The Dark Mirror (27 page)

For all his injury, which was bleeding steadily, the captive walked with purpose, eyes straight ahead, shoulders square. Bridei could not shake the sense that he himself was being assessed. If one grew up with a druid as a teacher, one learned to observe men subtly, to read the breath, to interpret the slightest change
in the eye. It was the eyes of this man that were disconcerting above all. They were like the eyes of those killers in the Dark Mirror, the forces that had swept through the Vale of the Fallen, long ago, and taken all that lay in their path. Those eyes were devoid of both pity and hope; they saw only the task ahead of them and knew only the will to complete it. An army with such a look would
be hard to withstand. It would, Bridei thought with a shiver, be near impossible to lead. Such men would fight without the
awareness of their own mortality. They would kill without the knowledge of their enemy’s humanity. A fell force indeed.

By the time they reached the stone walls circling the inner yards of Raven’s Well, Gartnait’s prisoner was leaning heavily on his captor’s shoulder and
appeared close to losing consciousness. The other walked with a back as straight as a king’s and a supercilious twist to the mouth. It was not long before both Donal and Talorgen appeared, the council having been interrupted with news of this capture.

It was all Bridei had hoped for. Men gathered around offering congratulations, and as the prisoners were led away, several people commented that
it was likely key information could be extracted from them. Talorgen’s eyes showed surprised respect, Donal’s a restrained pride. Yet all through the remainder of the day and into the evening that same uncertainty troubled Bridei. He could not identify its cause. It was a curse, in some ways, to have been brought up by a man like Broichan. Gartnait had been taught how to fight, how to conduct himself
in company, how to ride. He was learning how to oversee a great holding such as his father’s. Bridei, by contrast, had been trained in subtler skills: how to look and to listen, how to expect and prepare for surprises, how to read a man’s moods and sometimes his thoughts from a tiny gesture, an infinitesimal flicker of the eye. He had been taught to learn from every single thing he encountered,
the good, the bad, the triumphant, and the humiliating. Today, Gartnait’s glowing eyes showed his delight at their success; his flushed cheeks revealed how he craved his father’s approval. Bridei received Talorgen’s congratulations as his friend did and acknowledged them with a courteous inclination of the head and the comment that without Gartnait’s assistance he’d have lost his own man. But
what Bridei noticed and Gartnait did not was a little note of hesitancy in Talorgen’s voice, a small quirk of the lip, as if what they had done, courageous and resourceful as it was, had been in some way not quite what it seemed. And what Bridei observed later was that while Cenal, an apologetic shadow of a man whose unlikely job it was to supervise the interrogation of prisoners, did indeed disappear
for some considerable time after their arrival, and while there were certain sounds suggesting the usual procedures were being employed, there was only one voice crying out from the isolated but beyond the horse yard and he was sure it wasn’t that of the fellow he had captured.

That could be easily explained, of course. There was a certain value in
separating prisoners and playing them off one
against another. But Bridei’s unease lingered as the day wore on and the sounds from the but subsided to faint sobs and groans and eventually silence. What was to be said? One did not march up to a powerful man like Talorgen and demand explanations, especially not when one’s doubts were based on no more than a vague misgiving.

At supper time Talorgen mentioned that the prisoners had died under
interrogation, and that some useful facts had been gleaned from both. Their deaths had been somewhat premature; from what Cenal had told him, the wounds inflicted by Bridei’s arrows and the subsequent bleeding had weakened them greatly and reduced their resistance to pressure.

“You were not unduly heavy-handed, I trust?” Talorgen asked his interrogator, who sat at the next table.

“No, my lord.
I’m a professional.” A wounded look appeared on Cenal’s unassuming features. Bridei set his knife down, his appetite for the fine cut of beef abruptly deserting him. He made no comment; it would have been out of place for him to offer an opinion on this. Maybe he should have taken the prisoners without inflicting such severe wounds. Yet now he almost wished he had killed them outright. It was common
knowledge that any Gael foolish enough to be caught on Talorgen’s land was subject to torture; it was expected Gabhran’s chieftains would do the same to the spies of the Priteni, should the situation be reversed. But it was different when you’d caught the man yourself, had wrestled him to the ground, had led him on a rope, had looked into his eyes and seen blood flowing from a wound your own
arrow had inflicted. It was different when you had yourself delivered him up to be tortured to death. Bridei recalled those features, implacable as a carving in stone. Not only would the dark-haired man have failed to impart any secrets, he would have died without a sound, Bridei was sure of it. And that meant that when Talorgen had said both prisoners had revealed useful information, he’d been lying.

There was only one person Bridei could talk to about this, and that was Donal. He had to wait awhile for the opportunity; supper was an extended meal, the family sitting at the upper board, the large household filling the long tables in the great hall, while the many men at arms who were quartered at Raven’s Well in preparation for the spring campaign took the benches along the walls. Dogs roamed,
torches smoked, ale flowed.

As Bridei’s longtime mentor and bodyguard, Donal sat at the family table. Bridei tried to meet his eyes, to signal that he wanted to talk later, but
Donal was debating a point of strategy with Talorgen, and it was Lady Dreseida who seemed keen to speak to Bridei tonight. Dark hair drawn back tightly into a headpiece with a fringe of pearls, beringed fingers resting
with some elegance on the table before her, she leaned forward, fixing him with her searching gaze. Her interrogations were unpredictable and made him deeply uneasy; he had learned that whatever answers he gave, she always seemed dissatisfied.

“So, Bridei. You’ve been quite the hero today. I imagine Broichan would be very proud of you.”

Bridei opened his mouth to reply, but Gartnait’s sister,
Ferada, was too quick for him.

“Broichan’s a druid, Mother.” Her voice dripped with scorn. It was very like Dreseida’s, and so was Ferada’s proudly upright bearing, her queenly lift of the head and her immaculate appearance, every hair in place, every fold of the gown just so. Ferada was younger than Gartnait; nonetheless, one could not look at her without seeing the formidable woman she would
one day become. “Druids aren’t concerned with feats of arms and deeds of bravery. If Broichan were here, he’d be asking Bridei whether he learned anything from spiking two men with his arrows then hauling them home to suffer a painful demise at the hands of Father’s thugs. Isn’t that right, Bridei?”

There was a hush, in which Ferada realized the talk and laughter around her had died down as she
spoke, so that her final words were heard clearly by all at the upper table, her father included. A crimson flush of mortification rose to her cheeks.

“What Ferada says is true.” Bridei spoke quickly, filling the awkward silence. “My foster father would be interested principally in what was to be learned from the experience, rather than in the occurrence itself. All the same, druids do care about
feats of arms; it is not so many years since Broichan rode at King Drust’s side in his great encounters with the forces of Dalriada. It is part of the role of a king’s druid to advise him on matters of war: to cast auguries, to make predictions, to determine the best time for advance and retreat. To help the king in his decisions and to draw down the good will of the gods.”

“Ferada may have spoken
truth,” Talorgen observed, frowning at his daughter, “but I am dismayed that she cannot control her tongue sufficiently to frame her comments with appropriate restraint.”

Ferada’s lips tightened and she blinked rapidly.

“Nonetheless,” put in her mother, “your daughter deserves an answer to her question, however inelegantly she may have expressed it.” Dreseida turned her piercing eyes on Bridei,
arching her brows.

“What question?” queried Gartnait, perplexed. “She didn’t ask any question.”

Now Talorgen was watching Bridei, and so was Donal.

“True,” Bridei said as evenly as he could, “but the question was there, unspoken. Broichan’s question: what can be learned from today’s events?”

“And?” Gartnait prompted. It was clear he did not intend to put forward any answers himself.

“One
does not learn so quickly” There was a profound longing in Bridei to be home at Pitnochie, where the day held enough silences for the mind to contemplate questions like this, where there was the space to hear the voices of the gods, where there were folk who would sit silent and let him work his way through his thoughts in his own time. He needed Broichan; he missed Wid and Erip; he longed for Tuala
and her deep quiet. “I would not wish to pronounce on this as if I held myself as wise as my foster father. This was our first encounter with the enemy, Gartnait’s and mine.”

“And well done,” Talorgen said.

“Bravely acquitted,” added Donal, but there was a question in his tone.

Bridei knew he must say more, although he would far rather have kept his thoughts to himself. For Gartnait’s sake
at least, he should continue to pretend that this had been an irrefutable triumph. Curse Ferada; she was a meddler and too sharp for her own good. “I was surprised to find this enemy had a human face,” he said quietly. “That troubled me, for everything in our people’s past binds me in enmity toward the Gaels until the day we drive them from our shores. Those things I must still learn to acquit. In
time I will do so. On the field of war one cannot afford such scruples. I saw courage today. Cenal would tell us, I imagine, that the same courage was in evidence to the end.”

Fortunately, Talorgen did not seem to take Bridei’s speech amiss. “Maybe so,” the chieftain said, “but we will not dwell on that, not with women and children present. War is a brutal business. You are young men yet; this
is only a taste of what is to come. Believe me, all of us started with such sensitivities, but they cannot last long. If we did not suppress them they would cripple our will. Now let us speak of other matters. Change is upon us; spring’s venture will be significant. Once the hostilities commence, Raven’s Well will no longer
be safe. Dreseida will travel up the Glen before Maiden Dance and take
the family with her to the protection of Drust’s court.” He turned his gaze on Ferada, who had composed herself once more and who now met his stare with a distinctly challenging look. “That will provide, if nothing else, an opportunity for you to learn some restraint, daughter,” Talorgen said, not unkindly. It was well known that he preferred his children to express their opinions, even if the results
were occasionally an embarrassment. Indeed, he had been heard to comment that if Gartnait took as much interest in the affairs of Fortriu as his sister did, he might in time make something more of himself than merely a competent fighting man. “You will be lodged in the household of the wise women at Banmerren, where you can avail yourself of the excellent general tuition they provide for girls
of noble birth. My wife will stay at court with her kinswomen; the boys, too.” Talorgen could not have been unaware of the tense silence of both Gartnait and Bridei; their own places in this neat plan had yet to be clarified. Were they enumerated as boys still, to be sent off to safety as soon as anything interesting started to happen?

Donal cleared his throat. “I have Broichan’s permission for
you to be part of the venture against the Gaels, Bridei,” he said. “He’s not altogether happy about it, but he knows it’s time; more than time, truth to tell. In fact he’s contributing a small force from his own household, so we’ll be seeing some old friends, Uven and Cinioch among them. I imagine Talorgen will let Gartnait here ride with you; you’ve proved your worth as a team today.”

Talorgen
smiled. “We’ll make good use of the two of you. Be warned: it won’t be like today’s capture, a balanced man-to-man affair. War is dirty, cruel, and dangerous. A good man cannot fail to be sickened by it. But it’s necessary as long as there are evil scum like the Gaels in this world. They’ve polluted our shores and devastated our lands long enough. Spring should see a turning of the tide: a new
hope for the Priteni and for the king. Take Galany’s Reach and we see hope restored, hope of bigger things to come. You’ll be part of that.”

“Don’t grin any wider, Gartnait,” Ferada remarked, “or your face might split in half.”

Gartnait grimaced at her, entirely failing to conceal his shining-eyed delight. As for Bridei, his feelings were more mixed than he had expected. To be accepted, at last,
as a man and a warrior, that was good, that warmed his heart. Still, after today, he wondered if he had the least understanding of what it really meant. The images from the Dark Mirror were close to the surface of
his thoughts, full of sorrow and confusion, full of a terrible courage like that of the young man whose death he had caused today. Yet that man had been a spy. He had been the enemy,
the same kind as those blank-eyed warriors of old who killed without thinking. How could one fight as one should when plagued by such misgivings?

“It’s not fair.” That was Gartnait’s youngest brother, Uric, an explosive presence of seven years old, now leaping up and thumping the table so violently that platters and knives danced in their places. “We’ll never be old enough to go to war! Who wants
to visit court again? A lot of old men mumbling in corners, that’s all it is, and people telling us to be quiet.”

Talorgen’s gaze moved to contemplate his youngest child, and under it Uric fell silent.

“It’s true,” put in Bedo, one year older and marginally wiser. “We’re expected to be on our best behavior all the time at Caer Pridne. We’d much rather stay at home where the action is, Father.
We could help. There are all sorts of things we could do. If Gartnait can stay, why can’t we?”