“I would walk away from Pitnochie, and from Fortriu, with Tuala by my side. You would never see me again.”
“You really mean it.”
Bridei rose to his feet. “If I become king, I intend to have a number of advisers,” he said, “yourself among them. What has occurred here does not diminish my gratitude for the years you have devoted to my upbringing, for the wisdom you have shared with me, for the opportunities you have provided for me. It has, however, ensured that I will never be prepared to trust you again. A king should listen to his advisers and then make his own decisions.” He inclined his head politely, walked to the door, and left the room. Behind him, there was utter silence.
THE MIDWINTER RITUAL lacked something of its usual vitality. Broichan spoke the prayers as if his mind were in another place entirely. They doused the fire only briefly: it was important to keep the hall warm, with three of those present suffering the ill effects of long exposure to the winter chill. At the point in the ceremony where question and answer must be spoken, Broichan looked at Bridei, and Bridei, calm and quiet, performed the part long perfected under the druid’s exacting tuition. At the end, when all stood in a circle to speak the words of blessing, Tuala took her place by Bridei’s side, her hand in his. Faolan looked on unsmiling from a corner of the room.
Then there was the feast, a very fine one, but neither Bridei nor Tuala could eat much. A little soup, a bite of bread seemed more than sufficient, and the ale and mead set before them went untouched. They spoke little; they sat side by side on the bench where once, as children, they had huddled in the evenings telling stories of magic and mystery. Tonight a new tale was unfolding for the two of them, a tale with enough of wonder and promise in it to last a lifetime. They had eyes for nothing but each other.
The Midwinter log burned brightly. Before the hearth Mist dozed, curled in a ball, and close by her the white dog lay sleeping on its side, straight-legged, its head resting on Bridei’s foot, its ears twitching every now and then. Perhaps, in its dreams, it still kept guard in the lonely vale where once, long ago, a beloved warrior had fallen to a Dalriadan axe.
The household retired to bed. There was a place for Tuala in Mara’s quarters and one for Bridei in his old chamber, but neither seemed prepared to move, and nobody was giving any orders. At length, when Mara had bolted the door and quenched all but a single lamp, then taken herself off with a pointed glance over her shoulder, Broichan arose and went in silence to his chamber.
There was a big chair near the fire, carven oak with a wide back to it. Bridei had moved to settle himself in this, with Tuala on his knee. Her head was on his shoulder, her small body curved against his. A warm blanket covered the two of them. Beneath this, it was possible for hands to move, to stroke, to create a sequence of delicious surprises. Bridei’s cheeks were somewhat flushed; Tuala’s eyes were bright. It was as well, perhaps, that each was far too weary to wish for more than this delicate exploration of their newfound closeness. On a bench by the far wall Faolan lay supine under a cloak. It seemed unlikely that he slept. Even here, he would not leave Bridei unguarded.
“I have something to ask you,” Bridei whispered. “Only I don’t think I can; if you say no, not only will you break my heart, but you’ll make me look extremely foolish in front of the whole household.”
“I won’t say no, Bridei.” Her hand moved gently against the skin of his chest under the fresh shirt he had been given.
Bridei swallowed. “I wanted to ask you before . . . I was going to ask you . . . Will you be my wife, Tuala?” His heart was beating fast; it was astonishing, after all they had been through, how much this terrified him.
“Yes, Bridei.” Her voice was small, sweet, and precise; it had not changed so very much since she was a child.
He bent his head and kissed her; her kiss was unmistakably that of a woman. After some time he drew his lips away. “You understand what it will mean?” he asked her. “If I am successful at the election, then you will become queen of Fortriu. That life is very different. Lonely. Testing.”
“I know that. Bridei, what about Broichan? What did he say to you? Has he agreed to this?”
“Not yet. He will agree; he has no other option. I told him I would withdraw my candidacy if he refused to approve our marriage.”
“Oh.”
“He must capitulate. He knows it’s possible for me to win this. I should have the numbers as long as Fokel of Galany reaches Caer Pridne in time. Should the vote be tied, the evidence Faolan has of Drust’s attempt on my life can be made public. That should seal it.”
“Attempt on your life? This is the head wound your Faolan spoke of?”
“At full moon. I was set upon as I made my way to Banmerren. I’m sorry . . . I’m so sorry I couldn’t let you know . . .”
Her hand reached up, stroked his hair gently, touched the skull where the wound was still evident. “I don’t know how I could have thought . . .” she murmured. “They showed me visions: you and Ana, you and Ferada . . . I shouldn’t have believed them . . .”
“Them? Who?”
Tuala smiled. “I have a long story to tell you, Bridei. A long and strange one. I think perhaps I was set a kind of test.”
He nodded, his fingers twining themselves in the silky dark strands of her hair. “My tale, too, is difficult to believe. It seems the gods have tested the two of us. Gartnait was here. He came after me. And Gartnait is dead.”
“Dead? What happened?”
“The true account is one I can give only to you. Faolan and I know it, nobody else. I must find a different tale for Talorgen.”
Tuala was staring at him now; whatever she saw in his face, it rendered her silent.
“He came after me, all the way from Caer Pridne. I had Uist’s mare; Gartnait must have pushed himself and his horse to breaking point. He caught me just before I reached Pitnochie; said he had come to bear me company, to help. We rode up to the Dark Mirror in search of you. Then . . .”
“Then what, Bridei?” She held his hand between hers.
“Then he set his hands around my throat and tried to strangle me. It was as if a madness came over him. All he could say was that he was sorry. The only way I had any chance of breaking his hold was to force him into the water.”
“Into the Dark Mirror?” Tuala breathed.
“It was . . . a journey. A trial. When I came to myself once more it was to find Faolan squeezing the water from my lungs and Gartnait lying drowned on the bank. Faolan had fished the two of us out. The dog was there, the dog from the Dark Mirror, only now it was real. There was no time to think, not then. We came straight up to fetch you. As to why Gartnait would act thus, that remains a mystery,”
“What will you tell Talorgen?”
Bridei glanced at the bench where Faolan lay. “That there was an accident; that Gartnait tried to save me and was drowned. In death, at least, let him have his father’s good opinion.”
“Ferada will be sad.”
“Yes. For all their squabbling, she and Gartnait were close. She helped me. But for her, I could not have got away from Caer Pridne.”
“Do you think Talorgen and Fola and the others would support you even if you intended to wed a girl who was not . . . suitable?”
“You are entirely suitable,” Bridei told her. “It’s just a matter of showing them. And yes, I believe the others will fall in behind me, for all Broichan’s influence. If they do not, then I am not as strong a candidate as I should be. As for the chieftains of Fortriu, it is I who have worked to sway them this past season more than anyone. They will support me. By morning, if not before, my foster father will have accepted that his argument is no argument.”
“He fears my influence on you,” Tuala observed. “That it will be greater than his own. There was a time when we were almost allies, he and I. But he will never trust me, no matter how often I prove myself. I am not part of his plan.”
“His plan is ended,” Bridei said. “This path is ours now, yours an
d mine.”
“He loves you. You should not lose sight of that.”
“Not for what I am. Only for what I can do for him; for Fortriu.”
“You’re wrong. You are like a son to him.”
“I think not.”
There was a little silence. The white dog sighed and shifted. Tuala held Bridei’s hand against her cheek, touched it with her lips.
“Bridei?”
“Mm?”
“When will we be married?”
“Ah.” He sat up a little; wrapped the blanket more closely around her shoulders. “I wanted to talk to you about that.”
“You’re sounding anxious, dear one. Tell me.”
“It’s just that . . . well, there is a great wish in me that our wedding night should be . . . perfect.”
“I expect it will be,” Tuala said.
“Not if it must be here, where there has been such unhappiness for you, here where Broichan’s influence is so strong. And not at Caer Pridne. I wish to make changes. Not just for us, but for the kingship. It is connected with . . .”
“With Gateway?”
He nodded. “If this goes as I hope it will, in seven days I may well be king. The first change I intend to make is to establish my court away from Caer Pridne. I will build a new fortress; make a new center for the affairs of Fortriu. That, I believe, will be a powerful symbol of better times to come. I have a place in mind, one Ged of Abertornie described to me, situated near the mouth of Serpent Lake. There is a high hill, with the remains of an ancient fortification of stone and fired wood. The rise is crowned with great trees and has a fine expanse of open ground at the top. From that vantage point it is possible to see not only the ocean, but also the waters of the lake and the hills of the Great Glen. I do not think you should live where you cannot see the forest.”
“Nor you where you cannot see the eagle’s flight across the great wild places,” Tuala said softly. “There are some who will not like your plan. The fortress of Caer Pridne has been the seat of Fortriu’s kings for many years.”
“It is a time of change,” Bridei said. “If we are not prepared to open our minds to that, we are doomed.”
“How long will it take to build your new fortress?”
“I don’t know, Tuala. A summer, maybe two.”
“Oh. That is a long time.”
He sighed, his hand moving beneath the blanket to cup the small swell of her breast. Her answering sigh made him wonder if he was in fact being unbelievably foolish. “Yes, dear one, it is long. And I have to tell you of a promise I made . . . a vow to the Flamekeeper . . .”
“Bridei, you’re blushing.”
He glanced quickly at Faolan; the Gael’s eyes were shut, and a faint snoring could be heard. “That I would . . . that I would not . . . until my formal handfasting,” he said under his breath. “To be celibate until then. I’m sorry, it was . . .”
“Oh. I see. Two summers, you said?”
“Perhaps the builders could work quickly.”
“Let us hope they can. Bridei, where will I stay until then? I don’t want to be here at Pitnochie, not without you. And I will not go back to Banmerren.”
“I could not countenance either. Vow of abstinence or not, I want you near me. We can at least look, and speak, and touch . . .”
“Mm. It will be a further test, I think. Bridei, I want to be the best help to you that I can be. But if I am at court and we are not yet married, I think it might be easy for folk to gossip. My presence will be a burden to you, as Broichan always believed—”
“I have a solution to that. I think it will please you.”
“You have a solution to everything.”
“Not quite. I’m doing my best. It is as much as any man can do, be he druid or warrior, servant or king.”
“WAIT A MOMENT, Tuala.” Ana reached to make a small adjustment to the way Tuala’s hair spilled over the braided band to curl becomingly down around her ears. The band was dyed a deep blue and matched the soft skirt and tunic Tuala wore, plain and elegant above kidskin slippers. It was the first time she had been without the salve and bandages; she had told them firmly that she was not going to attend the election of a king with her feet trussed up in strips of linen. The blisters were healing. Warmth and kindness had gone a long way to mending the other hurts.
“Ready, girls? We must go in now.” Rhian of Powys stood watching them, regal in her dove-gray gown, a smile hovering on her lips. “You look very well, the two of you. Back straight, chin up, Tuala. We’ll stand on either side of you. Look folk directly in the eye. You’re a queen in waiting; nothing can touch you.”
“Thank you, my lady. For everything.” Bridei’s plan had worked out miraculously well so far. Drust’s widow had expressed delight at his request that she remain at court, retaining her old apartments, and act as chaperone and mentor to his betrothed until the time of their handfasting. Bridei’s intuition had been sound. Rhian was less than keen to return to her kin in Powys, having forged strong bonds during her years in Fortriu. Her brother, too, was happy to remain at Caer Pridne. Tuala suspected both had played a far more influential role in the former king’s decisions than anyone had given them credit for. Their gentle, unobtrusive demeanor was somewhat deceptive; in the quiet of the women’s quarters, Rhian debated political strategy over her embroidery with a depth that was a challenge even for a girl reared by scholars. Frustrating as the time of waiting might be, it would certainly not be boring. Besides, Tuala recognized the advantages to be gained from a period under the supervision and protection of the royal widow. Rhian could teach her how to walk, how to dress, whom to look in the eye and whom to be wary of. Tuala could learn the subtle games of court; she could learn how to look after both herself and Bridei. Such education was priceless, and to have it at the hands of this kindly, fair-minded woman was a rare gift. Besides, Rhian’s protection and influence should go a long way to silencing those who might whisper that one of the Good Folk was not a suitable wife for a king. Ana, too, would play her part in this. Thus far, nobody had spoken out. Thus far, Tuala had remained principally in the queen’s private apartments. Tonight was the first real test.
“Ready?”
“Yes, my lady.”
They walked out into a hall packed with men and women. Many lamps burned; the tables had been set by the walls tonight and an open space left before the dais. Taking her place between Rhian and Ana, Tuala scanned the faces for those she knew. There was Ferada, looking pinched and exhausted but holding her head high; her auburn hair was perfectly groomed, her green gown pleated and pinned just so. She had one small brother on either side. Tonight, the irrepressible Bedo and Uric stood solemn and silent, and Bedo was holding his sister’s hand. Talorgen stood behind them. The chieftain of Raven’s Well had aged ten years since his eldest son’s heroic death, followed by the strangely abrupt departure of his wife to a distant and unspecified part of the country. The whispers were that Dreseida was so overwhelmed by grief that she had lost her mind. They said she would not be coming back. Those who knew the truth, Tuala among them, kept it to themselves. It was Talorgen who had sent his wife away. For what she had done, and for what she had almost done, Dreseida had been banished from home and family, from land and kin forever. Poor Ferada. She had always longed to make something of her life beyond the restrictions of a strategic marriage. Her future had narrowed now; she must travel back to Raven’s Well and take her mother’s place in running Talorgen’s household and raising his sons.
There was Fola with a group of wise women, Kethra among them. They nodded and smiled at Tuala, and she returned the greeting with a certain wonder. This still felt unreal, especially when Bridei was not nearby.
There was Uist in his floating white robes, and beside him another old man . . . Tuala suppressed a cry of joy; it was all she could manage to stand still, to stop herself from running across the hall to throw her arms around the white-bearded, hawk-nosed ancient who stood next to the wild druid. “Wid,�
�� she breathed, and felt herself grinning in a most unladylike manner. Her old friend bowed his head courteously in her direction, then winked.
“This pleases you?” Rhian murmured.
“Oh, yes! Wid taught me everything I know. Well, at least half of it. I’m so happy to see him.”
“He’ll be at court indefinitely, so I’m told. Bridei requested his presence. Your betrothed is solicitous for your well-being; he wishes you to be surrounded by friends. He’s very good to you, Tuala.”
“I know.”
“Look,” Ana whispered, “there’s Drust the Boar, all got up in the red of Circinn. And here come the others. Bridei looks nervous.”
“Yes. That’s the way it always is with him; he’ll be terrified of doing something wrong, even though he knows he can speak and act perfectly. It’s just the way he is.”
“That man’s staring at you. Over there, look. Garvan the stone carver.”
Tuala looked; caught Garvan’s eye. He smiled and turned away. There was a sadness in his plain features that was disconcerting. Surely he had not actually imagined she would come around to marrying him? Surely he had not really intended to wait indefinitely until she made up her mind one way or the other? Men were indeed strange creatures. Even Bridei, whom she knew better than he knew himself, had surprised her with his vow to the Flamekeeper. Two whole years. It was indeed a long time. Of course, if another man became king, there would be no need for such a delay. Tuala thought that unlikely. How could the gods not let Bridei be chosen?
The candidates walked to the center of the hall, Drust the Boar resplendent in scarlet-dyed wool, Bridei in the same shade of blue that Tuala wore, his cloak pinned with the silver eagle. Drust of Circinn was a big man, burly and dark. With his corpulent figure and small eyes, he seemed well suited to his title. Beside him Bridei seemed slight and young, although he was the taller. Each man was flanked by his supporters, Bridei with Broichan and Aniel, Drust accompanied by the councillors Bargoit and Fergus and the unprepossessing figure of Brother Suibne.
The Dark Mirror Page 62
