“He will wake soon,” Broichan said now, moving to look down on his foster son. “What possessed them, I wonder? When I trusted his security to Faolan, I did not expect the Gael to take such a risk. Setting out to draw an attack is all very well, but you don’t place the man you’re paid to keep safe in such a perilous position. If you hadn’t happened along with staff in hand, my friend, who knows if Faolan could have felled two and captured the third so neatly?”
“A fortunate coincidence,” said Uist with a cryptic smile. “Who’d have thought my mare would have carried me by that spot at precisely the right time? I did rather enjoy my small lightning bolt; my staff still quivers in memory when I set my hand on it. Even Faolan was alarmed. But not for long; the fellow is every bit as capable as Drust always told us. Bridei should keep him.”
“He put Bridei at great risk, sending him out alone thus, at night, and only lightly armed. We could have lost him.”
There was something in Broichan’s voice that gave the old druid pause. Uist looked in the other’s eyes and smiled again. “I imagine sometimes,” he said quietly, “how it must be for a father of many sons, of many daughters. So many moments of terror; so many small griefs, so many anxieties. I find myself doubly glad I embraced the way of the gods and never took a wife. Not that I wasn’t tempted, a long time ago. Fola was a delightful girl, so tiny and so determined. A little like that fosterling of yours, what was her name?”
“Tuala.” A tight mask descended over Broichan’s features, forbidding further questions. But Uist, too, was a druid.
“Didn’t Fola send a messenger here some time ago, just after the attack on Bridei? What did she want? Have you passed on this news?”
“She knows my foster son is sick. Her message to me was personal.”
“I see.” Uist did not ask what kind of personal news had required the despatch of a rider in such inclement weather. “Of course,” he went on, “you do understand that any information that might relate in any way whatever to our plan cannot be classified as personal, however private it may seem to you. If it’s to do with the girl, Tuala, it may well relate to Bridei. And he is the center of our plan. Do not forget what we agreed, the five of us; do not forget our undertaking of total honesty”
“It was personal.”
A tap at the door; Aniel looked in. “We’ve had visitors,” he said. “Tharan and Eogan. Expressed their sorrow that Bridei was still laid low and told me somewhat indirectly that we had their support, since Carnach won’t be in the contest. Tharan wouldn’t put it in so many words, of course; Carnach has wounded his mentor’s pride with this decision. Still, I read this as genuine enough.”
Broichan nodded. “Good,” he said. “I may detest your fellow councillor, but I do know we can rely on him to put the best interests of Fortriu before any other considerations. This wretched attempt on Bridei’s life has served only to unite us against the south. We still don’t have the numbers, for all that. And time grows ever shorter.”
“Bridei’s got that under control.” To their surprise it was the bodyguard, Breth, who spoke from his place by the hearth. “He’ll get his numbers.”
“I hope you’re correct,” said Aniel drily. “Bridei’s hardly in a position of control right now I pray the gods restore him in time, and that we can trust his forward planning.”
“He’s to be king,” said Breth simply “Of course you can trust him.”
“SO,” DR ESE IDA SAID, pacing the rush-strewn floor of the women’s quarters, “the girl has fled Banmerren. Gone wild. I suppose it was inevitable that she’d do so eventually. She could never have become one of Fola’s sisterhood; that was a misguided notion from the first. She’ll have gone back. Couldn’t help herself.”
“Gone back?” echoed Ferada. “Gone where?”
“Back beyond the margin; back where she came from. Back where her kind belong. It’s not helpful news for us. If the girl’s gone, we can’t make use of her. I’d hoped her devotion to her foster brother, and his to her, might offer an opportunity . . . How is Bridei? What’s being said?”
Ferada stared at her mother in surprise. “Why would I know any more than you do, Mother? I’ve only just come back from Banmerren. As far as I know, Bridei’s improving, but still too sick to have visitors. That’s what Ana said; she tried to go and see him and they wouldn’t let her in. If you want news, why don’t you ask Father?”
“Your father’s as tight as a limpet on this particular topic,” Dreseida said. “But I’ve heard enough to unsettle me. It seems you were right for once, daughter. Against all logic, it appears the chosen candidate is not to be the obvious one after all. They really are intending to put Bridei up, that’s if he recovers in time. Bridei, that mealymouthed scholar with his head in the clouds. Broichan’s pawn. I can scarcely believe it! The blood runs but weakly in that boy. His father is a man of Gwynedd, a foreigner; his mother’s only a distant cousin of Drust the Bull. How can such a half-breed have the strength to serve as king of Fortriu? It’s all Broichan’s doing. Druids carry too much power. That man should have been stopped before his influence began to corrupt others. Others who should have known better. It is regrettable. It is a great deal more than regrettable.” Dreseida was twisting her hands together, pacing up and down like a caged creature.
Ferada cleared her throat nervously “But, Mother . . . I agree that it is somewhat surprising if Carnach has agreed to support Bridei’s claim rather than stand against him. But it does make sense, when you think about it. We need just one strong candidate from the north, not two or three, if we are to have the numbers to defeat Drust the Boar. Certainly, as you said, Carnach is the obvious choice. Or was. They’re saying Bridei has widespread support now, and that it’s growing daily. His honesty, his courage, his gift for plain speaking are much admired. And King Drust the Bull thought highly of him. That is widely known, and must count strongly in his favor.”
The look her mother turned on her then made Ferada suck in her breath. She stood very still, wondering what sin she had committed this time; what punishment would be meted out.
“Very well, Ferada,” said Dreseida briskly, clasping her hands before her. Ferada saw her mother’s attempt to restore calm to her tight features; to will the fury from her eyes. To a stranger, it would have been entirely convincing. “A slight change of plan. We’ve only a matter of days before Drust the Boar arrives and all of this begins in earnest. The moment Bridei recovers sufficiently, you must create an opportunity to talk with him in private. Today, tomorrow, no later.”
“But, Mother—you know how tight the guard is around him. Even more so now, with the election close and Bridei so sick.”
“Stop babbling and listen to me. By all the gods, I sometimes wonder why folk think you clever. I have a job for you. Not special confidences this time, he’ll be too weary for that. Just a sickbed visit, just yourself and Bridei alone together. Be sweet, be charming, be a girl, if you can stretch to that. I wish you to administer a . . . I hesitate to call it a love potion, that sounds so crude, but in effect that is exactly what it is. You’ll make an opportunity, you’ll see Bridei alone and you’ll slip it into his drink. Make sure his eyes are on you when he takes it.”
“What?” This was so unexpected that Ferada thought she had misheard.
“Weigh it up, Ferada. Bridei or Cealtran. A healthy young man, whom you already tolerate quite well, or a pot-bellied ancient with creeping hands. I know which I’d choose.”
Ferada was lost for words.
“You could be queen,” her mother said softly. “Is that enough power for you, daughter? This will be easy. I have a little ring here, a trifle of a thing, with a cunning hinged setting; a few grains of the powder can be concealed within and released into a cup of water or ale with ease, arousing no suspicion whatever. They’ll let you in. Blush, smile, flutter your eyelashes. Convince the guards that you are a woman in love. Make sure it’s Breth or Garth on duty and not that wretched Gael.”
“
But, Mother, this doesn’t make sense at all. You’ve always disliked Bridei; you just implied that you despise him. That you think he doesn’t have a will of his own. Why would you want your only daughter to wed such a man?”
“Answer me one question, Ferada,” said Dreseida very softly. “What have I told you about marriage, over and over since you were an infant? What is the one reason to wed, the one basis for choosing a spouse?”
“Strategy.” Ferada’s tone was full of bitterness. “We marry for power. For influence.”
“Good girl.” Dreseida smiled, making her daughter shudder. “If, against all common sense, Bridei is to be king, then I must accept it. But only if it is my child who becomes his queen. So he is a bore, more content with his books and prayers than with the councils of the powerful. Never mind that. He’s a man. He can be influenced. Even Broichan can be influenced. So, you will do as I ask. Unless, of course, you really do prefer Cealtran.”
Ferada swallowed, desperately searching for words. Oddly, the feeling that was strongest in her at this moment seemed to be relief. “I . . . You know that I have no desire to wed, Mother. If I must do so, I would rather not rely on old wives’ potions to snare a mate. Why can’t Father just ask Broichan if he’d consider this match? It’s entirely suitable. Indeed, Father has hinted more than once that he views it as desirable.”
“There is no time for that.” Dreseida’s voice was cold. “I want it settled now. I want it certain. The moment the boy is sufficiently recovered to see his friends, you’ll do this. And you’ll keep quiet about it. It will reflect far better on you in the future if it’s believed Bridei chose you because he admires you and thinks you suited to be queen of Fortriu. In that, your talk of old wives’ potions is entirely accurate.”
“In a way” Ferada said, “I am heartened by this. By your decision. I would prefer not to marry Bridei. I would prefer not to wed at all. But you’ve allayed my fears on one point. I thought—I was coming to think—no, I realize that was foolish. Of course you wouldn’t put Gartnait up as a contender for the kingship; that would be too cruel.”
Dreseida had turned away as her daughter spoke. Ferada could not see her mother’s face. The voice, when it came, was under iron control. “The ring is on the table, there, by the candle stand. Take it. Use it. If you don’t go through with this, Ferada, believe me, your life won’t be worth living. The moment the boy is sufficiently recovered to see his friends, do it. I’m relying on you.”
“Couldn’t this wait until Bridei is fully recovered? Perhaps until after the election? I don’t see—”
“Ferada.” It was that tone again; the tone that caused ice to trickle down the spine of the listener.
“Yes, Mother?”
“You’ll do this now Within two days, if possible. Get it wrong, and what awaits you will be far worse than the elderly Cealtran, I promise you.”
“Mother . . . Ferada drew a deep, shuddering breath. “This is—it seems wrong . . .”
“Enough!” Dreseida’s voice was a whiplash; Ferada cringed, despite herself. “Don’t think to criticize me! Believe me, time is of the essence here. I am perhaps the only one at court who understands what is at stake. Now that Drust is gone, I am the truest of the blood: I and mine. Be glad this is all I ask of you, Ferada. And don’t ever think to challenge me, for there is no doubt who would be the victor in such a contest. Now go.”
“I will; but—”
“Go!”
“Yes, Mother.”
IT WAS A hard and weary journey. Tuala had thought it might be quick with Woodbine and Gossamer to guide her; could not such creatures change their form at will, glide above the wintry land, dive deep in bottomless lakes, fly swift as swallows on currents above the Glen? If she were of their kind, could not she do the same and bridge the gap from Banmerren to Pitnochie as easily and lightly as she had danced across the wall from rooftop to tree, heedless of danger? Could not she be as an owl of the forest, a salmon of the river, a deer, a hare, a creature running free? It seemed not; at least, not yet.
“You’ve been too many seasons among human folk,” Gossamer said. “We warned you long ago. It’s weakened you; softened your will and diluted your magic. A little time in the realm beyond, and everything will come back to you. Meanwhile, you’re going to have to walk. We’ll watch over you.”
But as Tuala maintained a dogged progress in the general direction of the Glen, spending her nights huddled in the shelter of outhouses or sodden haystacks, eating a moldering loaf that was all she had managed to snatch before her midnight flight from Banmerren—out through a tiny window while her keepers were at prayer, up the tree, onto the wall, then descending in the one, brief moment of proof that she was indeed more than human, for she had closed her eyes, imagined herself an owl, and jumped—she realized her companions were every bit as elusive and unpredictable now, when their help made the difference between life and death for her, as they had been in easier times. Sometimes they were there beside her, encouraging her with kind words, with songs and tales; sometimes she would wake at first light, cramped, chill, and despondent, to find herself all alone. When that happened, she trusted her senses to find the path and blessed Erip’s lessons in geography and the lore of sun, moon, and stars. Such an education made it unlikely she would ever be lost.
She had thought herself beyond caring about anything, after last full moon. But certain matters worried her. It seemed to be getting colder, and from time to time snow fell, lightly still, but setting a deep chill in the bones, so that she was never quite without a longing for fire. Her boots were soaked right through; her feet were a mass of blisters. Why didn’t Gossamer and Woodbine feel the cold? When they returned, slipping down beside her in the straw behind a pigpen, the best refuge she could find, she asked them this question and received a familiar answer.
“You’ve been too long among them. Your tides have begun to move in the pattern of theirs. When we are home, you will recover quickly. There, there is no more heat, no more cold; there is no more pain.”
“But . . .” Tuala ventured, “it might not mean that. Maybe I’m cold and tired and hungry because I’m not one of you. Maybe I’m human, like Bridei.” To speak his name was bittersweet: a charm of love and loss.
“Huh!” scoffed Woodbine, settling himself more comfortably in the straw. “Didn’t you fly down from the walls of Banmerren? A human girl would have broken her neck.”
“Then maybe I am half and half: the offspring of a union between your kind and the human kind.”
“We’d know,” Gossamer assured her. “It’s rare. Think about your tales. Consider Amna of the White Shawl. She didn’t even bother to keep that wretch Conn for more than a night at a time, and in the end she finished him off. His weakness disgusted her. What would such a one as she want with an infant that was half his? She certainly wouldn’t deliver it to the door of a dwelling of human kind, all wrapped up warm against the winter. She loathed the man. He couldn’t satisfy her. The last thing she’d concern herself with was the survival of his child.”
“But you said—Woodbine said—Amna was a made-up story,” Tuala protested. “And what about the owl woman? She had children. It does happen. Besides, whatever I am, my parents didn’t want me. If I do belong among you, if my mother and father were indeed of the Good Folk, why didn’t they keep me? No, don’t vanish, answer the question! Why won’t you tell me? Don’t I deserve the truth if I’m to come with you? What if I walk across this margin you speak of and find that even there nobody wants me?”
“Is that what you believe?” A coldness had entered Gossamer’s voice. “You wish that we leave you here to seek your future among these human folk who have treated you so unjustly, so unkindly? Where would you go?”
“I don’t want that,” Tuala whispered. “I only want to know who I am. And I want to get warm and dry. It seems such a long way”
“Hmm.” Woodbine regarded her with his round, strange eyes. “I can’t do much about the cold. Ligh
t a fire, and we’ll have farm folk out to see who’s wandering on their land with an eye out for a fat sheep or two. How long have we been on the road? Three days, four?”
“Four,” Tuala said grimly. “And we’ve barely reached. Serpent Lake. It’s almost dark of the moon, and I think it’s going to snow.”
“Yes,” said Woodbine. “A man on a horse could travel the distance far more quickly, of course, given a fortunate conjunction of weather and moonlight. He’d need a mount of exceptional qualities. As for our kind, we do not make our journeys idly. Each follows its own particular pathway and unfolds in its own perfect timing. We cannot transport you home in an eye blink, which is what they say druids do. But we can move more quickly now. Dark of the moon is good.”
The Dark Mirror Page 54
