The Dark Mirror (57 page)

“My friend Ana,” Ferada said drily, following Bridei’s gaze.
“Pretty, isn’t she?”

“I hear she is a hostage. So young; she must be younger than yourself, I think. It must be very hard for her.”

“She’s about the same age as your sister, Tuala. Yes, Ana is homesick. It’s a common affliction at Banmerren. But Ana’s one of those good creatures who makes the best of everything. She never complains.”

Bridei’s hand rested on the pouch at his belt; he would not
reach inside to touch the little item it held. He had intended to cast the ribbon into the fire: an act of sacrifice to the Flamekeeper, a promise of adherence to the path before him, whatever losses it held. Instead, he had put the scrap of cloth away; had kept it close.

“She is a sweet-looking girl,” Bridei said, noticing Ana’s little smile as she listened to something the councillor Eogan
was saying, and the flush of delicate rose in her cheeks. “You look fine yourself tonight, Ferada. The earrings suit you.” Courtesy demanded no less. Besides, even if she were most likely to scoff at his comment, he spoke only the truth. A new scattering of freckles across Ferada’s nose softened her sharp features; the styling of her hair was somehow different, making her less formidable.

“Ah,
well,” Ferada said, looking down at her platter, “we all make an effort here; it’s part of the grand performance our lives become at court.” She cut a sliver of beef and stared at it. “I see you have a taster,” she said.

Bridei grimaced. “Broichan’s orders.”

“That seems a bit odd. Aren’t tasters only for men of power and influence? Even Father doesn’t have one.”

“Bridei’s friend died.” Gartnait
spoke through a mouthful of meat. “You know that, Ferada.”

“If it were I,” Ferada said, “I would not be wanting another friend to die for me.”

Bridei set down his knife, appetite suddenly gone.

“Stupid,” said Gartnait, glaring at his sister across Bridei.

“Oh, dear. I’m sorry, Bridei,” Ferada said, crumbling bread with her fingers. “What else shall we talk about?”

Bridei said nothing. This
was a game for which he had neither the skills nor the inclination, especially not with the hawk-eyed Dreseida listening to every interchange from the other side of the table. Besides, he realized that there was indeed something he wanted to talk about. There were questions he needed to ask Ferada, who was newly returned from Banmerren. They could not be broached now, not with Dreseida listening
and others close by. The hurt inflicted by Tuala’s desertion was too new, too raw. He recognized
this as an area in which he was vulnerable; in which he must take his own steps to avoid attack.

“After a season or more on the march,” he said, “we are happy to turn our attentions to this fine food and ale. You will find us somewhat lacking in conversational skills, I’m afraid.”

Ferada gave a brief
laugh. “That would be nothing new for my brother,” she said, and Gartnait made a face at her. “You, on the other hand, cannot use such an excuse, as you don’t seem to be eating, taster or no taster. I think maybe court life suits you no better than Banmerren suits Tuala.”

Bridei drew a deep breath and let it out in stages. He fixed his mind on the Shining One, perfect, calm, serene. His druidic
education, with its techniques for maintaining balance and focus, stood him in good stead at such moments. “The transition can be difficult, I imagine, even for a seasoned warrior such as your father,” he said quietly. “The world of blood and conflict, of nights in the open and supper caught on the run makes this seem . . . artificial.”

“But it’s the same world,” Ferada said, setting down her
cup. “They fight different sorts of battles at court, that’s all. Given the choice, I think I might prefer nights in the open and supper caught on the run.”

Gartnait scowled at her. It was uncomfortable to be seated between them. Bridei did not remember such antipathy from the summer at Raven’s Well. “You wouldn’t last two days,” Gartnait said. “You’ve got no understanding at all of what it means.”

“I—” Ferada half rose, cheeks scarlet.

“Your sister has an excellent grasp of strategy,” Bridei put in quickly. “We’ve spoken of such matters often at Raven’s Well. It is not Ferada’s fault that, as a woman, she cannot experience at first hand the blood and cruelty that exist, the courage and sacrifice men exhibit in times of war. I’m sure she has as thorough an understanding of what it means
as any young woman can. But you are right, Gartnait; one cannot know the true nature of war without being part of it. Such events bring out both the best and the worst in men.”

There was a little silence where they sat, while all around them folk still laughed and chattered, knives scraped on platters and jugs clinked against goblets.

“Wisely spoken, Bridei,” said Dreseida, unsmiling. “You,
I hear, are now
considered something of a hero. Amazing; your very first battle, too.” She had a way of making even complimentary words sound like an insult.

“Many men showed courage, my lady,” Bridei said levelly. “Some died; some suffered grievous wounds. My part in the battle was small.”

“It is not to the battle I refer; one would hope all of you played a part in that. It is what came afterward
that has earned you a reputation: the man who stole the Mage Stone from right under the Gaels’ noses. Remarkable. One could hardly calculate a sequence of events more cleverly to enhance one’s prestige and to win men’s trust. Even their adulation, if what Gartnait reports is true.”

Bridei could feel the flush in his cheeks. “If Gartnait said that he’s exaggerating. It seemed the right thing to
do at the time; an opportunity worth seizing, an act the gods might welcome. Many men contributed: Fokel of Galany; Ged of Abertornie; Talorgen, too. I merely offered what expertise I had. My education made it possible for me to direct the removal of the stone, its passage to the water, and its conveyance up the lake. That was all.”

“It was, in fact, a substantial
all
,” Ferada said, her tone
for once quite lacking in malice. “A fine thing to do. And the idea was yours; without you it wouldn’t have happened. That’s what Father said.” She glanced across at her mother and fell silent.

“Thank you,” said Bridei. “I did learn from it. I learned that sometimes risks are to be taken. And I learned to value the fellowship of men. For those gifts I am grateful to the gods. I hope Fokel succeeded
in conveying the stone safely to the point where it will stand proudly once more. When next we travel to Galany’s Reach, it will not be for a symbolic victory, but to set our banner there for ever. That land is ours; it will be restored.”

Dreseida was staring at him, eyes slightly narrowed. It was clear she was framing one of her challenging questions.

“My lords! My ladies!”

The chatter died
down. The music wavered and faded. It was one of Drust’s guards who had called out, a man evidently chosen for his barrel chest and trumpet of a voice. “Silence for the king!” he brayed.

Drust rose to his feet. Bridei could see how he rested a hand on the table for support. His voice, nonetheless, was strong and steady. “Welcome, all,” he said. “I extend my hand especially to those just returned
from the west, bearing glad news of a victory against the Gaels of Dalriada. For the men who were lost in this noble cause, we offer a prayer for a swift and peaceful journey
to the realm beyond the veil. May they sleep soundly in Bone Mother’s arms, and wake to a new dawn of promise. At the feast of Measure we will honor them.” He bowed his head briefly; every man and woman in the chamber did
the same. Everyone, that was, except Faolan; Bridei caught a glimpse of the Gael sitting with folded arms and the customary expression of mild amusement on his face. This man was in Drust’s employ? By all the gods, he must have rare skills indeed to be allowed to show such contempt in the king’s own hall.

“The wives and children of the slain will be provided for,” the king went on, “and the wounded
receive the attentions of my own physicians, where that is possible. It does this hall honor to receive two of the leaders of this great expedition tonight: Talorgen of Raven’s Well and Ged of Abertornie are with us, and will receive my personal thanks, with gifts. In due course I hope that Morleo of Longwater and Fokel, son of Duchil of Galany and true chieftain of those lands in the west,
may also travel here to receive my gratitude. To the warriors who ventured forth to do battle under the leadership of these fine chieftains, I salute your deeds of valor. The Flamekeeper smiles on you; he delights in the acts of brave men and honors courageous hearts. The Shining One looks down on you with love. I bid each of you attend the high ritual here at Caer Pridne; may each of you in turn
wear the crown of dreams, and continue to tread your path with the fire of the gods’ inspiration to light your way.”

The men cheered fit to raise the roof; feet drummed on the floor and fists on the table. Bridei found that he had tears in his eyes. Aware of Ferada’s close scrutiny and, worse still, that of her mother, he paced his breathing and did not let them fall.

“Come forward, Talorgen,
my friend. Ged, come up beside him. Black Crow save us, man, who weaves your cloth? There are more hues in that than any rainbow ever held.” General laughter greeted this. Ged, grinning with good nature, slung his multicolored cloak over his shoulder and came to kneel beside Talorgen. One did not stand upright so close to the king until permission was given.

Drust moved out from the table. He
stood facing the assembled folk, the tall, dark figure of Broichan a little behind him, like a shadow, and Aniel by his side with a coffer in his hands. Two bodyguards hovered close, flanking the kneeling men; a third was behind the table, others at either end of the dais. Drust was taking no chances. If such precautions were needed now,
Bridei thought, what would happen when the delegation from
Circinn arrived to stake a claim? What about the other contenders? The place would be swarming with large, heavily armed men pretending they were not doing anything in particular. If it were not so serious it would be almost comical. He wished he could tell Tuala about it.

“Get up, Talorgen, Ged. We are old friends. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. You’ve won a powerful victory for Fortriu,
an achievement that will live long in song and story. In token of the Flamekeeper’s love and gratitude and of his pride in the war you waged for him, I give you this, Talongen,” Aniel drew from the little box an arm ring of twisted gold, thick as a heavy rope, “and for you, Ged, this to clasp those outrageous cloaks of yours.” The gift was an ornate gold brooch of penannular design; Bridei
could not see the details, but it appeared to be inset with ovals of enamel in a number of startlingly bright colors. Ged grinned widely, pinning it immediately on his cloak. It seemed this powerful king had a good and amiable sense of humor.

“Thank you, my lord king,” Talorgen said, bowing.

“You honor us,” Ged added.

“You must sit at my table,” said the king. “We shall have music and tales
yet. I understand there is a new song; it concerns a certain young man and the moving of an impossibly large object over improbably difficult terrain. My bard has been sweating over it these last two days and nights. That deed brought inspiration to my spirit and delight to my heart. The man who devised it and who led you in its execution is dear to me even before I meet him. Step forward, Bridei,
foster son to my own druid.”

Bridei’s heart lurched. He had known something like this was coming, but not so soon; for him to be next to receive the king’s praise after Talorgen and Ged seemed so inappropriate as to be almost ridiculous. He did have words prepared; he hoped he would remember them.

He knelt before the king, and felt Drust’s presence as a power, a warmth near tangible; the Flamekeeper’s
purpose did indeed burn brightly in his earthly representation. When the king laid a hand on his head in blessing, the touch thrilled through every part of Bridei’s body.

“You may stand up, Bridei,” Drust said. “We are kinsmen. You have a look of your mother; a little of your father as well. Maelchon I remember as a strong-willed man, a leader of iron purpose who did not suffer fools gladly.
He, however, lacked the advantage of a druidic education. He was not raised
in the love of our ancient gods, nor in reverence for the fair lands of Fortriu. I have a gift for you, young man. I hear Ged presented you with a cloak. You’re not wearing it tonight.”

Out of the corner of his eye Bridei caught the flash of Ged’s grin and saw Talorgen’s wry smile. “No, my lord.” If he had walked into
this hall with that many-hued garment over his shoulder, he would indeed have been the center of attention.

“Never mind,” Drust said. “This brooch will do just as well on a plain cloak; let me pin it for you.” As the assembled court looked on in complete silence, the king took a silver clasp from the coffer Aniel held for him, and reached to fasten it to Bridei’s cloak with his own hands. It
was a lovely thing wrought like a bird, wings spread wide, with a blue stone for the eye. The eagle in flight: the flame of Fortriu. “Well done, son,” Drust said quietly. “We’re proud of you. I hear you lost a close friend not so long ago. Come, sit by me; you can tell me that sorry tale and then the account of your exploits. Broichan assures me the Mage Stone could not have been moved without the
use of druid charms. He and Aniel have a wager on your answer. I have no part in that; my wife frowns on such things.” Drust smiled at the queen, who sat farther along the table, and a becoming dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth. “Come, join us.” He lifted his voice once more, addressing the throng. “Eat, drink, enjoy the music, my friends! And let my bard ready himself for the singing of
songs.”

After that it became much easier, even though the king had, in effect, announced Bridei’s identity to every man and woman there present. The fact that he was related to Drust had to be made public some time, and of course this did not necessarily equate to a valid claim for kingship. That depended on a particular kind of relationship; a contender must be the son of a royal princess of
the blood. And Drust had chosen his words carefully. At no point had he spoken Anfreda’s name. It was possible that, between those too far gone in drink to pay attention and those without the wit or interest to put the pieces together, Bridei’s status as a potential claimant might remain unknown to most of the court. For now. After this, he was going to be in the public eye whether he liked it or
not.