The Dark Mirror (4 page)

At last the ground leveled and, as if it were indeed at the mercy of a druid’s enchantment, the curtain of mist retreated, and they found themselves right on the brink of a dark, deep pool.
One more step, and its waters would have swallowed man and boy alike. Bridei teetered a moment, then found his balance. Broichan had become suddenly very still. As the shreds of mist parted, other landmarks began to reveal themselves: squat, lichen-crusted stones set about the tarn like animals crouched to drink from the inky water; a creeper winding and binding all around, its spearhead leaves
colored dark as jewels, its flowers tiny spots of purest white. Other than that
the earth was bare; no ferns or bushes grew here, no bracken softened the pool’s margins or fringed the rocks, save for that one luxuriant growth that wandered in profusion, following its own wayward path. The stillness was complete. Not a bird sang anywhere; not a creature stirred in the undergrowth by the track;
not a fly disturbed the mirrored surface of the dark pool. It was like another world, a realm untouched by human hand, untrodden by human foot. It was so quiet that Bridei thought he could hear his own heart beating.

“This hollow is called the Vale of the Fallen.” Broichan’s voice was a whisper. In this still place the thread of sound was as intrusive as a shout. “I will tell you its story on
the way home. Look in the water, Bridei. Come, stand here.”

Bridei felt the druid’s hands on his shoulders. Broichan’s presence at his back, solid and strong, made him feel a great deal better. He gazed down into the dark waters of the pool and into his own eyes, staring back. He could see Broichan, too, black-cloaked, white-faced, grim and tall. And behind Broichan—Bridei squeezed his eyes shut,
opened them again. Had he really seen that? An axe, whistling through the air, glinting, deadly, and the druid’s hand going up to catch it by the blade, slicing, bloody, and—

“Careful, boy,” Broichan said, gripping Bridei’s shoulder hard. “Do not lose sight of what is vision and what is reality. Breathe as I taught you, slowly and steadily. There is much to be seen here, and not every eye discerns
the same images. Indeed, there are many who see only water and light and a fish or two. What was it that alarmed you thus?”

Bridei did not answer. His gaze was on the water’s surface, for now it was dancing with images. The pool flashed scarlet and silver and showed him a battle, not the whole of it, but the small and terrible parts that made the whole: men crying out, men afraid, men dauntless
in courage, fighting on with smashed jaws and broken limbs and faces running red. Men with their wounded on their backs, with their dead over their shoulders, struggling to bear them to safety even as the enemy came on and on in relentless, vengeful pursuit. A little dog settled in faithful guard against the curled body of its dead master, its white coat stained with the fellow’s lifeblood, its
eyes desolate. A severed hand, a head without a body, young, fierce, somebody’s son, somebody’s brother. The enemy rolled forward like a great wave, shrieking their triumph, taking all that stood in their path. They passed, and Bridei saw the vale cleared of its human wreckage, empty of all save a sorrow so deep
that none could well walk there again. It was a realm of mist and shadow, a habitation
of unquiet spirits.

The images faded to gray, to black, and were gone. There was only the water. Bridei drew a deep breath; he wondered if he had been breathing at all while he looked into the pool.

“The Dark Mirror,” Broichan said, releasing his foster son and squatting down by one of the weathered stones. Now that Bridei thought of it, they did look a little like ancient sages keeping vigil
by this mist-guarded tarn. There were seven of them: the seven druids. “You will see me make use of such a tool from time to time, but not here; my practice is with my own artifact of bronze and obsidian, and I do not venture beyond the walls of my house to use it. As you saw, this place admits whom it chooses, and it chooses but rarely. You were meant to see something, and so you were summoned
here. Can you tell me what you were shown?”

Bridei looked at him in surprise. “Didn’t you see it, too?”

“I saw what I saw,” said Broichan. “Weren’t you listening? Maybe it was the same and maybe it wasn’t. Now tell me.”

“A battle,” said Bridei, shivering. Suddenly he didn’t want to talk about it at all. He wanted to be out riding with Donal, and the sun to be shining, and the thought of bread
and cheese for dinner the most important thing on his mind. “It was horrible. Cutting; screaming; dying for nothing. Blood everywhere.”

“It was a long time ago,” Broichan said as they made their way back up the track. “The grandsons of those warriors are dead and in the grave; their granddaughters are old women. Their suffering was over long since.”

“It was wrong,” said Bridei.

“Wrong, that
valor is rewarded by death? Maybe; but that is ever the nature of war. How do you know that those who were slain were our own kind, Bridei? Maybe those who were victorious were ours, and the courageous losers our enemies. What do you say to that?”

Bridei did not answer for a while. He had never seen anything as horrible, as sickening as those images of carnage and loss, and he hoped he never
would again. “It shouldn’t happen like that,” he said at last. “It was wrong. The leader should have saved them. Got them out in time.”

“That is how you would have done it?”

“I would have made a good plan. I would have saved them.”

“A battle isn’t about saving your men. It’s about winning. A leader expects
losses. Warriors expect to die when their time comes. It is the nature of man to war
with himself. But you are right, son. It can be done better; a great deal better. And planning is indeed the key. Ah, we’ve reached the top at last. The walk has made me quite hungry; I wonder if Donal has any rations.”

Donal, a seasoned campaigner, did not disappoint them. His saddlebag was packed with dark bread, salty cheese, and little apples, and they stopped to eat these on a rise overlooking
Serpent Lake, where the horses could crop sweet grasses. Broichan ate sparingly for all his talk of hunger; in all things, he showed restraint.

“The Vale of the Fallen,” he said at last, looking out over the silvery waters below them toward the dark hills on the other side, “was once a place of such ill-doing that folk have regarded it with both reverence and revulsion ever since. There was a
battle; this you have learned already.”

“And a lot of men were killed,” Bridei said, abruptly losing his appetite for the crisp, tart apple he was eating.

“A whole community,” Broichan said, “fathers, brothers, husbands, sons, the men of many settlements up and down the Great Glen. They had fought long and hard; this was the ending only, the last flickering of a conflict that had lasted from
seeding to harvest. Our forces were already defeated; the enemy had taken the western isles and the land all along that coast, and was moving eastward like a plague. They seemed fit to rampage across the very heartland of Fortriu, not content until every one of our warriors was slain. You saw the result. Our men fell there, the last of them. When the enemy was gone another army crept out, the widows,
the fatherless, the old folk, and gathered the broken remnants of their kin. They bore them away for burial. Then a watch was set on that place. Just who keeps it, nobody is quite sure. Folk speak of a dog that howls there at night.”

“A sorry place,” commented Donal.

“The Vale of the Fallen is not solely a scene of death and defeat,” said Broichan. “It holds the essence of the men of Fortriu
who fell there. Each of these doomed warriors held in his heart the love of his country, his kin, his faith. We must never forget that, for all our sorrow at their loss.”

“My lord,” queried Bridei, “what enemy was that? Their eyes were strange. They frightened me.”

This time it was Donal who answered, his tone bitter. “The Gaels, curse them, that godforsaken breed from over the water. That invasion
was under an
old king. His grandson rules them now, Gabhran’s his name. King of Dalriada. Huh!” He spat by the path. “Jumped-up incomer, that’s all he is, meddling where he’s not wanted. There’s one king too many in these parts already; we don’t need one of those bog-dwellers moving in and helping himself.”

Broichan glanced at the warrior and Donal fell silent.

“Let us not speak of kings,” the
druid said smoothly. “There is time for Bridei to study these matters, and expert advisers to help him learn. But that’s for the future. He has barely begun to scratch the surface of what he must know.”

Bridei considered this as they completed their meal and made their way home through the forest. There was a question he wanted to ask Broichan, one that was often in his thoughts. His foster father
talked about
later
, about
the future
, about all the things Bridei needed to learn. But Broichan never said what it was for; what was to become of Bridei when the learning was over. Would he go back to Gwynedd, home to the family he was starting to forget? Would he become a druid like Broichan, grim and tall, his mind all on learning? Or was it something else Broichan meant? Perhaps he was to be
a warrior, like those men in the Dark Mirror. He shivered, remembering. It did not seem to be a question he could ask, not straight out.

“Tell me, Bridei,” Broichan said, breaking into his thoughts, “can you swim?”

This was entirely unexpected. On the other hand, Broichan’s method of conversation was ever full of surprises.

“No, my lord. I would like to learn.”

“Good. We’ll need to retain
Donal’s services over the winter, then, so he can teach you when the weather’s warm enough. Rowing, too. It’s just as well you didn’t tumble into that pond. It’s rather cold and extremely deep.”

“Yes, my lord.” There was nothing else to say. If you fell into the Dark Mirror, Bridei thought, drowning might be the least of your worries.

“Meanwhile,” the druid said, preparing to mount his horse
once more, “winter allows the study of numbers and codes, of games and music, and I think Donal can use the hall to start some rather specialized training that will equip you to be a little more self-sufficient. I may be away for a time. I will appoint other tutors as required.”

“Yes, my lord.” One thing was certain, thought Bridei. There’d be no time to get bored.

LOOKING BACK ON
this period, years later, Bridei wondered if Broichan had forgotten that his foster son was still some time short of his sixth birthday. He was inclined to think not. The druid had simply assessed him to discover how quickly he could absorb information, what was his capacity for endurance, what was his inclination to obey, then instituted a program of learning that would ensure
Bridei squeezed in as much as he possibly could. The days were full. He rode out with Donal. He spent time learning to fight with two knives or with one, or with his fists. He practiced rolling on and off his pony’s back swiftly and easily, as he had seen the warrior doing. In the afternoons Broichan drilled him on druidic lore, starting with the sun, moon, and stars, their patterns and meanings,
the alignment of the kin stones and the older markers that were dotted all across Fortriu, down into Circinn, which had its own king, and northward into the wild and mysterious land of the Caitt. They delved deeper into the study of deities and spirits, ritual and ceremony. As Broichan had said, so far they had barely scratched the surface. Bridei fell asleep at night with the lore tangling and
twisting through his head and his body aching with weariness. He ate like a horse and grew apace.

Some time before Midwinter, Broichan went away to attend a king’s council. The territories of the Priteni were divided into four parts: Fortriu, where Pitnochie was located, the southern realm of Circinn, and the more distant territories of the Caitt and the Light Isles. When Bridei asked where his
father’s kingdom of Gwynedd fit into this, Broichan smiled.

“Gwynedd is another land, Bridei,” he said. “Your father’s people are not of the Priteni. Cannot you remember how long it took you to ride here?”

Already, the memory was fading. Bridei said nothing.

“There will be representatives of two kings at the council,” Broichan told him. “Our lands are divided; it was a black day when Drust,
son of Girom, became a Christian, and his realm of Circinn split from Fortriu. Here in the north we are blessed with a king loyal to the ancient gods. Drust, son of Wdrost, known as Drust the Bull, holds power over all the territories of the Great Glen. When they call me king’s druid, it is Drust the Bull they mean. He is a good man.”

Bridei wished that Broichan would not go. His foster father
did not smile
much; he did not joke and play games as the old men had done. But Broichan knew so many interesting things, and was always ready to share them. He listened properly when Bridei wanted to explain something, not like Mara, who was always too busy, or Ferat, who often didn’t seem to hear. Broichan always had time for Bridei, and although the druid rarely offered words of praise, Bridei
had learned to recognize a certain expression in his foster father’s dark eyes, the look that showed he was pleased. He wished Broichan would stay at home.