The Dark Mirror (72 page)

It was quiet in the hall. The talk was subdued; folk ate sparingly The king’s bard sat with chin in hand, staring into his ale, the harp silent in its
leather bag by his side. When he awoke the strings
once more, it would be to play a lament.

Bridei could see Dreseida with a little frown on her brow, staring at Gartnait. Ferada looked pale and distant, Ana ill at ease, for so many were absent from the king’s table that she sat almost alone. Gartnait was talking to his father. Bridei sat between Garth and Ged of Abertornie, while Breth stood behind and acted as taster. Even Ged was subdued tonight;
he worked his way through the mutton pie with hardly a word. All of them were waiting.

The platters had not long been cleared away when Broichan came to the hall. There was something in his face that rendered every tongue there silent.

“Our good king is gone,” the druid said simply. “Bone Mother has drawn him beyond the veil. An act of mercy. Drink to his memory; tell tales of his great deeds;
celebrate his courage. At dusk tomorrow we will conduct the funeral rites.”

“And then it begins,” Ged muttered. “I hope you’re ready for it, Bridei. One turning of the moon, and then the assembly. You’ll see Caer Pridne become a place of utter madness. May the Shining One watch over us.”

“We must endeavor to keep it orderly,” Bridei whispered. “For his sake. He was a fine king, worthy and strong.
Gods grant him a peaceful journey”

“One thing’s certain,” Ged said, glaring across the hall at Bargoit. “He’s best out of this.”

IN ACCORDANCE WITH
the king’s wishes and under Broichan’s impassive supervision, they built a great pyre on the shore below Caer Pridne and sent Drust the Bull on his last journey by fire and water.
The rain held back just long enough. Then Broichan cast the birch rods in augury and consulted the Shining One, and declared that, in view of the season, a degree of flexibility might be allowed as to the timing of the forthcoming assembly, since the voting chieftains from Circinn might not receive news of the king’s passing early enough to allow their difficult winter journey to the north within
the usual span, a single turning of the moon. This time, Broichan said, they would allow an additional period of seven days. There was some muttering at that; why not keep the time short and ensure Fortriu had a better chance of being in the majority? Wiser voices, Aniel’s among them, quieted the dissenters. Restricting the time for travel meant giving Circinn grounds to
declare the election invalid,
and opening the door on another long period of conflict. To allow an extra seven days would be both wise and expedient.

The new timing meant the candidates would be making their formal claims to kingship at Midwinter, an auspicious conjunction. Each would stand before the court and present his credentials. Should any claimant be unable to reach Caer Pridne in time for this presentation, a proxy
might stand up in his place. Seven days later, the assembly proper would convene and the voting occur. At the last election there had been twelve voting chieftains from Circinn and twelve from Fortriu, including the representative from the Light Isles. It was probable, but not certain, that the numbers would be the same this time, if all those eligible to vote arrived within the allotted period.
Should a casting vote be required, they would call upon the wise woman, Fola.

“That’s unacceptable,” Bargoit said when Broichan announced this crucial detail. He rose to his feet, brows crooked in a thunderous frown. “It gives Fortriu the advantage. If the wise woman gets a vote, so should Brother Suibne here, as Drust’s religious adviser.”

Brother Suibne smiled vaguely, saying nothing. His
demeanor suggested a profound wish to be somewhere else.

“Besides,” put in the other southern councillor, Fergus, “everyone knows Fola’s a crony of yours, Broichan. You’ve got her in your pocket. Her vote is your vote.”

There was an ominous rumble in the hall, roughly centered around Ged of Abertornie.

Aniel spoke, his expression bland. “That is incorrect,” he said. “You little know Fola if
you imagine her any man’s creature. I’m aware this did cause a certain difficulty at the last election. Your point, therefore, does have some validity.”

“Give “em both a vote,” Ged said. “Christian and priestess. Why not?”

“In fact, that would serve no purpose. The numbers would still be tied,” said Bargoit testily.

“May I speak?” Bridei rose to his feet. “You talk as if each man’s vote is
known already; as if our chieftains possess no flexibility at all in their opinions. Are we indeed become so fixed in our ways that we have room in our minds for neither compromise nor new ideas? If this is so, there seems no point in the formal process of presenting the candidates seven days before the voting. Why would a man need to know more than a claimant’s name
and origins if he votes solely
on this partisan basis? Let us do our candidates the courtesy of listening to what they tell us; to what they believe they can offer us. A casting vote may not be needed at all. If it is, surely we can rely on the experience of men such as Broichan, and yourself, Bargoit, to make that decision at the time.” A buzz of talk followed this, and reluctant agreement. It remained to be seen whether
all would adhere to it when the time came.

Over the ensuing days Bridei worked hard, sending messengers, consulting with his advisers, making plans, and trying to accept the astonishing possibility that, in less than a season, he himself might be foremost in this realm of powerful men. Sometimes the prospect made him afraid: afraid that he might stumble and fall, failing Broichan, failing King
Drust, failing the gods. But increasingly, when he prayed, he felt the Flamekeeper’s warmth in his spirit and the voice of the god whispering in his ear,
Go forward, my son. Be strong
. For all this, in his heart the days stretched forward only as far as next full moon. Seeing Tuala again loomed large, making it hard to concentrate as he must on wooing certain men and placating others. The headache
remained constant; he had almost forgotten how it felt to be without it.

Nonetheless, Bridei walked the steps of this dance of possibilities, knowing the very future of Fortriu and its people depended on the accuracy of his instincts and the capacity of others to traverse with speed and safety the high, bare passes and deep, dark valleys of the Glen in winter. The streams would be in spate; if
snow came, some tracks would be blocked. Horses could be used only on the easier parts of the journey, such as the coastal stretch between the mouth of Serpent Lake and Caer Pridne. And time was short. It was as well Bridei had sent his messengers early. Broichan had helped with that; a divination, carried out with smoke after fasting, had predicted the day of Drust’s passing with an accuracy that
reflected perfectly the intent of the gods.

Bargoit must have done something similar. Perhaps the Christian, Suibne, had his own methods for seeing ahead. It was soon clear that the twelve representatives from Circinn had already traveled a good distance from their southern strongholds in anticipation of this assembly. Well before the allotted time was up they began to arrive at court, cold,
weary, and full of fighting words. Drust the Boar’s supporters were all too ready to argue their case loudly and at length with the northerners. Suibne began to conduct a daily religious service in the chamber allotted to Bargoit. Broichan would not show in public how deeply this offended him, but he sent a man to walk
the hallway outside Bargoit’s door with a vessel of water in which seven white
stones lay. Thus the good influence of the Shining One might prevent the conduct of this alien rite from polluting the king’s household. Sometimes Broichan himself walked by, bearing fire in an earthenware bowl, with powdered herbs of protection adding their pungent aroma to the cleansing smoke. At night the druid knelt long in his darkened chamber, praying in silence.

AT FULL MOON
Bridei summoned the charm that gave him protection against the eyes of the curious, and left Caer Pridne by the water-gate to make his way to Banmerren alone. Heavy clouds veiled the Shining One; he suspected they would wait only for him to reach the midpoint of the bay before releasing a pounding, drenching torrent on his head. He thought of Tuala, alone and exposed in her tree.
He would not leave her there; if she agreed, he would bring her away with him tonight. She must not be cold, lonely, afraid. He must not leave her all by herself, without a friend. He would bring her back . . . She could stay with Gartnait’s family, surely that would be acceptable . . . No, rein in those thoughts. He was getting ahead of himself, making assumptions he had no right to make. This must
be Tuala’s choice.

By all the gods, a man needed cat’s eyes to see tonight. Thunder rumbled distantly, somewhere to the north. There was a breathlessness in the air, an anticipation of storm. His own heart held the same sense, fear and wonder mingled, a heady foreknowledge of change. Soon he would see her . . . Soon he would ask her . . . Soon he would know . . .

Bridei dodged behind the low
bushes fringing the dunes, wincing as his foot slipped into a sudden hollow; he must tread more cautiously. His churning thoughts were making him careless; he was walking the earth as if he were an outsider, an intruder. Oh, for home . . . Oh, for Pitnochie, for the Glen in summertime with its soft forest canopies and fern-fringed streamlets, its rustling, secret life, its noble heights and wide,
empty skies. If only he could be there again with his dear friend by him, her hand in his, her tousled head resting on his shoulder . . . the warmth of her body against him . . .

Bridei forced his mind back to the night, the path, the distant, shadowy form of the far headland where Banmerren’s dark walls could barely be seen
in the gloom. It had been hard to give Faolan the slip, but essential:
he could not tell the Gael about tonight. A man who believed a single brief visit would be enough to resolve this could not conceive of the true complexity of it. Faolan could not know how much rode on Tuala’s decision. One way or another, he would have ensured this expedition did not take place.

Bridei thought he had made a convincing pretense that this night was no different from any other.
Somewhere between supper, with Garth in attendance, and bedtime, when Faolan generally assumed the role of watcher over Bridei’s sleepless nights, he had managed to evade them both with a judicious use of what little magic Broichan had taught him. His ability in such arts was weak indeed beside his foster father’s; the charm of concealment lasted no longer than it took him to flee into the dunes,
but that was all he needed tonight. Only an utter fool would be roaming out here with such a storm brewing. A fool . . . Perhaps that was all he was. What if Tuala was not there? What if he threw his rope up and it simply fell back, time after time? Worse still, she might hear him out and then offer him a polite refusal. She had kissed him. But she was young, perhaps too young to understand what
that touch had ignited in him . . .

A fork of lightning split the sky, illuminating pale shore, dunes like snowy hillocks, wind-ravaged bushes. Darkness fell again as the thunder cracked close at hand, deafening him. A moment later they erupted from cover. Bridei’s heart lurched. He grabbed for his knife, whirled even as hands seized him, three men at least, one behind, one on either side. Rain
hammered down, sudden and violent. His fingers slipped on the knife. The man on his back was dragging him to the ground, another was trying to stuff something into his mouth . . . Bridei slashed wildly, heard a shriek of pain, felt the knife fall as something blunt and heavy smashed across his wrist. A white light flashed; he heard shouting, perhaps his own name. An instant later there was a jarring
blow to the back of his head, and the world turned to darkness.