The Dark Mirror (53 page)

“
I HAVE
A misgiving,” Aniel said to the chieftain of Raven’s Well as they strolled along
the upper wall-walk at Caer Pridne, stopping here and there to gaze northward over the sea as if they had merely taken it into their heads to go out for some fresh air. “I want you to tell me if you share it.”

Talorgen waited, eyes fixed on the horizon beyond which lay the Light Isles, home to puffins, seals, and a king whose kinsmen might well have a claim to Fortriu themselves, should they
be so bold as to declare it. There were plenty of sons of the royal blood to choose from: almost too many, this time. There was only one on whom the gods smiled.

“It concerns this poisoning. A man died in your own hall. But for a lucky
chance, it would have been Bridei. The way you tell it, the only folk there present were your own, Ged’s, Morleo’s—men we trust, men their chieftains have vouched
for personally. Your own household, all carefully checked. My bodyguards. A handful of Broichan’s fellows, who have proven loyal since Bridei was not much more than an infant. Nobody could have breached your security; that’s what you told me, and I’ve no cause to disbelieve you. So, this attack was carried out by one or more of our own; within the ranks of our trusted men, there is a traitor.”

“My own thoughts exactly.”

“Now that Bridei has distinguished himself on the field of battle, we must expect that there will be gossip and conjecture. Folk know that he is Maelchon’s son. It is a long time since Anfreda wed the king of Gwynedd and rode off to make her new life far away from Fortriu. But there will be those who remember; before long, everyone at court will realize Bridei has a
right to stand as a candidate for kingship.”

“You are saying this attempt on his life will almost certainly be followed by another?”

“I think it very likely,” Talorgen said, “and so, I imagine, does Broichan. We walk a narrow path, my friend. On the one hand, this young man must be seen to shine. He must work to impress and convince the powerful men at Caer Pridne that he is the best candidate
for Fortriu. On the other, the more his strengths become apparent, the harder our enemies will be working to remove him from contention. We must be vigilant.”

“You still have no idea who perpetrated this attack that claimed Donal’s life?”

“None at all. I’ve interrogated every man who was present, checked the arrangements five times over, had a herbalist try to identify the substance that was
used, all to no avail. One further thing we know about our adversary: he’s clever.”

“Talorgen?” The king’s councillor spoke now in a whisper.

“Mm?”

“I do not wish to believe it; I shrink from the possibility. But I will ask you. Is it possible that, even within our very small circle, one is not what he seems? After so long, can I have been mistaken in trusting those I judged to be entirely
true to our cause?”

Talorgen was silent for a little. “That would be a risky game indeed,” he said, jaw tight. “Such a traitor, uncovered, would do well to shake in his boots.
There are powers among us, the five of us, that could bring the strongest man down. Who would choose to make an enemy of Broichan? I will not entertain this notion, friend. We must pray; we must entreat the Flamekeeper
to protect the lad for long enough.”

“And we must enlist what earthly help is available to back him up. Engaging the services of the king’s assassin should be a good start.”

“
THERE’S A CHILD
,” Fola said to her old friend Uist. They were traversing the flat, pale beach that curved around the bay between the fortress promontory
of Caer Pridne and the wooded headland of Banmerren. The tide was low; Uist had taken off his sandals and was digging bare feet with pleasure into the fine wet sand. Beside them, the druid’s white mare walked quietly, making her own way without need for halter or bridle. Fola bent to pick up a shell; its delicate rosy exterior had broken to reveal chamber on chamber in perfect spiral. A tiny,
mysterious creature of the deep had once made its secret lodging here. “Not a child, a young woman. Coming up to fourteen years old, by my count. She concerns me.”

“This is the girl you mentioned, who made our friend’s eyes go distant and his mouth tighten? I do recall the old scholar, Wid, mentioning a second student; he was deliberately vague about the matter. Who is she?”

“I suppose it is
no longer a secret. She’s a child of the Good Folk; Broichan has had her in his house from infancy, since Bridei was very young. They grew up together.”

Uist gave a low whistle. He halted in his tracks, looking down as his feet sank into the sand, water welling up around them to soak the hem of his ragged white robe. “Broichan’s kept that very quiet,” he said.

“I think he hoped it would just
go away.”

“Hasn’t it? Hasn’t she? I gather you have the girl now; that removes her conveniently both from Pitnochie and from Caer Pridne. I’m assuming the problem was an attachment between these two children, one of whom was deemed unsuitable as a friend for the other? Why did Broichan keep her at all? A man with his foresight must have realized how dangerous that choice was.”

“He kept her because
he respects the gods,” Fola said. “He must always put their will before his own, even though his commitment to the plan consumes his whole life. And he kept her because Bridei wanted it thus. Broichan loves
the boy like a son. Love . . . it complicates our games, old friend, it insinuates itself, disrupting the most carefully laid plans and unmanning the most disciplined heart. I’d like you to
meet this girl and give me your opinion, not as a man, but as a servant of the Shining One. I never thought I would say this, but I’m beginning to wonder if our council is in danger of losing its way, thanks to Broichan’s fierce dedication to our cause. I don’t want to believe his zeal has made him blind to the goddess’s will. This child—this young woman is desperate to go home to Pitnochie, even
though she realizes she is no longer welcome there. Something calls her, something bigger than herself. I see what is in her heart and it looks to me disturbingly like truth. She turns her strange eyes on me and I see the Shining One looking out.”

“You intrigue me,” Uist said. “And you alarm me. As I am coming to visit Banmerren anyway, I will engage this young person in conversation, I think.
It will be a welcome diversion from my major purpose in your establishment. How is the other girl progressing?”

Fola’s expression darkened. “The preparation has been thorough; Morna will be ready by Gateway. It is difficult, as always; difficult for all of us.”

“There are preparations you can use,” Uist said gravely. “I suppose you know them. Herbs that can deepen her trance. Infusions that
will purify the body and enable her to detach herself more effectively from this world and enter the other more easily.”

“We know of some; we try to delay their use until closer to the time of the ritual. It depends on each girl. Some are strong in themselves and will go ahead without the need for such aids. Some hear the voice of the gods and walk the path willingly. To alter the mind or the
body with herbs and potions too early may lessen the effectiveness of such aids at the end; that would be cruel indeed. I have not yet seen a candidate who took that final step without at least some fear.”

“Ah, well, I will spend some time with your chosen one,” Uist said. “I will give her what counsel I can. But it’s the other girl who really intrigues me. I’ve never met a child of the Good
Folk in the flesh. Is she of unearthly beauty, like the women in the tales?”

Fola grinned. “You’re too old to be asking such a question,” she said. “Tuala is herself. No more need be said.”

IT HAD BEEN
Bridei’s intention to confront his foster father as soon as he reached Caer Pridne and to demand a full explanation of a
number of matters: Donal’s death, Tuala’s betrayal of their childhood friendship, Broichan’s own choice to wait so long, withholding the truth about his plans until far past the time when Bridei had recognized their nature. Then there was the need to be guarded and protected like a vulnerable child even now, when he bore his warrior marks. Staying close to him had killed Donal. Who would be next,
Breth of the strong shoulders and keen eye? Garth with his deceptively sweet smile and powerful sword arm? It was time Broichan began to treat Bridei like the man he was, and to trust him with the truth.

In the event the king’s druid pre-empted his foster son’s demands. They met in Broichan’s own quarters within the fortress walls, where Bridei, too, would be lodged with his two bodyguards while
he remained at court. He was weary after the ride up from Pitnochie; he had seen Snowfire settled in the king’s stables, snatched a bite to eat with his guards, then sought out his foster father. Breth and Garth were unpacking their gear in the sleeping chamber. Bridei found Broichan in a customary pose, standing before a cold hearth, apparently deep in thought. The chamber had been set out much
like the druid’s private quarters at Pitnochie; the tools of his trade lay on shelves or hung from rafters, his scrolls and writing materials were neatly stowed. A shelf at the far end with a folded blanket laid across it appeared to be Broichan’s own somewhat unforgiving sleeping arrangement. Bridei found himself hoping there would be straw mattresses, at least, in the other chamber; his nights
had been much troubled by dreams, and the headache never quite went away now.

“My lord?”

“Bridei. Welcome home, son.”

It became possible, then, to stride forward and offer a quick, firm embrace; to feel how thin his foster father had become under the concealment of the black robe. Bridei stepped back, observing new lines on the druid’s face, new threads of gray in the dark plaited hair. “You
are well, I trust?”

“Well enough, Bridei. I find life at court pleases me less than it once did. I would not speak thus before King Drust, of course. He needs me; I serve him. The gods require no less. You’re looking tired. There have been losses; I am sorry. Talorgen told me the messenger I sent never reached you with the news about Erip. I also . . . never mind that. The old man passed peacefully;
it was a good death in the end. He was surrounded by friends.”

“Donal did not die peacefully. He perished in my place. I put the cup in his hand myself.” By effort of will, Bridei kept his voice from shaking.

“Sit down, son. We have some talking to do. You know this is not the first attempt on your life, or on mine. A new enemy now, I think, but the motive is the same. You’ve no need to ask
me why someone’s trying to remove you, I imagine.”

Bridei was silent.

“Tell me.”

“Is it not for you to tell me, my lord?”

Broichan sighed and came to seat himself opposite Bridei, the work table between them. “I think we can dispense with ‘my lord’ now that we are two men together,” he said quietly. “Call me by my name, if you will. Now tell me. You are a hero, they say: the man who devised
and executed the bold and ingenious plan to snatch the Mage Stone from under the enemy’s nose. Talorgen also tells me you acquitted yourself extremely well in the battle and behaved with coolness and maturity in the aftermath. I suspect, from his tone, that he wishes you were his own son. So, you do better than anyone would have expected, you win allies and friends, you offend nobody. Your tale
sweeps up the Glen before you, a legend in the making. The Flamekeeper smiles on you. And still someone tries to kill you. Why?”

“You know why. Because I am my mother’s son.”

“Ah!” Broichan leaned back, hands behind his head. “How long since you worked this out for yourself?”

“A long time since I first suspected. Wid and Erip avoided it carefully in all those long lessons in genealogy. The
way they skirted around the question of my own ancestry alerted me to its possible significance. I could not remember her name; to a small child his mother is simply that, Mother. In the end I asked Ferada, and learned that my mother is indeed related to the king through the female line. Others have a closer relationship, that of direct cousins. Carnach of Thorn Bend is one such, the lady Dreseida
another. I hope Drust the Bull is not lost to us too soon. But if that should occur, this means I am one of those who could be put forward as a claimant for kingship. I imagine it is for this that I have been prepared.”