The Dark Mirror (23 page)

“Who are you?” Tuala whispered almost angrily “Why don’t you show yourselves?” But there was nothing
save a little sound like the breeze in the leaves, and then silence.

The image in the water showed midday, midday at Pitnochie, for there was Broichan’s house amidst the deceptive oaks, and there the waters of Serpent Lake glinting under the sun, sheltered by dark tree-clad hills. She saw Fidich limping up a steep track under pines to a bare hilltop where folk were assembling. Tuala knew this
place. They called it Dawn Tree Hill, for a solitary oak stood there, a venerable ancient that caught the light of the sun’s
rising in its leafy canopy. Here, Broichan and Bridei would have kept vigil last night and for two nights before, marking the place where the Flamekeeper pierced the horizon.

On the flat stones at the summit a circle was forming; the household of Pitnochie was already gathered
there. She saw Broichan, tall and solemn in his dark robe, with a ritual dagger in his hands, horn and silver. He wore a wreath of oak leaves on his plaited hair. His expression made Tuala shiver.

There were folk she knew and some she didn’t know. There was Mara, and Donal and Ferat, and most of the men at arms. There were other warriors whom she had never seen before, their faces tattooed with
kin signs and battle counts. There was a white-robed druid bearing a bundle of sticks. She could see that old woman, Fola, as well; Fola was carrying a bronze bowl of water which she set down now at the western quarter of the circle.

Tuala shifted a little, bending closer to the pool’s surface. Mist crouched by her, tail curled, paws tucked neatly under her breast, narrow eyes intent on the water’s
stillness. Perhaps she saw a feline vision of her own.

The images unfolded like a solemn dance: Broichan pacing, his dagger’s point casting the sacred space; at each quarter, his voice speaking the ritual words of acknowledgment and greeting. Water being sprinkled around the circle; smoke from burning sticks wafting across, an elemental cleansing. Then Tuala saw the wise woman step forward from
the north, place of earth. Fola did not seem small and harmless now, but strong and powerful, the embodiment of Bone Mother herself. She raised her arms, calling a challenge:
Who are you? Why do you come here? Tell us!
Tuala could hear nothing; no sound disturbed the quiet of the little clearing. But she knew the words; Bridei’s lessons had been as thorough as he could make them.

Three men stepped
forward from the circle. One was the white-clad druid, an old fellow with penetrating, pale eyes and a crazy mass of snowy hair tangled with seeds and twigs and leaves. He held between his gnarled fingers a feather as white as his own garments.

“The sun’s light illuminates the mind,” he said, “and makes the pathway clear. Keeper of Flame, let our eyes see only truth.”

The man who spoke next
was a warrior, tall, straight of carriage, his features marked with the blue tattoos of his calling. His eyes were keen, his bearing confident. He held before him an arrow fletched with the banded feathers of the great eagle. “The light of Midsummer is the light of courage.” His
ringing tone thrilled through the cool air of the hilltop. “Keeper of Flame, you give us the strength to be men. Your
blazing glory inspires our deeds of valor. Through you, we are true sons of Fortriu.”

The third man was bearing a bone; Tuala could not see what kind it was, but it was long and pale, like part of a leg. The man was gray-haired, gray-robed; his face was lined, his brow furrowed as with many cares. He spoke with quiet dignity. “Keeper of Flame, with your warmth you have nurtured the Priteni since
the time before story, since the season before our grandfathers’ grandfathers walked the Glen. In your life is our life. In your wisdom is our wisdom. We salute your splendor.”

After that there was silence for a long time. Tuala understood that every man and woman there spoke the secret word of inspiration deep in the spirit, and felt it herself, humming its power through every single part of
her. The unseen watchers remained, a circle of invisible presences right around the wellspring. Out of the corner of her eye Tuala thought she could see pale hands, shadowy faces, garments of green-gray willow leaves and soft feathers, silvery wings and strands of long hair in improbable shades of blue. Their eyes were a mirror of her own: colorless and clear, pale as ice. She would not turn her
head to look; she must hold the image on the water. For now she saw Bridei; he was stepping forward from the base of the Dawn Tree and he held a lighted candle before him. Tuala’s heart beat harder. He looked so serious, so worried, as if he thought the gods would be displeased if he took a wrong step or made a mistake in the words. And he looked tired; there were dark smudges under his eyes. That
would be from last night’s vigil. Broichan always made his foster son stay awake on Midsummer Eve. Bridei was biting his lip in nervousness. Silly boy; of course he wouldn’t make a mistake. Of course the gods would not be angry. He was in the hand of Bone Mother; the Flamekeeper burned in him. The Shining One had singled him out. He was Bridei, who always got things right.

He moved forward again,
stepping through the circle and beginning a spiral path from its edge inward, the candle burning strong and steady in his hands. His curling hair, brown as oak bark, was tied neatly back; his eyes reflected the sky’s summer blue, warm and bright, and his steps were perfectly steady. He had a little scrap of faded ribbon tied around one wrist. Tuala found herself smiling; she had so longed to
be there, to be a part of it. Now, in a way, she
was
there; he carried her with him. She hoped Broichan would not be angry about the ribbon.

Bridei’s path wound in to the circle’s midpoint, where his foster father now stood with the wise woman, Fola, by his side. Bridei raised his hands, holding the candle high. “This is the flame of hope and the promise of justice and peace throughout the land!”
he proclaimed. There was no trace of nervousness in his tone. His voice rang out bell-clear; the sound of it made Tuala shiver, although she heard only with the ears of the seer, to which silence speaks. “I call down the power of the Flamekeeper, and I call forth the strength of our deep mother, the earth, and I invoke the bringer of tides, the Shining One! The sun has triumphed; today he reaches
his peak. His life has awoken us and made fertile the land we walk upon. Now he begins his long retreat. Now we take his light within us, to illuminate our journey forward. Let each of us be as a lamp burning; let each of us step onward filled with the radiance of truth.”

Broichan should have spoken next, but before he could open his mouth there was a rushing of wings and a stirring in the sky,
and out of the east the eagles came. Gliding on the currents of air above the Great Glen, they made a perfect pair, now seeming to float, now beating strong wings in slow, powerful strokes to carry them on toward the place where the boy stood straight and proud with the flame of hope in his young hands. Broichan spoke not a word; as the birds circled the tor in their dance of ancient symmetry,
their weaving of feather and bone and breath, Tuala saw with deep amazement that the druid had tears streaming down his cheeks. Three times the winged ones passed, and then alighted, each in the same instant, on the topmost branches of the Dawn Tree. They folded their great pinions and settled, a watchful presence. The sun touched Bridei’s curling hair, lighting its brown to the deep red of autumn
beeches; noon rays bathed the hilltop like the warmth of a blessing.

Then, without a word, Broichan took the candle from his foster son and with it lit a small fire from the sticks the old druid had borne with him. In that haphazard bundle, Tuala knew all the trees of the forest would be represented; oak and ash, pine and elder, holly and rowan, each gave a little of itself to strengthen the
magic kindled today. The oak wreath Broichan had worn was passed around the circle, crowning for a brief space the head of each man and woman present. This was the moment for each of them, silently, to renew a personal vow to the gods.

At last the wreath came back to the druid. Broichan held it aloft a moment then cast it into the flames. Tuala gulped; she had known this came next, yet it
still
shocked her, seeming as brutal as the death of dreams. But it was not. All joined hands now to speak the ancient prayer of peace. The flames bore their dreams high into the air above the Great Glen, higher than the tallest tree, higher than the eagle’s flight, beyond the clouds, up to the realms of the Shining One and, fire to fire, to the life-giving sun whose ascendancy this gathering celebrated.

Then bread and mead were blessed and shared, with Fola and Broichan offering the ritual foods first to each other, and Bridei then dividing loaf and pouring amber liquid for all there present. Donal clapped Bridei on the shoulder, making the flask of mead wobble. Erip and Wid were grinning as if they’d won a prize. Peering hard into the water of the reflective pool, Tuala observed that Broichan’s
impassive features bore no trace of tears now. Perhaps she had imagined that. Perhaps this had not been
is
, but
may be
. Scrying was a tricky business. All the same, she saw the pride in the druid’s eyes as he watched his foster son’s progress around the circle, and she thought she saw the same look on many other faces there, the wise woman’s included.

“Tuala!”

Brenna was calling her. Tuala blocked
out the sound, hunching closer over the water. Beside her, Mist was stone-still, gazing deep. Around the pool the invisible presences could still be discerned on the very edge of sight.

The feast was over, the circle unmade. Folk gathered their belongings and began the long walk down the hillside toward home. Atop the solitary oak, the pair of eagles had not moved since the moment of alighting
there. But now, as Bridei stepped beyond the margin of the hilltop and onto the steep path downward, both birds arose once more into the air and, winging this way and that, crossing and passing with delicate precision, they shadowed the boy as he walked. The trees grew thickly on that hillside, clustering in ravines, blanketing slopes, swathing path and boundary with luxuriant summer growth of rich
green foliage and dark piny needles, and beneath them flourished bracken, fern, and sharp-leaved holly. Still, eagles are keen-sighted birds, princes among hunters. It seemed to Tuala, as the picture before her changed and changed again, that these great creatures formed an escort, a guard for Bridei, proclaiming his journey as if he were an ancient mage of story or a new king coming into his
power. They flew above as he came down through the high birch woods and into the heavy darkness of the pines; they danced their presence over him as he made his way under the
venerable oaks and among the drooping elders that fringed beck and pool. Above the druid’s house they circled him once as he walked out of the forest by the drystone wall where Broichan’s guards kept their watch. Then, with
a cry that made Tuala’s spine tingle, the eagles flew off to the west and out of the image on the water. She saw Bridei turn to his foster father and say something, smiling, but she could not hear the words.

“Tuala!”

Time to go. She did not want to upset Brenna, who had enough to trouble her already. Tuala rose to her feet, reaching to gather up the little cat. Around the pool there was a rustling
and a stirring, and a sound that was like hissing, only perhaps there were words in it:
usss
. . .
one of usss
. . . Then, abruptly, they were gone.

That night, lying awake while Brenna slumbered alongside her, Tuala whispered a story. Mist was a good listener; her small, warm presence in the half-dark of the summer night made loneliness easier to bear. “You know how the Priteni have two kings,
Mist? They’ve each got a different kin sign, carved on the stones of their big grand houses, so everybody knows which is which. There’s Drust the Bull and Drust the Boar.” Tuala’s fingers stroked the cat’s soft fur; snuggled deep in the thin blankets, Mist was purring so hard her whole body throbbed. “But I’m not going to tell you about them. I’m going to tell you about a different king. It’s a
might be
sort of story, like the pictures in the pool. This king was called Bridei, and his sign was the eagle . . .”

It was a good story, full of adventure and courage and hope. It was a story about destiny, and it seemed to Tuala to be deeply true in the way of the most ancient and best loved tales. The only thing that was wrong with it was that, try as she might, she could find no place in
it for herself.

T
HEY WERE LUCKY, REALLY
. Tuala remembered to tell herself that, season by season, year by year, as she watched Bridei ride away for another visit to Raven’s Well or another retreat to the nemetons with the wild druid, Uist, for this, too, was part of the education Broichan had determined for his foster son. It was more than six years since the time when she had been sent off to Oak Ridge, the
time she thought of now as the summer of the eagles. She had watched Bridei grow from straightbacked, serious child to tall, keen-eyed young man, and she bid him farewell so many times she would have lost count, save for the talisman she kept hidden in her little chamber in the druid’s house at Pitnochie. It was a double cord fashioned from very strong thread, the two parts of it twined together in
a special way. Their story, hers and Bridei’s, was captured in this object: the two strands had a small separation for every period of parting, a delicate knot for every wondrous reunion. The length of it bore the pattern of their lives, the two paths that diverged and came together once more and, for all their division, remained essentially one and the same. Although small, it was a powerful thing;
Tuala made sure nobody saw it, not even Bridei himself. She had grown more cautious as the years passed, more watchful even as her privileges within Broichan’s household expanded, for she felt, always, the druid’s essential distrust of her. Broichan had never spoken of it, not since
the first time he had sent her away. He did not need to. She could sense it in his closed expression, his cool tone,
in the distance he kept between himself and this gift from the Shining One which he had never really wanted.