The Dark Mirror (35 page)

At a point where Bridei judged they must be nearing the bridge that marked the northern tip of King Lake, Talorgen called the groups in for a council. What had set out
as a force of near a hundred had become somewhat larger as it passed down the Great Glen. There were two other chieftains here now, Morleo of Longwater, tall, lean, dark-bearded, and Ged of Abertornie, a flamboyant, cheerful man given to garments woven in bright colors and elaborate patterns of stripes and squares. Each of these leaders
brought his own substantial force; Ged’s had adopted their
chieftain’s mode of dress and Donal commented, behind his hand, that the Gaels would see them coming from halfway down King Lake, for they shone bright as beacons in their red and yellow and green.

The council was businesslike. Several leaders there might be, but all understood this was Talorgen’s undertaking, done in the name of King Drust and of all Fortriu, and that when it came to it, decisions
must be reached quickly and effectively, with a single voice. After conferring with Ged and Morleo and the most trusted of his own men, Donal among them, Talorgen addressed the assembled forces. The men were gathered in a place where a stony outcrop hung above a natural clearing. A stream ran there, and the mossy ground was like a soaked sponge, but it was the only open space big enough to
let all of them see their leader as he spoke. Bridei stood at the back with Gartnait; he wondered how he would feel if Talorgen were his own father. He supposed that, as his father Maelchon was a king, there would indeed have been times when he had stood thus before his troops and exhorted them to courage. Bridei thought he might have liked to see that. He could not tell if Gartnait was proud of his
father; Gartnait seemed to have nothing on his mind these days beyond an anticipation of killing Gaels.

“We are a strong army,” Talorgen was saying, “bold of heart and steadfast of spirit. But this is not the kind of battle in which we can charge forward in numbers, assailing the enemy and overpowering him with the sheer force of our initial assault. Gabhran of Dalriada knows this country now”
At the mention of this name there was a general hiss of disapproval. “His folk are settled far and wide across what was once our own territory”

“And will be ours again!” someone was bold enough to shout, and other voices arose in support.

“At Galany’s Reach, where the Mage Stone stands, there is now a fortified settlement. Our spies tell us it’s not heavily manned. A garrison of thirty, perhaps;
more if they’ve had word of our coming. There are also ordinary folk there, wives and children, craftspeople, slaves.”

“Scum,” someone muttered.

“A force the size of ours could take it easily. But as I’m sure you realize, holding it would be a different matter. That hill and the lonely vale below it were once the lands of Duchil of Galany, one of the bravest of our chieftains. Duchil was slain
in the last great struggle against the Gaels,” Talorgen bowed his head briefly. “Those of his folk who survived were driven out; they
live their lives in exile. Fokel, son of Duchil, will ride with us at the end, he and his warriors.”

A couple of the men greeted this with a half-hearted cheer; most were silent. Perhaps, thought Bridei, they had heard what he had about Fake!, a man whose name
was seldom mentioned without the words
mad, wild
, or
unpredictable
alongside it.

“We know,” Talorgen said, “that we can take the settlement and the hill. We know also that the moment our force emerges from the woods to cross the bridge at Fox Falls, the enemy’s forward sentries will carry word to their leaders of our approach. That word will go to all their fortresses, all their strongholds;
it will reach their king at Dunadd soon enough. The speed of their response depends on where their fighting men are currently deployed; the information we have on that is now somewhat stale, I think. We might hold Galany’s Reach for one turning of the moon at most. Likely we’d be surrounded by Gabhran’s forces long before then, and find ourselves besieged on the hilltop. I’ll put it to you plainly,
men. This is a symbolic mission; a taste of what is to come for the forces of Dalriada. We go in, attack, withdraw. We destroy their garrison and we take hostages: the leader, the women and children. We retreat.”

To Bridei this made good sense. It was precisely the way he would have conducted the mission himself, had he been leader. Erip and Wid had taught him the long history of this struggle.
The three of them had analyzed exhaustively the great and bloody battles between Fortriu and Dalriada, the heroic advances down the Glen, the harried retreats, the patterns of victory and defeat. It was plain to Bridei that a force the size of Talorgen’s could not hold a territory so far to the west for long. Without the backing of the armies of Circinn, Fortriu would never drive the Gaels back
to their homeland. These men, however, had not had the benefit of his education. Their blood ran hot with the desire for vengeance; their every energy was fixed on the killing of Gaels. A chorus of protest rang out.

“Retreat? We’re not in it to retreat!”

“What, let the scum keep the lands they’ve stolen? Not likely!”

“Kill ‘em all, I say!”

Morleo of Longwater, who stood beside Talorgen, raised
his hand and the shouting subsided to angry muttering. “This venture,” he said gravely, “is a sign to them that we are bold, quick, and clever; that our numbers are growing, our alliances strong. That we have not forgotten the ills they have
inflicted on our people. We raise there the banner of Drust the Bull, and beside it those of Raven’s Well, of Longwater, and of Abertornie.” He nodded acknowledgment
at Ged. “We raise also the stars and serpent that are the ancient symbols of Galany’s Reach itself.”

“And then,” said the brightly clad Ged, “we hold a ceremony. Perhaps the feast of Rising, perhaps another ritual. We stand on that hilltop around the Mage Stone and we consecrate it once again to our own gods: to the Flamekeeper and the Shining One, to Bone Mother and the fair maiden All-Flowers.
We ensure our captives are present to witness it. We release one or two of them to convey the tale of it to Gabhran and his henchmen. Then we retreat. In time we will return. We will return with a greater army than these Gaels have ever dreamed of.”

The warriors roared approval; Ged had an amiable manner about him and a rousing tone of voice, and the simplicity of his speech touched something
in the spirits of the men. Bridei did not cheer. His mind was on that army, the force that would be big enough to scour the land forever of the menace of Dalriada; the army that could never be assembled until Circinn came to Fortriu’s aid. Not until the divided kingdom of the Priteni was united and working for a single purpose might this be achieved. He observed the men’s shining eyes, their looks
of pride and purpose, and knew they were thinking they would do this next summer or perhaps the one after. They did not think beyond the bright words of hope. They did not know true victory would be a very long time coming. Perhaps, on the eve of battle, that was as it should be.

They moved on in the morning, now in bigger groups. They stayed with their own leaders, Talorgen’s men together, and
Ged’s and Morleo’s, though one or two of the fellows had friends in the other teams, and campfires were shared at night along with the occasional prize such as a whole roasted sheep—the farmer must be compensated later—or a lucky catch of fat trout. Tales were told and songs sung, always quietly. The weather improved; Talorgen ordered two days of rest, and the lower branches of alder and willow
were festooned with garments steaming in the spring sun’s faint warmth.

They were now not far from the bridge at Fox Falls. There would be no further advance of the main party until Fokel joined them with his men. This band of exiled warriors dwelled in the mountains near Five Sisters. It was a grim and marginal area, and from what Bridei had heard, this war
leader and his small group of dedicated
followers had developed temperaments to match it. Bridei wondered if Fokel would be content with a token raid on the ancestral territory for which his own father had fought and died. He commented on this to Donal as they squatted by the stream, attempting to rinse the accumulated grime from their smallclothes.

“You wouldn’t want to say that too loudly,” Donal murmured, “true as it undoubtedly
is. Talorgen would have been better to leave Fokel right out of it, if you ask me. But he couldn’t. It’s Pokers own land; his own place. How could Talorgen not tell him what was planned? Calculated risk. Caused him a few sleepless nights. Still, it’s more men, and they’re good fighters.”

“Mm,” said Bridei. “The question is, whose orders do they obey?” He was becoming increasingly uneasy about
the venture. He agreed with Talorgen’s plan; it was the only one that made sense, given their numbers and the position of their target. He approved of the idea of a ritual on Galany’s Reach, for in any great venture the role of the gods must be recognized and honored. Yet he felt in his heart that it fell short of what was required. What price this symbolic victory if the banners of Fortriu were
torn down the instant Talorgen’s forces were out of sight? What price the joyous celebration of Rising when the Mage Stone still stood in enemy territory to be ignored, reviled, perhaps even defaced? Did that show due respect for the ancient powers that were bone and breath of the land? Deep inside him, Bridei knew it was not enough.

“Of course,” Donal observed, wringing out a sodden garment
of indeterminate hue, “Drust will use the hostages to win concessions from Gabhran, if he can. Capture a chieftain of high birth, or the kin of such a man, and you gain quite a bit of leeway. Talorgen does think ahead. You’re looking very doubtful, Bridei. What’s eating you? Having scruples again?”

“Just thinking.” Bridei hung his own undergarments on a supple willow branch, suspecting that by
nightfall they’d have dried only to a clammy dampness. He settled on a mossy rock, watching the men as they enjoyed the unexpected time of respite: some were fishing, some heading off up the hill with bows and quivers, some tending to their small domestic tasks. A good many were rolled in their blankets, fast asleep.

“Thinking about what?” Donal asked casually.

But Bridei did not answer. In
the back of his mind a plan was forming, a plan so wild he could not believe it had come from his own head. It was a crazy idea, the kind that sprang from emotion and not from a balanced
consideration of risks and opportunities. All the same, it was there, grand, implausible, utterly mad: a symbolic act that would ring out in the tales of Fortriu like a great bell of hope.

“No,” he muttered to
himself. “No, I don’t think so.”

“What?” said Donal.

“You’ve been to Galany’s Reach, haven’t you?” Bridei asked him. “How close is the hill to the lake shore? Can you draw me a plan, here on the earth?”

TUALA VOWED TO
herself and to the Shining One that from now on she would be strong. She recalled that Bridei had come
to this house when he was very small, that he too had been quite without friends or family, and that he had managed it all remarkably well. He had even made friends with Broichan. True, if Bridei’s upbringing had been different, perhaps it would not be so hard for him to smile now. But there was no doubt Bridei had made the best of his opportunities, and she owed it to him to attempt the same.

With Erip laid to rest and Wid gone, there were no more lessons. Mara made it clear she did not want Tuala’s help around the house. Brenna’s cottage was forbidden, and the men were not talking to her. What was she to do? It was folly to attempt the trip to the Vale of the Fallen with winter’s grip still hard on the land, and all her movements furtively watched by one or another member of the household
as if she might suddenly turn into some kind of evil sorceress and cast a spell on them.

There were moments when she wished to do just that, and wondered what would happen if she tried; but Tuala did not try. It was one thing to give those powers a little exercise in the presence of trusted friends like Erip and Wid. To employ them before those who already feared her would be touching a match
to dry tinder.

She practiced scrying in the relative privacy of her own chamber, using a little bowl of bronze that she had found in a store room. It was a strange vessel with clawed feet and dragon handles. Remembering the precepts of her teachers, Bridei among them, she tried to extend her skills and find new ways of using them. What was the purpose of such activities if not learning? Thus,
she practiced the summoning of images related to a theme or strand, such as kingship, or the ancient lore of symbols, or Pitnochie itself: the secrets and memories that resided deep in the thick stone walls, the heavy
woolen hangings, the dark, smoky chambers. The place had seen many inhabitants, chieftains, families, other druids such as Broichan, although there were fewer of those. His had been
an unusual path. He had dwelled long years at court, fulfilling the role of king’s adviser and moving among men of affairs. Later, he had returned to reside here as if he were more wealthy landholder than spiritual leader. Appearances were deceptive; Tuala did not need the images of the water to tell her that Broichan was both of these things and a great deal more.