The Dark Mirror (83 page)

There was no answer; only a glimpse of Gartnait’s white face, Gartnait’s furious, unseeing eyes, and then the grip again. “I’m sorry,” said
Gartnait in a gasping whisper, and forced Bridei’s head back under the water.

He was drowning . . . he was dying . . . his lungs were full of a fiery pain, and his head was crowded with visions tangled and twisted . . . Somewhere down beneath the water, a dog was barking . . .

He was deep in the earth, cradled in darkness, curled on himself like a
sleeping babe. Above him the roots of great
oaks made their slow, searching journey through layer on layer of soil, and about their winding paths crept the lesser ways of myriad tiny creatures, beetle and slow-worm, ant and wriggling larva . . . Their little excavations, their minuscule chambers and hallways and storehouses honeycombed the earth, a whole world invisible beneath the wooded hillside, the grassy field, the heather-clad moor .
. . He was buried underground . . . He was trapped
Tuala
.

“Forget your body, trust your mind.” Broichan’s voice came deep and strong. “Apply your learning.”

“It’s all right, Bridei.” Tuala’s clear, small tone, making him want to weep. “You can do it.”

Think, then . . . Think of Bone Mother, in whose arms he lay, within whose long patterns each of them lived his own small span, be he king of
Fortriu or foundling child, great soaring eagle or least of subterranean tunnelers. She held them all; to each she granted a certain time, a certain span. A certain opportunity. When she judged it enough, the long sleep would come. For him, this was not the time. Bone Mother, in whose womb he rested now, safe and quiet, . . . warm warm at last . . . Her hands were strong, her reach wide, from the
western glens to the shores by the king’s fortress, from the softer hills of Circinn to the bare, rocky peaks of the northwest . . . It was all one, one and the same; her love existed in every part of it . . . the great realm of Fortriu, which needed him . . .

I will not beg to live, Bridei prayed in silence. I will give myself into your hands. Let me find her. I am bound to go forward; bound
to lead. I make no bargains. I am not so foolish that I dare to test the gods’ will so. I love. I trust. Let me go forward on this journey
. . .

He felt the water around him. Creatures strange and wondrous swam on every side, glowing balls of color with attenuated limbs, fish fat and squat with bulging eyes, or long, slender, and studded with forbidding spikes. There was a being like the sea-beast
of the islands, and a small white dog with the tail of a salmon. They circled him in flamboyant dance, above, below, around, dazzling his eyes and beguiling his senses. He could not see Gartnait. Whatever realm he now journeyed through, it seemed his friend had not followed. But someone else was here. On the surface above him, a girl was swimming, struggling to stay afloat, heavy gray robes
dragging her down. Her small, pale feet could be seen kicking, kicking ever more feebly as cold and weariness sapped her strength. Her arms moved weakly in the
water . . . she was sinking, drowning . . . A great hand came down from above, fastening around her head, pushing her under the water . . . her eyes stared . . . her dark hair drifted around her features like fronds of graceful weed . . .

No!
Bridei shouted, but the water turned his voice into helpless bubbles. He thrust out with his feet, stretched up with his hands, she was there, right there, two arm’s-lengths above him, he could touch her, he could save her . . . His foot was caught, he could not move . . . He looked down, his movement slow against the water’s weight. Something was holding him, a strip of tangled weed, a shred
of net, a length of rope . . .
Tuala
! he shouted, and the bubbles rose to burst beside her drowning face.
Tuala
!

“Use what we have taught you,” came the voice of bald-headed, round-bellied Erip. “Water. Tides. Ebb and flow.”

Ebb and flow . . . the Shining One . . . Bridei closed his eyes, imagined the full, round, majestic form of the goddess as he had seen her once at Midwinter, looking down
on the quiet fields of Pitnochie. So lovely; so good; so wise. She would not let her daughter go thus, cruelly; she would not cut off the path so soon.
I loved her as a baby
, he said, and the bubbles bore his silent words upward to the light.
I loved her as a little girl. I loved her as my heart-friend. I love her as a woman, and I love her as your daughter
.

“Look around you . . .” Wid’s dry
voice, whispering in his ear. “Observe, boy, observe . . .”

Darting fish, drifting weeds, dark rocks at the bottom, soft mud . . . there, by his foot, caught around the fastening of his boot, a cord, a string, tethering him . . . this was what held him down. Bridei reached, grasped, pulled. The little cord came loose in his hand, and he kicked off for the surface, clutching it as he rose. Now,
now he could reach her . . . Where was she? . . . Where had they taken her? . . . Somewhere up above, beyond the water, a dog was barking . . .

He surfaced, and felt the heat, saw the blaze of light even as his feet moved onto solid ground. The dog was here, not fish-tailed now but four-limbed, shaggy and white, standing before him as if to guard him, its voice too big for so diminutive a hound.
He had seen it before, long ago in a vision, keeping faithful watch over a fallen warrior. Around them fire swirled and shimmered; great waves of heat throbbed from it. It was as if they stood in the roaring heart of the Flamekeeper himself.
Tuala
. Where had she gone? Into this mass of seething flame? Beyond place and time, on a journey he could not share?
It could not be. It must not be. He was
Bridei, son of Maelchon, raised in a druid’s house and destined to be Fortriu’s leader, and he would not let them take her. He filled his lungs with air, slowly, methodically, as Broichan had taught him to do. He looked down at the little dog, and the dog fell quiet, gazing up at him. Then, as one, they stepped forward into the fire.

It was not pain, not exactly; more a sensation of stripping
away, layer by layer, skin, flesh, veins, muscle, bone . . . mind, heart . . . all gone, all consumed in the white heat of purification, all sacrificed to the god’s will . . . save the one thing left, the essence, the courage, the spirit that lay deep inside each true son of Fortriu, each true daughter, marking them forever as children of the blood . . . it was the kernel, the seed, the core that
meant they would always go on. Whatever the losses, whatever the pain, this truth inside ensured they would never be defeated . . .
Fortriu
, Bridei gasped as the flame seared through him.
Fortriu
. . . and felt the beating pulse of the fire as if his chest were a war drum, and the god’s blows raining on it hard and fast, sounding a furious music of challenge.
Fortriu! Fortriu!

His mouth was open,
his jaw slack. There were twigs and leaves under his face. He was cold. His clothing was soaked, and someone was pressing on his sides with cruel hands, a rhythmic squeezing that hurt, gods, how it hurt, why couldn’t they stop, didn’t they know he was dead already, dead three times over or maybe four . . . A gush of foul-tasting liquid welled up in his throat and spilled out of his mouth, and
he choked out, “Stop it, Gartnait . . . done enough . . .”

The squeezing stopped. A pair of hands took hold of his shoulders, turning him onto his side. Then someone was trying to take off his wet clothes, the tunic, the cloak he still seemed to be wearing. Someone was saying, “Curse it, Bridei, help me a bit here, can’t you? Get this off, quick now, and this . . . If there were any gods I was
prepared to give credence to, I’d be thanking them now, man . . .”

The voice had a Gaelic twang to it, and was most certainly not Gartnait’s. Now Bridei was propped on his elbows, staring up at a sky that held the very last dusky traces of the sun’s sinking, and a small white dog was licking his face with a great deal of enthusiasm. A real dog, flesh and blood. Had he somehow set it free from
its long vigil? A hundred years of waiting . . .

He attempted to sit up. A dry tunic was slipped over his head, its warm folds blissful against his chill, damp skin. A moment later, a woolen cloak dropped around his shoulders, and he hugged it close. Who would have
dreamed so simple a thing could be such a wondrous gift? He turned his head.

“Don’t look that way,” said Faolan, who was in his
shirtsleeves. “There’s a man dead.”

Bridei looked; by the edge of the Dark Mirror Gartnait lay sprawled on his back, his red hair almost in the water, his eyes open on the night.

“Beyond saving,” Faolan said. “Already gone by the time I fished him out. As for you, you’ve been even more of a fool than I thought you were. What in the name of all that’s holy happened here?”

Bridei did not answer.
He was staring down at the little thing still clutched in his hand, a talisman woven from two strands of strong cord, tied and twisted in an intricate pattern. “Tuala . . .” he whispered. “Where’s Tuala? Did you see her? Is she here?” His eyes scoured the rocks, the banks, the overgrown path; scanned the surface of the dark water.

“Not a sign. Only our friend here, and eventually yourself, bobbing
up in the middle of the pool. And the dog. It played its part in getting you out. Where’s it gone now?” Faolan peered into the deepening darkness. “Never mind,” he said. “The horses are not far off; we need to get you down to warmth and shelter before the last of the light goes. I don’t intend to forfeit my bag of silver just because you take it into your head to go swimming at Midwinter.”

“Tuala,”
said Bridei, his fingers working absently on the cords he held, knotting, binding, joining up the loose ends, as if such activity might help him think. “Tuala . . . I must find her . . . but where? Where have they taken her?”

“Bridei,” said Faolan, his tone calm and kindly, as if he were humoring a wayward child, “Gartnait is dead. You are half drowned, and I’ve given you most of my own dry clothes.
And it’s nearly dark. We must go down to the house. Now Horses. Come on.”

From the top of the path the dog barked, its note high and urgent.

“We must get you out of this cold air, and fast. Come on, Bridei. Lean on me.”

“Air,” Bridei said. “Earth, water, fire . . . and air. Air is the final test. Air, wings, flight . . . the eagle . . . flying, falling . . . oh, gods . . .” He leaped to his
feet and ran toward the path, and Faolan, cursing, ran after him.

“
HIGHER! HIGHER!” CALLED
the voices. They were all around her, shrill, unavoidable. “Come up! Come up!” It was so dark she could scarcely see the path before her. Her hands were hurting and her feet could barely carry her. But something outside her was pulling Tuala forward now, a force too strong to resist. It was time to step
across. It was time to leave the bad things behind.

As a child she had scaled Eagle Scar without a thought, agile as a marten. It was different now. Her feet slipped, jarring her body; her hands were slippery with blood and could not grip the rocks; her breath rasped in her chest. Her teeth were clenched so tightly her jaw ached from it. Where were Woodbine and Gossamer? Why hadn’t they come,
when they had promised to help her? There was no sign of them; only the voices, singing, calling, shrieking, ringing painfully in the bones of her skull. Upward, upward: one faltering step, one feeble handhold, one shuddering breath. There was no choice; she must go on.

At last Tuala reached the rock slab at the top of the Scar, the place where two children had sat side by side on summer days,
sharing a frugal meal and each other’s silent company. Summer . . . those sunlit times, that simple happiness seemed now the stuff of dreams, long ago, far away, never to be reached again. Tuala slumped to the ground, her legs too weary to hold her.

“Up! Up!” screamed the voices. “Higher! Higher!”

There was nowhere else to go. Nowhere, save for the little rocky pinnacle where she had stood,
as a child, turning and turning in the wind, while Bridei pretended he was not scared she would fall.

“Up! Up!”

She forced herself upright; stepped onto that topmost rock. So small; she had not remembered it was so small, or so high. Below her the Scar fell away into utter darkness. Above, the last traces of light ebbed from a sky the color of shadow, the color of sleep, the color of Bone Mother’s
eyes.

“Ahhh . . .” The voices sighed as Tuala stood shivering under her damp cloak, her arms wrapped around her body. “Now . . . now is the time . . . Come . . . step over . . .”

Step over? Step where? Her fingers tightened on the fabric of the cloak; her feet shifted uneasily on the wet surface of the rock. Tuala had never been afraid of heights; indeed, had never understood what such a fear
was. Now, suddenly, her head reeled and her stomach churned as she looked down into an abyss of shadows.
Step over
. . . What could they mean?

“Do it now, Tuala!” This was Gossamer’s voice, light but insistent, not an invitation but an order. “You know you can. Do what you did for us at Banmerren. Shut your eyes, stretch out your arms, and fly! Fly across to us, my sister! Forget weariness! Leave
pain and sorrow behind! Now, Tuala, now!”

It didn’t really matter, Tuala thought vaguely Who would care if she flew or fell? Nothing would change in the world, whether she became the owl of her imagination and soared into the night sky, crossing an invisible margin to the land beyond dreams, or tumbled down to the rocks below Eagle Scar, a sprawling, broken thing of no account. Whatever happened,
Bridei would go on without her. They would tell him, and he would shed a tear or two and then forget. He would be king; his life would be too full for such small sorrows. Tuala drew a deep breath, screwed her eyes shut, opened her arms wide.

Something brushed against her ankles, soft as a feather yet insistent and real. It set her off balance. “Ah!” she gasped, teetering on the rocks. Her eyes
snapped open; she fought to keep her footing. Mist sprang up without warning and as she caught the cat in her arms Tuala felt the stab of claws, sudden and sharp on her hands. This pain was somehow worse than anything, like a last blow, a final betrayal by those she had loved and trusted. Mist clung on; the claws dug deeper. Gods, it hurt . . .