The Dark Mirror

by Juliet Marillier

  The hall was suddenly quiet. Then Fokel of Galany stepped forward. “By the Flamekeeper’s manhood, you surely know how to pick ‘em, Bridei,” he declared, a grin creasing his dark features. “Your young lady got any sisters?” Laughter erupted, closely followed by a clatter of dishes as servants began to carry in the goblets and jugs, the platters and knives required for the feast. Men clustered around the dais; all at once, everyone wanted to talk to Bridei.

  “It’s all right,” Tuala murmured. “They want to be heard. Do what you must.”

  “Stay by me,” he whispered, holding her hand tightly. “I need you.”

  “I’ll be here,” Tuala said. “I’ll always be here.”

  “TALES WITHIN TALES,” said Woodbine to Gossamer. “Dreams within dreams. Pattern on pattern and path beyond path. For such short-lived folk, the human kind seem determined to make things as complicated as possible for themselves. It is fortunate for us and for our endeavor that Bridei walks under the gods’ protection, and can see more clearly than his kind is wont to do.”

  “And that we have ensured he has Tuala by his side.”

  “Indeed. So, it seems our task is complete. I feel a certain dejection, for all the triumph of tonight. The small lives of these folk are, in their own way, absorbing.”

  “Oh, there’s still plenty here to keep you entertained,” Gossamer said with a ripple of laughter. “Our work may be over with the young king and queen of Fortriu, but there are many paths, many possibilities. I look down on Caer Pridne tonight and I observe a man who can hear no more than a single note from the bard’s harp before he must take himself from the hall. That sweet music is poison to his ears. I see a young woman whose path has been cruelly cut short before her, and I wonder if she will spend a life teetering there on the brink, or leap into the unknown. I see a craftsman whose hands create magic, a magic that can never match the dreams that course through his mind. I see a druid standing alone, pondering questions of love and duty; confronting his own humanity. This is not over yet, my friend. Even Bridei and Tuala, strong as they are, will need us again.”

  “Ah, Tuala . . . a rare creature. I find myself almost wishing she had come to us . . .”

  “What, and cut Bridei adrift? Don’t be foolish. Forget Tuala; fix your eye on another. What of that royal hostage, a delectable creature with long tresses like spun gold and skin fresh and sweet as a ripe fruit? Young . . . good . . . innocent . . . What havoc could we not wreak through her? These men could be set dancing, dancing until they begged to stop . . .”

  “Come,” Woodbine said. “We linger where we have no cause. I will not play yet awhile with the men and women of Bridei’s court. My heart is heavy; there is no desire in me for such tricks and meddling.”

  “Not yet,” said Gossamer. “It matters little. They are human, after all. They will make their own complications; dance to their own tunes; play out the moves of their own games. Come! Follow me!”

  And with a whisper of cobweb, the flash of a bright wing and a glitter of silvery hair, they were gone. Standing alone on the wall-walk outside the great hall, Faolan shivered, glancing skyward. Something had passed; he had not seen it, but he had felt its presence. Had the Gael been a man who gave any credence to gods, he might have uttered a prayer, made a sign of ward or touched fingers to a hidden talisman. But Faolan relied only on himself. It was much easier that way. Through the open doors, the sound of the harp pursued him out into the darkness, making his fingers itch. He stared into the night.

  “Faolan?”

  It was Bridei, alone now, coming along the walk on quiet feet, the little dog at his heels.

  “You almost surprised me,” Faolan said. “I must be losing my touch.”

  “I wanted to speak with you alone.”

  “Best be quick, then. Tonight everyone wants a piece of you.”

  “I will take what time is needed; this is important. I wondered if you had given any consideration to the future.”

  Faolan said nothing for a little. When it came, the answer was diffident. “A man with any good sense can hardly fail to do so.”

  “And have you reached a conclusion?”

  “Not yet.”

  Bridei leaned his forearms on the parapet. It was a clear night; the stars made bright points of light in a sky where the Shining One hung sleeping, a silver sickle. “You know I would like you to stay,” he said quietly. “Not as bodyguard; I had in mind a different role for you, one that would offer you new challenges, new opportunities.”

  “You are dissatisfied with the work I have done?” Faolan was persistently looking away.

  “You must know that is not the reason,” Bridei said. “You’ve more than earned whatever they were paying you. It seems to me your talents are somewhat wasted on the simple job of keeping me safe.”

  “Simple! You’ve already put me through ten times more than Drust ever did in the years I served him. But it’s true, I am able to perform a variety of other roles and have done so regularly. Translator, assassin, spy. Which did you have in mind?”

  “I suppose,” Bridei said, “it is possible you may be called upon to do any or all of them in due course. But I was thinking more of a position as adviser, councilor, companion. If you would consider it.”

  Faolan did not answer for some time. They stood side by side looking at the stars, while the white dog sat at Bridei’s feet, watchful in the night.

  “You said something when you were sick. About not being paid to be a friend. It seems to me a friend is what you are looking for. Someone to take the place of Gartnait, or of the fellow you had before, the one who was poisoned. They say the two of you were close.”

  Bridei said nothing, simply waited.

  “I don’t think I’m the man for such a job, Bridei. A simple task that tests my skills, with an appropriate payment at the end of it, that I’ll undertake gladly. I don’t have it in me to offer more.”

  “I see. You disappoint me, Faolan. I think you deny your own nature.”

  “You were raised by a druid. You look for complications where there are none. I wish to keep the path straightforward, that’s all.”

  “I’m sorry. I will miss you greatly.”

  There was another silence, of a different quality this time.

  “Are you saying this is the only position you have to offer?” Faolan’s tone was painfully careful; it made Bridei want to weep. “You do not intend to retain me as a personal protector for yourself and your betrothed?”

  “I had anticipated that you would accept the other offer. I had no alternative ready.”

  “I see.”

  “You would consider that? The continuing burden of ensuring our safety, with a simple payment in food and lodgings and a little silver?”

  “I don’t know about little,” Faolan said on a rush of outward breath. “I command a high price.”

  “I’ll meet it,” said Bridei.

  “Then we have an agreement.” Faolan extended a hand; Bridei grasped it. “I wish to stay. I did not think I would need to tell you so.”

  “Guard duty. Long days, sleepless nights, constant anxiety.”

  “It’s what I do. It’s what suits me. I will undertake, also, those additional duties that took me periodically to the lands of Dalriada when I worked for Drust the Bull. You cannot afford to dispense with a source of good intelligence.”

  “No,” agreed Bridei, “nor a good friend. You will discover, in time, what that means. Come, let’s go in and face them again. I don’t like to leave Tuala alone for too long. This is all new to her.”

  Faolan grimaced. “Like you, she seems to learn with startling speed. You’ll be a formidable pair, you and she.”

  “I hope so,” said Bridei. ‘A kingdom depends on it.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  HISTORY, CONJECTURE, AND IMAGINATION

  The Bridei Chronicles are a blend of known history, informed guesswork, and imagination. The Picts were a mysterious people, all the more fascinating for
the lack of contemporary records of their culture. What we know of them comes chiefly from Roman references and from clerics such as Adomnan, who recorded the story of St. Columba’s mission to the north of Britain. The Picts were a dominant force in this region for centuries until the Gaels established themselves in what became known as Scotland. At that point the highly developed culture of the Picts quickly disappeared, leaving its footprint behind in the form of the carved symbol stones that bear the cryptic designs also shown on Pictish jewelry: the crescent and V-rod, the double-disc and Z-rod, the mirror and comb, the sea-beast. Historians still dispute their meaning. The remnants of Pictish fortresses can still be found in places such as Burghead and Craig Phadraig, which appear in these novels as Caer Pridne and White Hill.

  In writing the story of Bridei, son of Maelchon, who ruled the Picts from 554 A.D., I made a number of choices. My tale is based on known history: Bridei, his mentor, Broichan, the main political players, and the situations of the books are all real. However, as we have so little information about Pictish society and as so much of it is debatable, I relied on informed guesswork for much of the detail of the story. My treatment of matrilineal succession and of the election of kings is in this category. It is not historical fact, although it is based on existing evidence as to the Pictish tradition.

  I have avoided using place names derived from either Gaelic or Norse (such as, for instance, Loch Linnhe or Burghead) as both these cultures stamped their influence on the region after Bridei’s time. The Pictish language was in the same group as Welsh and Breton, but little of it survived. The names I have given to familiar Scottish locations are a blend of English descriptive names (Oak Ridge, Serpent Lake) and invented names derived from Pictish/Brythonic components (Caer Pridne, Banmerren). Where it suits the history I have used the actual names (the Great Glen, Five Sisters, Dunadd).

  The Pictish religion as depicted in these books is my own invention, based on other pagan faiths of the time and on the Picts’ evident love and respect for nature (the symbol stones feature animals of many kinds, and it is likely these formed part of Pictish ritual practice). We do know there were druids or mages among them: Broichan appears in Adomnan’s Life of St. Columba as one of these. The well at Caer Pridne (Burghead Well) is a real place and can still be visited.

  The Good Folk are the ancient fairy folk of Scotland, who appear in many traditional tales. Hearth magic was commonly used to placate these tricky visitors.

  The geography of the Bridei Chronicles is that of the Scottish Highlands, and most places in the books will be recognizable to those familiar with the region. However, I have taken some liberties with distances and locations for the purpose of better storytelling.

  A MORE DETAILED version of these notes can be found on the author’s Web site at www.julietmarillier.com under the Bridei Chronicles. The page includes a bibliography for readers who wish to find out more about the Picts and their culture.