“No, it isn’t,” said Tuala. “It means we can’t go by night, not unless we want to stumble into a bog, or fall in the lake and become fodder for the serpents.”
“Dark of the moon is the right time to end our journey,” said Gossamer. “Dark of the moon falls at Midwinter; it is a conjunction of great significance, almost as great as that of the night you were found on Broichan’s doorstep, a vision of light and hope. Then, the Shining One revealed her true beauty in all its radiant power; this time, she hides her face from the world of men and from our own world as the season turns. Who knows what may unfold on such a night? At Caer Pridne, the candidates for kingship will stand up and declare themselves. Your friend will be among them; a certain young noblewoman will be close by, smiling on him, applauding him. And we will be in the woods above Pitnochie; we will stand by the Dark Mirror. One step, that’s all it will take, and you will be forever free of these human cares. In that realm, all your questions will be answered . . .”
FERADA,” SAID ANA GENTLY, “I think you’re sewing that onto your skirt.”
“Oh.” Ferada looked down at her work, muttered an unladylike oath, and proceeded to unpick a line of crooked stitching, her mouth tight. The two of them were sitting by lamplight, for the winter day was dark even so early in the afternoon, heavy clouds obscuring the face of the Flamekeeper, who burned low and weakly so close to solstice time. Ana’s embroidery was exquisite: a pattern of tiny flowers, cream on cream, each with a narrow border of duck-egg blue.
“What’s the matter?” she asked now, observing the impatient movement of Ferada’s hands as the red-haired girl jerked the thread out, almost tearing the fabric. “You’re upset about something, it’s obvious. You look exhausted. Are you still thinking about Gateway?”
“How can I not think about it?” Ferada’s tone was grim. “After I heard, I couldn’t decide if I despised Fola for letting such atrocities happen or admired her for her unflinching obedience to the gods. I still can’t decide. Such a ritual could only have been devised by men. How could any right-thinking woman accept it? I can’t believe the Shining One would allow it to continue, year after year. It is so wrong.”
“Shh.” Ana glanced about nervously, as if the gods might be just behind her, listening. The two girls were alone in this quiet chamber in the women’s quarters, but at any moment others might join them for sewing. There were many women at Caer Pridne now, all waiting with their menfolk for the presentation of candidates, the assembly, the announcement of the new structures of power. Within the next ten days many futures would be decided. The cold season allowed much time for the pursuit of such crafts as embroidery, spinning, and weaving. Nonetheless, the older women showed a marked preference for the great hall, with its wide hearth, its music, and its wealth of interesting conversations. At such times of change, women were useful conveyers of information and might bring considerable influence to bear on their menfolk, provided they had sharp ears and well-honed persuasive skills. “Maybe you do think that,” Ana went on, “but you shouldn’t say it aloud.”
“I’m beginning to wonder why not.” Ferada ripped out the last of the wayward thread and bit off the frayed end. “I’m beginning to wonder if I believe in anything at all, beyond the fact that men and women are motivated by greed and the lust for power.”
“Ferada!” Ana put down her work and stared at her friend in alarm. “That’s a terrible thing to say. What about love? What about the wish to help others? What about the betterment of your people and your realm?”
Ferada lifted her brows. “I believed in all that once,” she said. “If you still hold to such ideals I’m glad for you. I suppose it gives you hope, something you need if you’re to stay trapped here as a hostage until someone decides to let you go home.”
“You’re very cynical,” Ana said quietly. “And you don’t believe your own words, deep down. There are many worthy men and women, good, unselfish ones. What about Bridei?”
Ferada’s hands jerked involuntarily and she winced as the needle jabbed her finger.
“Come on,” Ana said. “Out with it.”
“I need to see him. Bridei. Only they won’t let him have visitors.”
“Mm,” said Ana. “Me, too; as I told you, Aniel sent me packing. One of us needs to get in. One of us needs to tell him.”
Ferada stared at her.
“About Tuala,” Ana said. “About what’s happened to her. He’d want to know as soon as he was well enough.”
“But . . .” Ferada frowned, twisting her fingers together. “Wouldn’t Broichan have told him already? Fola did send him a messenger.”
Ana’s gaze was grave. “Yes; I’m sure Broichan knows that Tuala ran away. As her foster father, it would be his responsibility to send searchers after her; to try to find her. But I’m not sure he’d pass the news on to Bridei. The presentation of candidates is only three days away, and Bridei’s still sick, or so everyone says. He’d be very upset to know Tuala was missing; that she’d gone off all by herself in the middle of winter and that nobody had been able to find out where. Broichan will want Bridei at his best for the presentation.”
“But you’d tell him anyway,” Ferada said.
“Wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t know” Ferada’s tone was quite lacking in its usual confidence. “I just know I need to see him, and I don’t know how to do it.”
A group of women entered the chamber, their voices low and pleasant: Queen Rhian, pale but composed, and three of her court ladies. All carried work baskets. The two girls rose to their feet and bowed their heads politely.
“Don’t disturb yourselves, girls,” Rhian said, settling on a bench by the small hearth fire. “We’re merely seeking a quiet spot; the hall is swarming with folk, most of them talking utter nonsense, or so it seems to me. I do have some news that will interest you. Aniel tells me Bridei is much improved today; sitting up and showing an interest in warm broth, was the way he put it. I thank the gods for this. It’s been long; I’ve never known a case of the flux to lay a healthy man low for so many days. What is it, ten, twelve? I pray Bridei improves sufficiently to speak for himself at the presentation. We’ve had news that the king of Circinn is only one day’s travel away, and will be making his own claim in person.”
Ana looked at Ferada, and Ferada looked back. The same idea had occurred to each of them. Ana gave a little nod, as if to say, You do it.
“My lady,” Ferada ventured, “I’m certain it would aid Bridei’s recovery greatly, were you to pay him a visit in person. He valued the king’s good opinion above all. It would encourage him, I believe, if . . .” She allowed her voice to trail away in what seemed a sudden attack of girlish shyness. Ana suppressed a smile.
Queen Rhian’s eyes were shrewd. “You ask this as a family friend?” she queried.
“And as a personal friend,” Ferada said, blushing without the need for artifice. To make such a suggestion to one’s queen was somewhat bolder than the niceties of court behavior allowed.
“I see,” Rhian said, glancing from Ferada to Ana and back again. “And you’d be wanting to come, too, I suppose.”
Ferada looked down at her hands. “I would very much welcome that. Just for a moment; I know he’s been seriously ill.”
“Both of you?” The queen’s brows rose.
“Oh, no,” Ana said hurriedly “Ferada can do it; that is, one of us is enough. I’m happy to wait until Bridei is well enough to be among folk again.”
“Mm,” said Rhian. “It’s almost worth trying, just to see if I can get past that formidable army of protectors they’ve assembled. I don’t know which are the more intimidating, the bodyguards or the druids. Very well, Ferada. Perhaps tomorrow, after breakfast. I’ll send for you. Will that suit?”
“Yes, my lady” Ferada did her best to look like a lovestruck girl, all downcast eyes and demurely clasped hands. The ring her mother had given her felt heavy and awkward on her finger; the green-enameled setting with its cunning
hinge was tightly closed, concealing its cargo of inoffensive-looking brown powder. “Thank you.”
“It’s no trouble,” said Rhian. “I can’t understand why you don’t simply ask your father; he’s up there half the day as it is. Still, in affairs of the heart, perhaps fathers are not the best source of help. And maybe it takes a queen to pass through Broichan’s doorway. We’ll see.”
“FAOLAN . . .” BRIDEI WAS saying. “Fetch Faolan . . . now . . . find him now . . .”
“Lie down,” Broichan ordered. “Breth’s gone to look for him. Nothing is so urgent that it can’t wait while you eat and rest and take some time to come back to yourself.”
“Message . . . must send . . .”
“Drink this.” Broichan’s voice was calm and deep. He slipped an arm behind Bridei’s shoulders, lifting and supporting him. His long fingers held a cup to the sick man’s lips.
Bridei took a mouthful and spat it out explosively; Broichan remained still as the liquid splashed over the blankets. “What are you doing?” Bridei gasped. “Can’t . . . sleep . . . no sleep . . . Faolan . . .”
“Faolan will only add his voice to ours.” Uist stood at the foot of the pallet, his light, changeable eyes assessing Bridei as he struggled to free himself from the swathing coverlets and swing his feet to the floor. “You’re in no fit state to do anything but rest, especially if you’ve any thoughts of standing up for yourself at the presentation. Time’s short; I understand how you feel, but it’s in your best interest—”
“Short,” said Bridei, staring at the old druid. “How short? How long . . . like this?”
“Since last full moon,” Broichan said, raising the cup again. “Drink, Bridei. Your sleep has been much troubled. You need this.”
“No!” The cup went flying as Bridei’s hand came up with a violence that surprised all of them. “No, I won’t take it! How long, how many days? What’s wrong with me?”
“Thirteen,” Uist said, watching his charge closely.
“What?”
“Hush, Bridei,” said Broichan. “There is still time. We have three days yet until the presentation. And if you are too weak, Carnach has agreed to stand proxy—”
“What’s wrong with me?” Bridei managed to get his feet to the floor, made an attempt to rise, fell back to the bed as his knees buckled under him.
“Can you remember nothing?” Broichan moved to sit on a bench; in the outer chamber there was now a sound of men’s voices.
“Not since . . . not since full moon.” Bridei’s voice had shrunk to a whisper. His eyes were fierce. “What . . . ?”
“You were attacked, as Faolan had predicted,” Broichan said tightly. “It was an ill-conceived idea, fraught with risk. To send you out alone at night on that shore, in such weather . . . But the Gael, as we know, is not a man to adhere to the accepted rules. Nor does he run risks unless he’s sure of success. You were set upon by three men. Faolan was not far behind you. One was captured, two slain. It was a lot for your keeper to take on himself; too much, I believe. Conveniently, Uist here happened along at a certain point and assisted in the capture. Still more fortunately, he recognized Faolan’s prisoner from an encounter in Circinn. The fellow has talked; he was in Bargoit’s employ. This attempt on your life and, we suspect, others in the past were carried out on the orders of Drust the Boar.”
“You realize what this means,” Uist said. “We have the evidence to discredit your rival in the contest. If you have the numbers to match his, we’ll present this as the deciding argument. Faolan has achieved what the most powerful men in Fortriu couldn’t do; he’s virtually assured your victory.”
“Which would have been less than useful had Bridei been killed in this attack,” Broichan commented.
“Thirteen days,” Bridei said blankly, as if he had heard none of it after that. “Thirteen days?”
“Indeed,” Uist said, “you have lain here unconscious, or half-conscious, all that long time. You’ve suffered a very heavy blow to the head. We’ve put it about that you fell victim to the flux. That will explain your weakness when you emerge. Your guards have proven extremely effective at keeping out the—”
“Now,” Bridei said, rising once more by sheer force of will, though it was necessary for him to clutch the back of a chair to remain upright. “Clothes . . . out . . . Faolan .”
“No.” Broichan’s hand on his shoulder forced Bridei back to the bed; Broichan’s dark eyes bore an expression of command. “You must not be seen in this state. You must not appear in public until your mind is restored to clarity. You have whispered, wept, shouted, ranted much through this time of dark dreams. Now you must rest. Faolan will come; speak to him if you believe it essential. Thank him, for his rash action has in fact worked greatly to our advantage. Give him all the messages you will. Then take the soporific draught and sleep. I have hopes the morning will see you greatly restored.”
IT WAS A matter of waiting. Waiting, while his head reeled with images and his body resisted his attempts to make it work for him; he had not the strength to hold and lift his own cup, and his legs refused to support him for more than a single step before turning to jelly. The headache had changed to something new, a dull, pounding presence that more closely resembled anger than pain. Tuala . . . Tuala there in the tree, waiting for him . . . perhaps waiting all night in the cold, in the rain . . . thirteen days, a whole thirteen days and no message . . . she would have thought . . . she must have believed . . .
“Bridei.” Faolan was here at last. He’d taken a long time; it must be dark outside by now, the sun gone, another day already past, another opportunity lost. The druids were over by the hearth, talking together in low voices. The Gael stood in the doorway, a heavy cloak around his shoulders as if he had been out somewhere and but recently returned. Faolan seemed pale; his gaze was unusually intent.
“Come . . .” Bridei whispered. “Come closer . . .”
Faolan moved to the bedside; sat on a stool, his back to the druids, screening Bridei from their view. It was one of the talents that made him so useful: the ability to understand a great deal without being told. Broichan and Uist could see nothing. On the other hand, druids were known to possess an alarming acuity of hearing.
“Broichan?” Bridei asked.
“Yes?”
“I wish . . . speak Faolan . . . alone. You and Uist . . . fresh air . . . long time . . . tending sick . . .”
“Not in the least—” Broichan began, and fell abruptly silent. A moment later he was following Uist out into the antechamber, and the door closed behind them.
“Amazing,” Faolan observed. “I thought nobody could tell that man what to do.”
“Only another . . . druid,” Bridei said. “Why . . . said it was you? Plan . . . attack? Why?”
“Ah. I should have known that would be your first question. It seemed—expedient. Would you have preferred me to tell the truth?”
“What . . . truth?”
“That you were on your way to visit a certain young lady in a forbidden place and had neglected to mention it to your guards.”
“You knew?”
“I saw you the time before, don’t forget: eyes full of stars, feet walking on air, all the usual symptoms. I thought it just possible you might be misguided enough to try it again, next full moon. Of course you didn’t tell me; you knew I wouldn’t let you go. I already had my suspicions as to the source of a likely attack.”
“What are you saying, Faolan? That you told them where to find me? That it’s thanks to you that I . . . that I couldn’t . . .”
“That you couldn’t see her? Is this so important that it erases from your mind a certain question of the kingship of Fortriu? Surely we have not all misjudged you, Bridei?”
Bridei shook his head and instantly regretted it, for the headache sprang to new life, drumming persistently behind his temples. “Not misjudged . . . misunderstood . . . Faolan . . . ?”
“What is it?”
It seemed to Bridei,
through the fog of pain and weariness, that there was a new look in the Gael’s eye. Nobody could call Faolan soft; there was, however, a certain directness in his gaze now that spoke of a change in the way things were between the two of them. Bridei hoped his instincts were serving him well, illness or no. “I must send her a message,” he said. “Now, straightaway. She would have waited . . . long time . . . She wouldn’t have known why . . .”
Faolan gave a grim smile. “A message to Banmerren? I think not. Do you know we have barely three days until you must stand up before all of them and declare yourself? We may have eliminated these assassins, but they are not your only enemies. This place is full of powerful men, men from the south; Drust the Boar is expected at Caer Pridne tomorrow. They’re all alert for opportunities to discredit anyone they think will stand against him. That means Carnach, since he’s still thought by most people to be a candidate. And it means you. This is too great a risk.”
Bridei attempted to seize the Gael’s wrist; his hand felt as weak as a child’s, his grip feeble. “I must,” he said. “I promised . . .”
Faolan frowned. “Promised what?” he asked.
“That I . . . that I would be . . . responsible.” The weakness flowed through his body like a tide, numbing him, slowing him, seeking to sap his will. “That I would . . . be there . . . when she . . .”
“Bridei,” Faolan said softly, “I can’t do anything tonight. If you had your wits about you, you’d recognize that. I’ll talk to you again in the morning. I think you may have to let this go. After a night’s sleep, perhaps you’ll see that. To do otherwise is not just risking your own future. It’s putting this girl’s in jeopardy as well. Now I think you’d better get Broichan to make up that potion again, and when he gives it to you, drink it. You’ve been having nightmares. Loud ones.”
The Dark Mirror Page 55
