The Dark Mirror (64 page)

“The Caitt, also,” Bridei said quietly. “You would include them in this unified realm, of course.”

“The Caitt?” hissed Fergus. “Those barbarians?”

“Of Priteni blood,” said Talorgen, who now stood at Bridei’s shoulder.
“You mention logic. Let us take this to its inevitable conclusion. All would be one: Fortriu and Circinn, the Light Isles and the territory of the Caitt. Disparate realms, but united under one king and one faith. It is not such a leap of the imagination. In my father’s time, Bargoit, and in your father’s time, it was indeed thus. The territories of the Priteni were a single kingdom. It was the decision
of Drust son of Girom to admit the missionaries of the Christian faith to the south that split our homeland apart. You advocate now its return to its former state? You’d find no argument against that among the men of Fortriu.”

Bargoit smiled thinly. “I advocate no such thing, as you are well aware. The old practices are gone from Circinn and will never return. There is another way, one that is
open to us now, should Fortriu make the choice to move forward instead of backward.”

“Fortriu will never turn against its ancient gods.” Bridei felt a shiver through his body, like a cold touch of winter in the bones. “Our good king lives yet, and we pray the gods preserve him to lead us for the seasons to come. I, too, would wish to see our land united under a single leader. Indeed, I believe
that is the only way we can secure our borders, both to the west against the Gaels and to the south against the Angles. I believe it is the only course for us if we would remain strong in a time of such change. Such a leader would not be a man who trusted his councillors more than he should. He would not be a man who displaced druids and banished wise women. A true king could never spit in the faces
of the gods so. That is what I believe. Such a leader would be strong and good, steadfast in his faith and ready to sacrifice much to carry his people forward with hope and purpose. Drust son of Wdrost is such a man. We love and honor him. And he still lives. To draw the talk, as you have done here, to a future beyond that offends every one of us. But you are his guest. So, I offer you ale, and
suggest we move the conversation to other matters. We did begin this, I recall, with a discussion about fishing. That was not only respectful to our host, but a good deal safer. Caught any big ones lately?”

The men of Fortriu laughed despite themselves. It was adept, and they began, quickly, a lively exchange about the size and quality of trout to be found in the different lakes and what kind
of bait was best. Bargoit, lips compressed, did not contribute.

“Well done,” Talorgen murmured in Bridei’s ear a little later, after they had extricated themselves from the crowd. “You achieved a number of objectives rather quickly, including at least one that surprised me. You got Tharan to agree with you publicly. We might work on that.”

Bridei nodded, as a sudden weariness came over him.
In one sense, Talorgen was right; one should not lose sight of how much was to be gained here, how much lost if one got it wrong. These were powerful men. In the choice of candidates for kingship, theirs were the voices that counted. And yet, as he had spoken today, Bridei had forgotten what was riding on his finding the right words, the right tone. He had not been thinking of his own future, only
of the need to tell these men what was in his mind and his heart. Talorgen misjudged him if he thought this had been a calculated bid for support. “Tharan spoke from a love of Fortriu,” he said. “Carnach also. In that, at least, the men of the north are in agreement.”

“But the south has solid numbers,” said Talorgen. “Circinn will send
twelve chieftains to the voting when it’s time. The process
allows them an entire turning of the moon to get here. Unless we pray for particularly foul weather, there’s likely to be a full complement. We’ll need to put in some solid work or Fortriu cannot present a united front against that. A single candidate only, that’s what we want. There’s a lot further to go. You look tired, Bridei.”

“When I’m out there among those men, it almost seems easy,” Bridei
said, “as if the gods tell me the right things to say. Afterward, when I’m alone, I remember that I am only one man. That there are other worthy contenders ready to stand against me. That, in the eyes of these chieftains, I am young and untried, a nobody. You have invested a great deal of faith in me: you, your friends, Broichan particularly. I do not wish to fail you. I do not wish to fail the
gods.”

Talorgen looked at him curiously “Had we believed you might do so, Bridei, we would not have pursued this to the end. It seems that end may be closer than we imagined.”

“Yes; I’ve heard the king’s health continues to fail.”

“Drust will not be with us much longer. Aniel is by his side today, with the queen. The gods are merciful; they will see our king perform the ritual one last time
and then, I believe, he will be called away. This will be a cold winter.”

Bridei said nothing. He thought of the deep well, colder than any winter, and the voice of the dark god, calling.

“He will endure the ceremony,” Talorgen said. “Drust’s will is very strong. It will tax him sorely. Are you prepared for this, Bridei?”

“I must be.”

Talorgen nodded. “Even Broichan dreads it. It must be done.
It is part of what we are; a darkness within us that must be recognized. You should rest. The night will be long.”

T
HE SUN HAD NOT
shown his face all day. Lowering clouds spread from north to south, from east to west, their bellies heavy with rain. From time to time they released themselves, sending a drumming deluge over the roofs of Banmerren, a thunderous downpour that streamed from the thatch and lost itself in a hundred rivulets snaking across the waterlogged gardens, where even the ducks had retreated
under a bush for shelter. Within the walled compound day seemed like dusk, and when at last the sun sank somewhere behind the clouds, night fell abruptly, as if the secret god were impatient to receive his dues.

The oak was almost bare; rain pooled in the hollows between its exposed roots. The light of Kethra’s oil lamp touched the mounds of leaves, yellow-gold, russet red, nut brown, all turning
now in the wet to a common hue of rich decay as the earth reclaimed them to nourish next season’s new growth. The voice of the rain drowned all else. Tuala followed the older woman along the covered walkway and inside the main building, where a hearth fire burned fitfully in the large central chamber, as if all too aware of the power of this deluge. The fire would be quenched before the time
of the ritual; such presences as attended this ceremony were known to shun the light.

It was quiet in the house. The din of the rain had faded from an ear-assaulting roar to a distant rumble as they closed the door behind them.
The girls, who generally welcomed the opportunity to gather together and speak of home and friends, to share fifty little secrets they’d been saving up, were unusually
solemn tonight.

Before dusk, they had watched as Fola walked out from Banmerren, hooded head bowed against the rain, and after her a procession of cloaked women making a solemn progress along the path to Caer Pridne. It was whispered that Fola didn’t like Gateway. They said the wise woman preferred to enact the rituals in places of the goddess: here within the sheltering walls, or on the wide
strand just beyond, or in the secret hollow of the triple cairns. Not at Caer Pridne, a realm of men and power and ancient darkness. Not this form of the ceremony, in which women’s part was both rarest privilege and deepest shame. But Fola obeyed the gods. She obeyed all of them, even the one that could not be named. So she led her women out, all of the priestesses save Kethra, who would remain behind
to watch over the younger girls; all of the green-clad seniors, the historian Derila and her peers. None of the juniors; those who wore the blue robe might not yet learn the conduct of this ritual, and could most certainly not attend its enactment.

Odha had challenged Kethra on the subject earlier. “Why can’t we go, too? We’re here to learn, after all. And we want to see Caer Pridne, the bull
stones and the king’s court and everything.”

Kethra’s face had changed; every part of it had seemed to tighten. “That is beyond foolishness, Odha. You should kneel to the Shining One and thank her from the bottom of your heart that you need not be there tonight. Your time will come. That’s if we don’t send you home for sheer stupidity before you get anywhere near earning the green robe.”

“But—”

“Not another word.”

Now they gathered before the hearth. Nobody said a thing. They listened to the rain, avoided one another’s eyes and thought their own thoughts. Tuala had wanted to spend the night of Gateway in her tower alone, holding Bridei safely with her mind as he witnessed the ritual, willing him strong in spirit and steadfast of purpose in this darkest of tests. But Kethra had made
her come into the house. It was cold in the tower and the roof leaked. Tuala must join the others; they would keep vigil all together.

The girls were familiar with Gateway itself, of course. Every household in Fortriu, every settlement, every community observed it. Bone Mother
was honored, lights quenched, the spirits of the departed welcomed; chill, eddying drafts signaled the spiral dance of
these shades among the living, before, behind, around, between, touching a cheek or hand with icy fingers, a trembling mouth with frosty lips. Broichan had always sacrificed a creature to the god, generally an autumn lamb or a chicken. The first time she was allowed to stay up for the rite, Bridei had told Tuala to put her fingers in her ears and shut her eyes when they came to that part, but she
had peeked, and then wished she hadn’t. After the offering came prayers, a sharing of the ritual foods and the lighting of a single candle: hope restored, the way forward still miraculously illuminated even in a time of darkness and death. Tuala understood that; she had even as a little child. The oak tree slept; no sign of green, no hint of life save in the deep, slow tales at its heart, the strange
and wondrous changing of withered leaf to rich soil, nurturing its hidden growth. Thus did men and women rest as the pathway ahead formed itself anew somewhere in the secret maze of their dreams.

That was Gateway at Pitnochie, at Raven’s Well, and in every part of the land of Fortriu. It was different at Caer Pridne. The promontory on which the king’s fortress was built housed a deep place in
the earth, a dark cleft sacred to the most ancient of gods, him whose name could not be spoken, so feared was he among the Priteni. Over countless ages, the kings of Fortriu had made their way to the Well of Shades at Gateway to enact the particular ritual this deity demanded. It was necessary; history had proven this most cruelly. Wid and Erip had spoken of a certain monarch who could not bring
himself to see it through; under his command the well had been sealed off, the pathway closed. All seemed unchanged at first. Then came the seasons of darkness: three years without a summer. A haze masked the sky day in, day out; the Flamekeeper shrank to no more than a slight paling, giving scant light and less warmth. The Shining One retreated behind her veil and would not look down upon this disobedient
land. Crops failed before they rose a handspan from the earth; hunger and sickness ravaged Fortriu. Folk perished in their thousands and the survivors became half crazed, starving for both food and light. They prostrated themselves in their despair, begging the gods to be merciful to them. In the fourth year of darkness, Bone Mother bore the king himself beyond the veil and the chieftains
of Fortriu chose a new monarch. That Gateway, the men of Caer Pridne gathered once more by the Well of Shades and the ceremony unfolded in its ancient form. The summers returned. It took the Priteni a long time to recover from the seasons of
darkness; how can a man encompass the terror of living in perpetual shadow? This had taken place within the memory of men still living. In the south, beyond
the Roman wall, it was said the scourge had lasted even longer, for the dark season had been followed by plagues, and the few who survived the years of famine and sickness had neither strength nor will remaining to begin the long task of turning wasteland back to fertile farm and healthy pasture.

Tuala knew the general form of the observance would have much in common with the version Broichan
had performed at home. But it would be different: the king’s ritual was attended only by men, and the exact manner of it was secret. The wise women of Banmerren did not go down to the well. They had a certain duty to perform, and when that was done they kept vigil on the shore below the fortress until sunrise. That would be especially hard tonight; the Shining One had shrouded her brightness, perhaps
in shame at what must be done to placate the oldest of gods. The women would be cold and wet when they came home. And sad. How could they not be sad?

Tuala stared into the fire. She wondered if the others really didn’t know what would happen tonight, or if they were just pretending because the truth was too hard to accept. Between them, Erip and Wid had given sufficient hints over the years.
What Tuala did not know, she could guess. That pale-faced, strange-eyed girl, Morna, had walked out behind Fola, hooded and caped in gray as if she were already a priestess fully fledged; impossible, Morna was much too young and had been at Banmerren only a year or so. Morna had walked oddly today, as if in her mind she were not making her way along a muddy track under threatening skies, but treading
some other path entirely, one shared only with gods and spirits.