictable, a danger both to your fellow students and to yourself. If you choose to stay out all night in a storm and perish from exposure to the elements, Broichan must be told, and so must Bridei. And while Bridei may have decided a king cannot wed a woman of the Good Folk, that does not mean he cares nothing at all for you. Your death would anger him greatly. It would cause a rift between himself and a certain influential druid. Fola doesn’t want to be responsible for that. She doesn’t want to be responsible for you, not now the task has grown so difficult.”

  They would send her away, Tuala thought vaguely. Where? Where could she go?

  “Ah, well,” Woodbine said cheerfully, “at least there’s that fellow, Garvan. Didn’t he say he’d have you whenever you were ready? It looks as if the time’s come sooner than anyone expected. And he’s at court just now, waiting to find out what commissions the new king will have for him. Eagle stones, I imagine.”

  Garvan; lum
pish Garvan with his big hands. Herself by his side, running his household, sharing his bed, bearing his children . . . It was not to be contemplated. It was not to be numbered in the possibilities. Possibilities . . . it seemed suddenly there were none. All had shrunk to this chamber, this bed, these walls . . . this day . . .

  “Look up there!” Gossamer’s voice rang out like a clear chime. “Someone’s been marking the wall; scratching it with a knife. Oh, and look here, another set of marks. How odd. It’s as if there were a prisoner here, counting off days.”

  “All the days from Maiden Dance to Gateway,” said Woodbine softly. “All the days of a life. It’s a cozy little cell. They try to keep a girl comfortable in here. All the same, Morna must have been very lonely; lonely and frightened. Who could ever be truly prepared for such a trial? These lines, so neatly cut into the stone, must have helped her; her own little ritual, orderly and sure, in the midst of a world suddenly turned dark and unreal. How their minds must have plagued them as they watched over her, cosseted her, trained her, readied her. How their visions must have tormented their sleep, while the girl sat here alone with her candle and her little knife, carving a lonely litany of days. I wonder why they chose this place for you, Tuala? I wonder what they plan?”

  “I don’t really care anymore,” Tuala whispered. “Nothing seems to matter.”

  “Exactly,” said Woodbine. “Have a good sleep, now. Talk to Fola. We’ll be back. Unlike you, we have a plan; I think you’ll approve of it. It’s far superior to a marriage made out of desperation, and much better than staying where you’ll never be truly welcome. Sweet dreams, Tuala.” And they were gone; the cat, Shade, sauntering in through the doorway, bristled in sudden alarm, tail rigid. Tuala lay, wide awake now, staring up at the little marks on the wall, desperate scratchings in stone, the more pathetic for their very neatness and order. What had Morna been thinking as she made them, night after night? What had all those girls been seeing as they waited out the lonely seasons of preparation for one Gateway or another? So many young lives gone; so much of beauty and vitality lost in the well of the dark god, tossed away to feed a hunger that could never be satisfied. How could this go on? How could Bridei be a part of it? How could he live with that if she were not there to help him?

  Shade jumped to the bed, landing heavily on Tuala’s legs. He turned three times and settled behind her knees, pinning the blankets tightly. His presence was comforting; it reminded her of Mist. Mist in the forest, searching for martens; Mist in the kitchen, laying a fat mouse proudly at Ferat’s feet. Mist on Erip’s knee, warming the fitful sleep of a sick old man. Mist locked in; Mist yowling in protest as Tuala rode away from Pitnochie for the last time . . .

  It came to Tuala that there was no need to listen to Fola; she knew already what the wise woman would say. Behavior unsuited to a servant of the goddess . . . disruption . . . take time to consider your future . . . She didn’t even need to wait for Woodbine and Gossamer to tell her their grand plan; it didn’t require much insight to guess what it was. Even without it, her mind was made up. She could not remain here in this little chamber with its sad record of wasted lives, of seasons of loneliness and despair. Banmerren would be closed to her; even if it were not, she could not remain here if Bridei was so near, and wed to another. Pitnochie would hardly welcome her; she could not live in Broichan’s household. She would not have Garvan, for she could never love him, and to wed without love was a travesty. To agree to that would be fair neither to Garvan nor to herself. So, she would take the step she had never dared to take; she would trust in her own folk, those elusive creatures whose teasing, vexing presence had become more or less constant during her stay at Banmerren. It was a long way back to the Great Glen, and it was winter. Never mind that; Gossamer and Woodbine would find an answer. Tuala was going home.

  “WHEN WILL HE be restored to himself?” Aniel asked. “How soon will he be ready?”

  “You speak as if you cared only for the battle to be won here, and nothing for the young man himself,” said Talorgen wearily, passing a cup of ale to the councillor and pouring a second for himself. They were sitting in the antechamber to Broichan’s quarters; it had become a regular gathering place for certain men in recent days. “He hovers between life and death. You’d best not put such a question to Broichan.”

  “I heard a hint that the lad’s coming out of it,” said Aniel. “If I thought Bridei was dying I’d have been less blunt. Uist says he’s fighting his way back, though how our druidic friends can determine that is a puzzle to me; the last time they let me in, the boy seemed deep in unconsciousness and little changed since they carried him home, save that he’s considerably thinner. From time to time he stirs, they say, and it’s possible to get a little broth into him, half a cup of water. He mutters nonsense; the stuff of ancient memories twisted and tangled. I suppose a druid knows how to interpret that. We must hope he returns to us with no loss of wit or understanding. The entire future of our kingdom depends on this young man.”

  “He could do no better for attendants. Between Broichan’s herbs and Uist’s incantations, along with the labor of his devoted complement of guards, one would think the lad would hardly dare not get well again. Bridei inspires great trust; one might almost call it love. There’s the spark of kingship in him already. All they need to do is get him on his feet before the presentation of claimants. And keep him well until the election.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Aniel, smiling. “The election. And aren’t there going to be some surprises then . . . Sour-faced and taciturn as that man Faolan is, I salute him for his abilities. He has the miscreant in custody, secretly; in addition, there’s evidence linking the assailant firmly to Drust the Boar, or to his advisers at least. We’ve Uist to thank for that. His little sojourn in Circinn, coupled with his astonishing memory, fixed the man’s face in his head clearly. Of course, Bargoit’s folk will think of an excuse to try to discredit Uist as a witness when we make this public.”

  “Not difficult. Uist’s known to be somewhat eccentric; some would go further and call him addled in his wits. His thoughts inhabit a different plane from those of ordinary men; the simplest interpretation of that is to call him crazy. Who but a madman would decide to walk back from Circinn alone, so close to Midwinter?”

  “That doesn’t matter. Folk will recognize the truth. Besides, Faolan will make his prisoner talk: how he was paid to track Bridei, to eliminate him before the candidates were presented; who was handing out purses of silver for such a deed.”

  “Where is this would-be assassin? He should be questioned also about the earlier attempt, when a man was poisoned at my own table.”

  “He’s not here at Caer Pridne. Faolan has him safe.”

  “That Gael’s a busy fellow. The others, I understand, lie buried somewhere in the dunes.”

  “What others?” Aniel raised his brows in mock surprise.

  “Mm,” Talorgen mused. “And we’re certain Bargoit knows nothing of what we plan?”

  “Oh, he’ll be suspicious. After all, his assassins failed to report back. And he knows Bridei’s still alive; that’s unless he thinks our story of a bad case of the flux is designed to cover a desperate search for a new candidate. Unlikely; we’d simply put Carnach up instead. At least he’d be better than a southerner.”

  “I’ll be happier when Bridei opens his eyes and begins to talk sense to us,” Talorgen said. “In that I’m fully in agreement with you, my friend. Midwinter is almost upon us; he’s lain there in apparent sleep for a long time, and that must take a toll on body and mind. We don’t want him weak and incapable. We don’t want to have to use a proxy; Bridei is his own best spokesman. He has a gift with words; his speeches, plain as they are, stir men’s spirits. All the same, one of us must be ready to speak for him.”

  “Broichan will want that privilege,” Aniel said.

  “Broichan? That would be unwise. He has many enemies and is much feared. A more straightforward man would do better.”

&nbs
p; “Yourself?” asked Aniel wryly.

  “Hardly. I’d do it only if there were no other suitable choice. Ged, perhaps?”

  There was a tap at the door and Carnach came in, ducking under the lintel. He was the tallest man at Caer Pridne, dwarfing even Breth. “How is he?” the red-haired man inquired.

  “Much the same. Getting better, we’re told. This makes for an anxious time of waiting. We were discussing the matter of proxies.”

  “I’ll do it,” Carnach offered immediately, sitting down beside Talorgen and reaching for the ale. “That would have some impact, I think. I step up, and instead of doing what they all expect, that is, announcing my own claim and setting out my own qualities, I tell the assembled voters I’m there to present Bridei as the future king of Fortriu; Bridei who, a whisper told me, is absent only because his main rival in the race tried to have him murdered before he could so much as state his intention to claim. That would make an impression. Mind you, I’d prefer that Bridei himself be well enough to stand up and speak. We all want that. That wretched Bargoit! I long to set my hands around that fellow’s neck and give a good, hard squeeze.”

  “You’re not alone in that, believe me,” said Aniel. “But we’ll snuff him out with words, not deeds. In setting up this attempt at assassination, Drust the Boar has sealed his own fate. Thank the gods for Faolan.”

  “Somehow,” Talorgen said, “that seems most inappropriate. Whatever it is we must thank for the presence of that Gael, gods are most certainly not a part of it.”

  UIST SAT BY Bridei’s pallet, wiping his patient’s brow with a damp cloth and studying the planes and shadows of the unconscious features, where nothing at all seemed to hint at life. Nonetheless, Bridei breathed; there seemed an eternity between each outward sigh, each inward gasp, as if to move from that point of balance took, each time, a tremendous strength of will. It was the gods, perhaps, that drove his choice to live. He had lain thus, deep in unconsciousness, for many days. Those brief times when he seemed to struggle toward awareness were disturbed by dark visions; what words he had uttered had been garbled even beyond a druid’s understanding. They had been something less than honest, Uist and Broichan, in their reports to the others, trusted friends as they were. Even Aniel, even Talorgen did not know how this had drained them; how close despair had crept. Broichan’s features were gaunt with exhaustion. Garth slept now on a bench by the wall, covered with a cloak, while Breth busied himself heating water in preparation to bathe the unconscious man. Bridei’s guards would not let the Caer Pridne servants in; none but the inner circle might tend to this fallen leader. Beyond the door, Aniel’s bodyguard stood on watch; Talorgen’s personal attendants were stationed on the wall-walk beyond. Of Faolan there was no sign today. He had much to occupy him. All the same, each night the Gael returned to keep vigil by Bridei’s bedside, a silent presence among them, taking his turn with the changing of linen, the brewing of draughts, the lifting of the patient and the washing of his ever thinner body; remaining wakeful through the night while the others slept, all but the two druids, dark-clad, shadow-eyed Broichan and wild Uist of the flowing white garments and aureole of snowy hair. These two did not seem to sleep. They rested standing in meditation, or kneeling with open, unseeing eyes, listening for the whispering voices of the gods. In the morning Faolan would slip away without a word.