The Dark Mirror (60 page)

But Drust
was no weakling. He had not held onto power for so long by giving up in times of challenge. He moved his center of operations to a small chamber that could be effectively warmed, and had them set pots of steaming water by the fire, water in which floated the bruised leaves of curative plants, fennel and calamint. He took a drink made from crushed hazelnuts and honey, but he could not conceal his flagging
appetite. About the chamber were protective charms aplenty: white stones for the Shining One, set in threes and fives and sevens; a hanging chain of little men woven from straw, each wearing a garland of autumn leaves on his tiny head and a belt of bright thread in scarlet and gold: sons of the Flamekeeper, whose warmth generated bountiful crops. There was a wreath of greenery above the door
and a
plait of garlic by the hearth. It reminded Bridei sharply of a time long ago, when Broichan had catechised him on the protective devices at Pitnochie.
Do not answer like a child, but like a druid
.

He could answer like a druid now. The king was dying, and he knew it. Bone Mother danced toward him, arms outstretched; these charms could not hold back her advance. They might perhaps delay it
for one, maybe two turnings of the moon, no more. The truth was in Drust’s eyes and he faced it unafraid. He sought only to be sure his kingdom would not descend into a chaos of rivals and challenges and power plays the instant he was gone.

Like flies hovering about a dying creature even as it still breathes and walks the earth, the nobles of the south had descended on Caer Pridne. Drust the
Boar had not come, not yet. In his place were his two chief councillors and a Christian priest. It was a gesture of outrageous insolence. Caer Pridne had never yet given house room to a Christian and had no desire to do so now; who would be foolish enough to offend the gods so, with their good king on the brink of death? Unfortunately, the fact that Brother Suibne—a Gael by origin, therefore doubly
unwelcome—was part of a royal delegation made it essential that he be not only housed, but housed well and with an appearance of genuine courtesy. Faces wore forced smiles; voices were edged with ill-concealed resentment. The three were given a fine chamber with a private anteroom where the fellow could practice his outlandish rituals out of sight of god-fearing folk. The one to watch, Broichan
told his foster son, was the chief councillor from Circinn, a man named Bargoit. He had a smooth tongue and few scruples, and over the years had learned to bend Drust the Boar entirely to his will. The other, Fergus, was under Bargoit’s thumb. What one decreed, the other supported. They had come early. One must hope they did not whisper in too many ears and do too much damage. As for the priest, if
priest he could be called, his presence was an insult. In this, Broichan suspected Drust of Circinn had done his own claim for kingship of the north a disservice. One look at Brother Suibne and every voting nobleman of Fortriu would be put in mind of what could occur if the two parts of the kingdom fell in behind Drust the Boar. Those loyal to the gods could never make such a choice.

The time
passed quickly. Bridei found his days filled with cryptic conversations, whispered exchanges in hallways, delicate maneuvering with one influential man or another. At first, on Broichan’s advice, he played the young innocent, quiet and courteous in his manner, sparing and simple in his
comments. They knew, of course. If they had not recognized on the night Drust gave him the eagle brooch and his
royal blessing that the druid’s foster son from Pitnochie was a genuine contender for kingship, they discovered it soon enough. All assessed him. In turn, Bridei began to work his way through them, dealing with each according to the degree of threat he represented and the probability that existed of changing his mind for him.

It was customary for each of the seven houses to offer one candidate
only, and this time there might be less than seven in all; the southern tribes, in particular, were not likely to put up contenders of their own when Drust the Boar was in effect overlord of all those territories. The royal line was of the house of Fidach, whose heartland was in the Great Glen, but because the descent came through the female side and the princesses of Fidach wed chieftains from
all across the realm of the Priteni, and indeed beyond its borders, there were generally valid claimants to be found in each of the seven houses.

It seemed the Light Isles would not be in the contest this time. The presence of Ana at Drust’s court, and the possibility that others of that family might be similarly taken at any time, was likely to stay their hand. It was whispered, also, that an
assurance had been made to the chieftain of those isles, whose status was as vassal king to Drust the Bull. It had been pointed out that the royal hostage would be ideally placed to wed the new king, should he not already have a wife. That would immeasurably enhance the status of her family, elevating her cousin to something close to the level of Fortriu’s own monarch. Trading agreements and other
advantages might well flow as a result. Someone had been clever.

The house of Caitt was unpredictable. Bridei had once believed an alliance might be struck with those savage northerners; Broichan had dismissed that. Generations had passed since the Caitt had last attempted to claim the kingship of Fortriu. Nobody expected any surprises from that quarter. As for the future, Bridei had his own
plans. The Caitt were of Priteni blood, and they were strong. Should he become king, there was a possibility there that he must at least begin to explore.

Of Drust’s two closest kinsmen, red-headed Carnach was the stronger contender. He was well spoken and capable, and he was gathering the backing of a number of influential men, the king’s councillor Tharan among them. Aniel had said Tharan was
dangerous. There was some work to be done in that camp.

Wredech was left to the mercies of Talorgen. A little gentle pressure was apparently required, no more, to persuade this kinsman of Drust the Bull that it would be wiser to drop his claim, in view of a certain matter of some cattle that had mysteriously wandered, and a purse of silver pieces that had changed hands right under Drust’s nose.
Should Wredech’s role in this become public, as it surely would if he declared his interest in the kingship, he would be utterly discredited before his peers. And he would lose the cattle, including a fine stud bull already hard at work among his cows. On the other hand, if he took it into his head to declare support for the candidate Talorgen himself favored, nothing would be said at all. And
there could be a small incentive in it, by way of some further additions to Wredech’s growing herd.

Talorgen was working on this; such propositions were not made openly, all at once, but by subtle degrees, working on a man’s fears and his weaknesses. There was nothing for Bridei to do but be friendly and respectful to Wredech when they met, and to avoid the topics of kingship and cattle.

He
could not avoid the councillors from Circinn, Bargoit and Fergus, and their Christian priest. Bargoit played challenging games; he was a master of innuendo, trick questions, skillful evasions, and unexpected attacks. Retaining control of himself and the situation taxed Bridei hard; the headache was more or less constant, and it did nothing to improve his concentration. He did not ask Broichan for
a potion. The druid was much occupied, spending days and nights at King Drust’s side, brewing cures, burning powerful herbs, saying prayers, perhaps also simply acting as friend and companion, for they had been together long, in the days before Bridei came to Pitnochie.

Bridei had thought, at first, that he would never get used to his three guards. Remarkably soon, in the charged atmosphere of
the overcrowded fortress, he began to find the constant presence of one or other of these large men reassuring. If Garth or Breth was at his shoulder, watching for trouble, Bridei could concentrate on other things, such as a debate with Brother Suibne about the nature of men and gods, or a game of crow-corners with the sharp-eyed councillor Tharan, before a tense audience made up of Aniel and the
two councillors from Circinn. He knew he was on show; his guards ensured he need not also be watchful, every moment, for a knife in the back.

Faolan left Breth and Garth to share responsibility for the waking hours between them. He was far from idle; he gathered information, looked into men’s pasts, spoke to servants and slaves and performed solitary examinations
of the visitors’ allocated quarters
while the occupants were busy elsewhere. By night, he watched as Bridei failed to sleep. Whether he himself ever rested, and when, was not possible to discern. He exhibited no signs of weariness.

The young women had gone back to Banmerren some time ago, and were due to return to court any day. Tuala was much in Bridei’s mind. At night he stood on the wall-walk gazing at the moon and imagining
her in the gray robes of a priestess, bearing a bowl of water for the rite of Midsummer or scattering white petals at Balance. He thought of her looking into the water of a scrying bowl, her strange eyes open to a whole world that was beyond his understanding. He pictured her laughing, her hair tangled by the wind; his hands knew that head of hair intimately, for his fingers had braided and tied
it more times than he could count. He thought of a promise he had made long ago, and how he had done his best to keep it. She was not a child now, in need of his tales to quell her fear of the unknown. She was as old as Ana; a young woman. And she had moved away from him. The Shining One had touched her as an infant, and now reached out to her again, calling her home. What purer form of service to
the gods than that of druid or wise woman? How could he grudge her that? And yet . . . and yet . . .

“Bridei?”

“Mm?”

“We’re having a day off tomorrow,” Faolan announced from his dark corner by the steps.

“What?”

“The weather seems set dry. I don’t know about you, but I’ve had a bellyful of all this. We’ll take a couple of horses, ride along the beach, find some of those great wild places
you mentioned and tire ourselves out. No kings, no councillors, no priests, no druids. A whole day. What do you think?”

“No Breth, no Garth?”

Faolan did not smile. “They’re due a break. You have me; you don’t need them.”

“So you’ll be on duty”

“I’m always on duty, Bridei. It’ll be a change, at least.”

It did sound good; remarkably good. To escape from court for a whole day would be a wondrous
reprieve.

“I’ve told Broichan,” Faolan said. “I’ll procure some rations. Be prepared to leave early”

“You know,” said Bridei, “I’m finding it impossible to believe this is what
it seems, coming from you. You are not the kind of man who goes out for a day’s enjoyment when there are other, pressing matters to attend to. If there’s more to this than meets the eye, I’d prefer that you tell me.”

Faolan said nothing for a little. “We may do this more than once,” he offered eventually. “Establish a pattern. It could be useful.”

“For what purpose?”

“To draw an attack,” the Gael said coolly. “Not tomorrow; once we’ve given an indication of where we might be found on certain days at certain times.”

“Wonderful. I’m to enjoy myself riding through the hills waiting for an arrow in the heart.”

“I thought you were supposed to be the best archer in Fortriu,” Faolan said lightly “Don’t let it bother you, Bridei. I know what I’m doing. Caer Pridne is so full of noblemen’s personal guards right now that nobody dares try anything. They’ll be looking for an opportunity. We’re going to give them one.”

“I see.”

“Tomorrow will be safe. Tomorrow you can listen for the voices of the gods to your
heart’s content.”

“I’ll welcome the ride. Thank you.” Indeed, assassins or no assassins, Bridei recognized how much he craved the freedom of that, the chance to traverse woodland and moorland, strath and glenside with his eyes and ears open to the wonder of the wild. In Caer Pridne the eyes were full of rich apparel and lying faces, the ears assaulted by chatter, by sly whispers and hissed asides.
He had not ridden out with just one companion since Donal . . .

“What is it?”

Curse Faolan; he was too quick. “Nothing. I’ll try to sleep now Good night. May the Shining One guard your dreams.”

“Good night, Bridei.”

IT SEEMED FAOLAN
was determined to tire him out. Perhaps the Gael hoped the day’s activity would allow them
both a good night’s sleep. But Bridei had grown up on long expeditions through the forest above Pitnochie. He was at home in the wild, attuned to its rhythms since childhood, and to be thus released back into it awoke him in a way the most tense maneuverings, the
subtlest games of Drust’s court could not. While the headache did not vanish, it retreated. While doubt still plagued him, to be here
under a great stand of pines, looking out across a wide salt marsh where birds moved in endless, flowing masses of gray and dun and white, now rising as one to wheel above the tidal flats, now descending to settle and forage, was to recapture something of that inner wonder that had ever warmed his spirit as he traversed the crags and glens of Pitnochie, alone or with one trusted companion.