The Dark Mirror (46 page)

Her eyes grew gradually accustomed to the dimness. The room did have a window of sorts, a mere slit between the shaped stones, unshuttered. A chill draft swept in, carrying a salt smell: that must be the sea. Birds were calling, their voices harsh and strange, telling a different tale from those of the wren and thrush, the owl and raven. These
were travelers, singing of long journeys over perilous waters. In time she would learn to understand them.

There was rustling again and a faint scratching sound. It was clear she would be sharing her quarters with mice. Mist would have liked it here. Tears prickled Tuala’s eyes; she would not let them spill. Mist had a good home, plenty to eat, folk who would be kind to her now Tuala herself
was gone. Mist would do perfectly well; it would be Tuala who would suffer the parting more, lacking the cat’s comforting presence in this chilly bed. In winter, sleeping in the tower would be very hard. Perhaps that was part of the training. Maybe she was meant to accept the cold and not to ask for blankets. Druids did it, after all, trials by earth and fire, by deep water and empty air. They hung
themselves up in ox hides and waited for prophetic dreams. What were a few uncomfortable nights compared with that?

Clean water would have been good, to wash the travel stains from her face and hands. Never mind that. Trembling with cold, Tuala unfastened her bag and began to unpack her meager belongings. There was a storage chest here, an ancient, heavy thing festooned with cobwebs. Spiders
still dwelt in its cracks and corners; she did her best not to disturb them, since they had prior claim. Mara had made sure she had a change of smallclothes, two shifts, warm stockings, a nightrobe. There was the skirt and tunic she had worn to tell the tale of Nechtan the stone carver and his mysterious lover, Ela. There were two more such outfits, similar in style but plainer in fabric and trim.
Shivering, Tuala stripped off the gown she had worn for riding and slipped the blue robe over her head, tying it around the waist with the matching girdle she found in the small pile of supplies she had been allocated. There was no way to check how it looked, but the fit seemed reasonable. She suspected it was the smallest they had. Most of the other girls had looked alarmingly tall and shapely,
close to her own age, perhaps, but in appearance very much young women. It was all very well for the men of Pitnochie to view her as some kind of mysterious seductress; that was all in the mind. Beside those others, she was indeed still a child.

When all the clothing was laid away, Tuala took out the smaller items she had packed beneath, where they would be less visible to prying eyes such as
those of Ferada’s little brothers. Her special knife; her collection of feathers gleaned from the forest floor; her hair ribbons, those of them she could find before she left Pitnochie. There was no need for them now. She had chopped her hair off level with her chin, roughly, with the knife, and consigned the long dark locks to Broichan’s hall fire. The Shining One already knew the depth of her daughter’s
commitment to the gods and to the future of Fortriu; with this small sacrifice, Tuala made it known also to the Flamekeeper, guardian and inspiration of warriors. Whether either of them accepted her gifts remained to be seen. She was here, after all, and that felt wrong.

The ribbons: grass green, sky blue, blood red, sun yellow When she was little, people had brought them home for her. Men at
arms went off on an expedition and happened to pass a market. Ferat got a couple every summer from a fellow with a pack of goods to sell. Brenna found old ones of her own or made new ones with needle and thread and strips of cloth left over from other projects. These ribbons were home; they were Bridei plaiting her hair with careful hands and a little joke; they were Ferat’s oatcakes and Mara’s clean
linen; they were Uven and Cinioch telling stories and Mist purring, curled up on Brenna’s knee. These ribbons were a household that no longer existed; they were a love that had never been real. Tuala put them away in the chest.

The blue robe was warmer than her own clothes, but not enough to keep out the draft. Outside, clouds had covered the sun and the breeze blew fresh and strong from the
sea. Who knew when the supper bell would sound? She could go back down the steps, of course, and try to disregard the frankly curious stares of the other girls, their ill-suppressed laughter and whispered comments. She could sit on the grass, perhaps spend time in meditation. It would be more sheltered there. If the girls bothered her she could simply ignore them. Tuala grimaced. She was fooling herself
if she thought that would be possible. Judging by Kethra’s inadequate instructions, survival here at Banmerren depended on learning the rules as quickly as possible and making sure one abided by them. Odd, that; of course such an establishment must have its codes of behavior, but a lack of flexibility, a falling short in care, those were failings Tuala would not have expected in a school run
by Fola. Her memory of Fola, from the forest, was of someone who not only understood rules, but knew when it was time to break them.

Tuala’s hands lingered on the last item in her bag: the twisted cord that told the tale of herself and Bridei, the meetings and partings, the smiles and tears. It seemed the two strands were destined, from now on, to remain forever apart. She had been foolish to
think it might be otherwise; to believe in her heart that it must be otherwise. Tuala rolled the little thing into a ball and hid it under her folded nightrobe. She closed the chest and went outside. It was just as cold, but at least she could see the sky. The same clouds that blocked the sun over Banmerren would in time pass above the forest at Pitnochie and set their moving shadows on the deep
waters of Serpent Lake. Perhaps, before they dispersed, they might even look down on Talorgen’s army, marching along the Glen to confront the fierce warriors of Dalriada. They might cross the sun again, and a young man with curling brown hair and eyes of brilliant blue might look up, thinking suddenly of home. Perhaps.

The narrow walkway continued past her door. Turn right, and it was back down
the steps and along the path to the garden, following the base of the moss-coated stone wall. Turn the other way, and the ledge went on to reach a sloping, shingled rooftop, and thence to another stretch of wall which met Banmerren’s main boundary at right angles. Close by this barrier an ancient oak grew, its upper branches towering high above the stonework, its trunk gnarled and knotted, its
roots forming a great network of arch and twist and cranny, spreading themselves across a wide expanse of ground before their descent deep into the earth’s heart. Spring was not far advanced; the dark boughs bore only the smallest swelling of new leaf buds at their tips. Last year’s nests still hung here and there in the branches, signs that this giant nurtured new growth of many kinds year by year.

The oak’s canopy did not stretch all the way back to the shingled roof. There was a section of wall, three strides long and perhaps a handspan wide, that must be traversed in order to reach it. The height was considerable; a fall would, at the very least, result in broken bones. Tuala tucked the skirt of her robe into her girdle, spread out her arms and walked across, small feet steady on the
narrow stone. She had never been afraid of heights.

This was better. A little scrambling took her to a fork in the tree and a branch broad enough to accommodate her comfortably, her back to the mossy trunk, her feet together on a limb and a view of the world beyond Banmerren clearly visible above the outer wall. It would, indeed, be possible to climb across to the top of that wall if she had
the inclination to do so,
since the tree spread its branches with generous expansion in all directions. The supper bell would probably ring when she was halfway over, and she would be late on her very first day. No need to venture farther; this tree held her secure, supported her small body with its own, ancient and strong. If she was quiet and opened the ears of the spirit, in time it would begin
to whisper its stories.

She could see right along a wide, pale bay to an eastern headland. She could see a fortress. Banners flew above its stone ramparts, blue devices on white. From its topmost level it would be possible to look far out to sea; to know the approach of raiders early and to set guards on what lay within. There were earthen defenses, too, mounds and ditches; if she squinted her
eyes she could see small figures moving there. Caer Pridne: stronghold of Drust the Bull, monarch of Fortriu. It was so close. Dreseida might be there by now, settling at court with her small sons, catching up with friends, happy, no doubt, that the long journey was over. Dreseida would not have stayed at Banmerren beyond the time required to see her daughter settled, for no men might enter here
save druids, and Tuala could not imagine Uric and Bedo waiting with great patience for their mother outside the stone walls.

Caer Pridne. They told strange tales about that place. Or rather, Erip and Wid had hinted at tales too strange to be told, and had then gone quiet. There was a well, its entry deep under the earth, a place of dark ceremonial. That was as much as her old tutors had been
prepared to say.

If the flags were flying that meant King Drust was in residence, while far down the Great Glen his warriors battled the Gaels. Broichan, too, would be at Caer Pridne, restored to his place as royal druid, a place he had relinquished for long years while Bridei grew from child to man. It seemed that wherever Bridei went, Broichan attended him like a dark shadow. He might not be
by his foster son’s side on the field of war, but he would be ready and waiting when Bridei came to court, as in time he surely must if Tuala was right about what was intended for him. She pictured, fleetingly, Bridei as a man of mature years, brown curls threaded with gray, and an ancient Broichan hovering nearby, still in control, still manipulating every player in his own long, private game.
Fola had said something about his schemes being beyond most people’s grasp. Tuala shut her mind to that vision of the future, lest a certain red-haired woman decide to make an appearance in it.
Druids didn’t know everything. Even the most exacting self-discipline, the deepest knowledge, did not enable a man to outwit the gods.

IT BECAME A
routine of meals, study, domestic work, sleep. She discovered, after summoning the courage to ask, that every girl got a pillow and two blankets, and that because she was in the tower and had no hearth, she could have three. She learned what the bells meant and obeyed them when she remembered. In the tree, sometimes, or in trance before a rain puddle or a basin of washing water, she
lost track of time, moving beyond the world of ordinary hearing. For these lapses, Kethra never neglected to reprimand her.

“What do you mean, you didn’t know the bell had sounded? Where were you, in some other realm entirely?” Kethra’s words stung; despite Tuala’s best efforts to be like everyone else at Banmerren, there was no escaping her origins. However unobtrusive she sought to make herself,
she would always look different, and such comments did not help. “The bell can be heard from every corner of house and garden, Tuala. You will be prompt next time.”

“Yes, Kethra.” Once, she had thought Mara unduly bossy. Compared with this irascible tutor, Broichan’s housekeeper seemed both kind and reasonable.

The day’s pattern was easy to follow. They rose early. The students took turns with
all domestic tasks, from drawing water to the preparation and serving of meals, from cleaning floors to chopping wood, from tending fires to sewing and mending garments. These duties were scheduled around the times of study; those who had no chores to do on a particular day were expected to practice the skills Kethra or others had taught them: making herbal balms and tinctures, rehearsing the words
and movements of ritual, interpreting the stars, and for those who had the aptitude, languages, scribing, and reading. Banmerren had a small library of its own. In addition, the arts of augury, divination, and prophecy were introduced to the blue-robed junior students. The serious study of these aspects of the craft was principally a matter for the seniors, those who had reached a certain level
of both competence and understanding. Tuala liked the seniors. There were only seven of them, and they had a universal calmness of gaze and kindness of manner that made her wish she were one of them, not a mere beginner
stuck with a gaggle of chattering girls who hardly seemed to know geography from genealogy, astrology from arithmetic. Used to the intense, sometimes fiery tuition of the erudite
old scholars, she shrank now into silence during classes. Her very presence among them drew attention; she did not want the raised brows, the wry smiles she knew her questions would provoke.

Two turnings of the moon passed thus, and it was summer. Tuala discovered the best class of the day was history, for which the daughters of noble blood were present along with those students seeking places
as servants of the Shining One. Tuala had never thought she might be glad of Fox Girl’s presence, but Ferada, at least, was honest in her approach; she was not a giggly, whispering kind of girl. From her first days at Banmerren, Tuala had seen Ferada watching her at suppertime, when the noble daughters sat at their own table to eat and the others at three long boards under their elders’ scrutiny.
At mealtimes Tuala always sat alone. The others left a space on either side of her as if she bore a contagion. This tended to mean the bread would not be passed her way until only the merest scrap was left; it sometimes meant very little to eat at all. Tuala, ever a girl of birdlike appetite, refused to let it worry her. At least it removed the need to think of the right things to say. Evidently
it worried Ferada; she watched with a small frown creasing her elegant brows and she exchanged comments with the girl beside her, the one with hair like a golden waterfall and friendly eyes. This girl was interesting. Tuala had discovered her name was Ana, and she was a royal hostage from the islands to the north, required to remain in the custody of King Drust as an assurance that her kin would
mount no attack on the coast of Fortriu. Ana had left homeland and family behind, through no fault of her own. She had lived her life between Banmerren and Caer Pridne for four years now, cut off from all she loved. And she was young; less than a year older than Tuala herself. Every time she traveled outside the encircling walls of Banmerren, the talk went, Ana was accompanied by a team of four very
large guards, in case her kinsmen might decide her freedom outweighed the risks attached to defying Drust the Bull. At court she was shadowed by armed men. Ana’s cousin was king of the Light Isles, and of lesser status than the monarch of Fortriu. In the four years she had been a hostage, there had been no attempt to win her release. How the fair-haired girl managed that serenity, that air of deepest
calm, Tuala could not imagine.