The Dark Mirror (56 page)

The girl nodded, luminous eyes suddenly grave. “Fortriu must have its true leader,” she said, “the only one who can unite the realms of the Priteni in loyalty to the ancient gods and in due acknowledgment of the elder races of the land, our own especially. The new order in the south runs rampant, walking with heavy feet on the sacred places, dislodging druid and
wise woman, burning and breaking the homes of the wild folk of the forest. The goddess needs Bridei.”

And Bridei needs Tuala.”

“What I plan will ensure both are ready for what awaits them.”

“You sound very certain. There are the vagaries of the human kind yet to consider; their ill-considered scheming and petty power games have the capacity to play havoc with the best laid plans.”

“True, Bridei
has more trials to endure, both those of the human world and those the gods prepare for him to ensure he is worthy of their trust. I have confidence in him. The true light of the Flamekeeper burns in his spirit. But he has a long path to walk still before anything is sure. There are shadows on his way, and not all of them are of our making.”

CAER PRIDNE WAS
ablaze with light. Torches flared along the wall-walks, illuminating the fine work on the bull stones, the creature on each incised with delicacy yet captured in all its muscular strength and virility. Drust’s great hall stood high on the promontory, encircled by Caer Pridne’s upper rampart. The fortress had three levels, each with its own protective wall of stone laced with timber.
Triple mounds and ditches provided additional barriers to attack. Within the walls worked and lived a whole community dedicated to the upkeep of the king’s court and the support of his household. On the westward side, between stone breakwaters, there was sheltered mooring for boats. Steps led up to an iron gate. To landward was the road, a broad way of hard-packed earth, tonight edged in flame
from brands set on tall poles to either side. Men marched or rode in to be greeted by a formidable presence of guards before the double gates that barred entry to the walled fortress itself. Drust was both powerful and careful. He had been elected king at a time when feeling ran high among the chieftains of the Priteni, and the assembly of nobles had been divided over the succession. The south,
increasingly influenced by Christian teaching, had wanted Drust son of Girom, known as the Boar, a man who himself followed this new faith and could be relied upon to encourage the missionaries desirous of spreading it. The north had fallen in behind the much older Drust son of Wdrost, steeped in the ancient ways and dedicated to the protection of Fortriu’s borders. Broichan had supported Drust
the Bull; how could he not? Drust the Boar, in his turn, had had strong and outspoken adherents. So the assembly had been split. A casting vote, that of the wise woman Fola, had been disallowed by the chieftains of Circinn as invalid, since such a participant might seek the use of pagan magic to bend men’s minds to her will. After a time of uproar and chaos, a bitter compromise had been reached. Always,
before, a single king had ruled the lands of the Priteni from the Great Glen south to the Roman wall. A lesser king in the Light Isles had been subject to this monarch’s rule. The Caitt, of course, were a law unto themselves. Nonetheless, the territories had belonged together; when it counted, they had worked in unity. After that divisive assembly, the land of the Priteni had been split into
two kingdoms, Fortriu to be ruled by Drust the Bull and the southern realm of Circinn by Drust the Boar. It was an open secret that each of them had
agreed to this with the full intention of claiming the whole territory the moment the other died. No wonder there were so many guards at Caer Pridne now.

Bridei walked into the hall, Breth and Garth a discreet step behind him. He had begun to notice,
now that he was obliged to be shadowed thus whenever he ventured forth, that there were more than a few other men who carried a similar protective presence. Not Broichan; he had always walked alone. But Aniel, the king’s councillor, had acquired a new bodyguard who could be seen standing close by the elegant, gray-haired nobleman now and trying to look as if he were not there. Others about the
hall bore that same expression, the look of men constantly on high alert, yet working at being unobtrusive. They were generally big men who wore rather plain garments and hovered on the margins of rooms. There were other kinds of protection, of course; King Drust had Broichan. The very presence of the king’s druid should, one might suppose, be sufficient to deter most attackers. It was common knowledge
that such men possessed immense power; that they could summon what forces they required to aid them. A druid might call on the Flamekeeper to make a man sweat and burn until he was consumed by fever; he might invoke the Shining One with a request for floods or freakish waves. None but another mage might dare to challenge such a man.

And yet, whatever people might choose to believe, Broichan was
a mortal man and he was vulnerable. Bridei had never forgotten that night, long ago, when the news came that his foster father lay gravely ill from poison. He recalled his own desolation and Donal’s kindness. Someone had been clever enough to get under the guard of the king’s druid. Was that assailant the same who had pursued small Bridei through the forest with bow and sword? Nobody had ever said.
Perhaps, even now, nobody knew, nobody but those who wished them ill, king’s druid and foster son. It was becoming clear that Broichan had spoken truly: from this point on it would always be thus, each step to be guarded, each day to be lived in the awareness that enemies were ready to strike. If one such adversary were detected and removed, another would simply step up to take his place.

Drust
the Bull . . . Bridei had long wondered how he would seem. Perhaps the king would appear massive, strong and solid like the creature he had chosen as his token; perhaps he would be majestic and bright, as if he carried the light of the Flamekeeper within him. The king of Fortriu was, after all, in many ways the embodiment of this god; his special role in the
rituals underlined it. Perhaps it would
be disappointing. Maybe Drust would be an ailing slip of a man, a poor thing clinging to the last shreds of life and power. They did say he would be lucky to last the winter.

The hall was packed with men and women, some seated at the three long tables, others clustered in the spaces between. The air was alive with laughter and talk. From somewhere farther down, music could be heard above the
din: a pipe, a drum, perhaps a harp. There was a smell of roast meat and spices and the place was very warm. Logs burned on a great hearth set at one side of the chamber; this vented cunningly through a structure of stone, keeping the hall relatively clear of smoke. The movement of folk there seemed to Bridei like a dance, or maybe a game, a very complicated game of strategy with several different
sets of rules. Prepared well in advance by Broichan, he tried to identify certain men, influential men about whom warnings had been provided. The exceptionally tall fellow with copper colored hair to his shoulders must be Carnach, a cousin of the king and a potential claimant. To be watched. The broad-shouldered man speaking to Talorgen was probably another claimant, Wredech of the house of Fidach.
Talorgen possessed information about Wredech that might prove useful; he was to be cultivated, cautiously. Where were the king’s councillors?

Bridei glanced to the far end of the hall, and there was King Drust, seated at a smaller table set crosswise to the others and raised on a dais. There were gray streaks in his dark hair and neat beard; his features were distinguished by a prow of a nose
and heavy brows that overshadowed his eyes, eyes that were scanning the chamber even as he leaned sideways to listen to Broichan, who was seated by him. One could not assess a man so quickly, of course. But it seemed to Bridei that there was power in this king’s little finger, authority in every blink of his eye. It was in the way he held himself, upright, regal, relaxed yet aware; it was in the
steely intelligence of the dark eyes, the strong set of the jaw, the economy of the gestures. It was in the way Broichan listened to him, and in the tilt of the druid’s head. If the king was indeed gravely ill, he showed it little. There was a line between the brows, a tightness to the mouth that might indicate the presence of pain suppressed by will: no more than that.

The crowd moved, passed,
grouped, and regrouped. There were women in the hall; after the long time of preparation for war and the march to Galany’s Reach and back, it seemed almost odd to see them. Lady Dreseida, clad in silver and black, was talking to a group of elegantly attired women,
their hair caught up in elaborate structures of plaits and coils. Gartnait was with his sister, Ferada. She caught Bridei’s eye and
gave a nod, unsmiling; he returned the sober greeting. She was an odd girl, clever and prickly, with an anger in her that made her always combative. Interchanges with Ferada were generally interesting, but seldom relaxing. Gartnait, good company as he was for sport or combat practice, had a narrow scope of conversation. Ferada could hold her own on most topics; talking to her at Raven’s Well had
made a welcome change from the endless days of preparation for war. However, her company was not something he would seek out here. Ferada generally gave the impression that she was somehow mocking him; that, indeed, she held much of the world about her in contempt. That troubled Bridei, for it seemed to him there was only one world to live in, and that if it had flaws, one should not complain but
take steps to change it.

“Talorgen’s daughter.” Aniel, the king’s councillor, had come up beside Bridei, his bodyguard pausing to speak to Breth. “You’ll know her, I suppose. The girl beside her is Ana, Drust’s hostage from the Light Isles, a fine young woman. It’s been arranged that the two of them spend time at Banmerren with some others, and the girl appreciates that, being a quiet, ladylike
kind of creature. Remarkably pretty, too, don’t you think?”

Coming from the reserved, cautious Aniel, this speech was somewhat of a surprise. Bridei took in Ana’s grave look, her cream and rose complexion, her fall of shimmering golden hair. Sadness overtook him again; he could not put the image of Tuala from his mind, turning and turning on the top of Eagle Scar, her dark curls tossed like a
banner in the wind. He had no words for a reply.

“Be sure to speak to these young women later,” Aniel said, unperturbed. “It’s appropriate that you do so. Another step you must take. See the thin, dark fellow to the right of the king? A dangerous man: Tharan, one of my fellow councillors. Extremely influential, and a fierce supporter of the candidate from the House of Fortrenn, who has a strong
claim. It’s a waste of time trying to change Tharan’s mind. On his other side, Eogan, also a councillor, close to the king and possessing some flexibility of thought. An approach from you might have better luck than one from myself or Broichan; we are not universally admired. The small woman is Drust’s wife, Rhian of Powys. She has been an excellent support to him, but is unlikely to seek a role
once he is gone. Her brother, Owain; insignificant. Now, it seems we are
to be seated; after the meal, the king will call certain men forward to receive his personal thanks. You will be one of them. Are you ready for that?”

“I think so, my lord.”

“Good. I see someone’s dressed you well; that’s important, too. Rich but not too ostentatious. You’ll develop your own style in time.”

This could
hardly be answered without giving offense. It was Faolan who had procured these garments, on Broichan’s orders, and wearing them felt decidedly odd after so many days and nights of marching, climbing, eating, and sleeping in the same tunic, trousers, smallclothes. boots. The soft, fine wool, the silver-buckled belt and carefully draped cloak seemed alien to Bridei. He had washed both body and hair;
warm water had been brought to their quarters for the purpose, with soap that smelled of rosemary. After that, his brown curls had dried to a wild, untameable frizz, and he had had to endure the humiliation of allowing Garth to work the strands into a neat plait at the back.

“It’s a new world for you,” Aniel murmured. “Learn quickly; you don’t have long.” Then he was gone; a place awaited him
at the high table, near the king.

Bridei sat with Talorgen’s family, Gartnait on his right, Ferada on his left, the alarming Lady Dreseida opposite. Garth was taster tonight; it had been impossible for Bridei to refuse this. Garth stood behind, by the wall; Breth was strategically placed a little farther down the board, apparently enjoying himself with his friends. However, he took no ale, and
ate with his attention on his fellow guests, the entrances to the hall, the shadowy corners and what they might conceal. Faolan’s technique was different. Earlier, Bridei had noticed him several times, always on the fringes, always listening. He had moved from one group to another so unobtrusively folk would scarcely have noticed him; likely he had had an ear to every significant conversation, every
little plot, every tossed-away comment in the hall. Now he was seated among a group of men Bridei did not know and appeared to be eating and drinking quietly, keeping himself to himself. The girl with the golden hair was seated at the high table. She was of royal blood, kin to the vassal king in the Light lsles; it was appropriate.