“I thought you were never coming back!”
Erip, the plump, bald one, had given a chuckle even as he moved a small warrior subtly on the board, eliciting a hiss of annoyance from tall, white-bearded Wid.
“Who, us?” Erip had retorted. “It’d take more than a king’s druid to keep us away, lad. Been traveling, that’s all. Well, you’ve certainly grown apace. What’s Ferat been feeding you, bull’s—” The old man had broken off, perhaps catching Mara’s eye from across the room. “Ah well, no matter. We’re here to help with your education, Bridei.”
“Oh.” Bridei had wondered what aspects of his education they were equipped to deal with beyond board games and drinking.
Wid’s fingers had hovered above a little priestess of soapstone. “Erip’s expertise is geography,” he’d said. “Territories, coastlines, tribes, and chieftains. My field is strategy: seeing into men’s minds; knowing what they want before they know it themselves. I hope you’re prepared to work hard, Bridei.” He’d plucked the priestess from the board, set her down in another spot, and raised his brows at Erip, expression carefully bland.
“A pox on retired battle-leaders,” Erip had muttered, taking a long look at the board, then lifting his hands in helpless capitulation. “They’re always three steps ahead.”
Erip and Wid had settled in as if they’d never left. Now, six years later, the two of them were still lodged down at the end of the men’s quarters and growing ever fatter on Ferat’s cooking. And they had indeed proved they had a great deal more to teach than how to get into trouble.
There was, in truth, very little in the way of spare time. Lessons commenced just after breakfast and continued until the sun went down; that was not counting the nighttime vigils that were part of Broichan’s teaching, nor the occasional dawn rituals, nor the study and preparation required in Bridei’s own time. Own time was a joke, really. Some evenings after supper, all he could manage was Tuala’s bedtime story before he himself fell asleep exhausted. But he never neglected it. The tales were part of the promise he had made her long ago. Bridei knew what it was to lie in bed in the dark, waiting for sleep to come, without a story to keep you company and follow you into your dreams. For him there had been many such nights, and he had grown used to it. But he swore to himself that Tuala should never have to endure that feeling of being utterly alone.
In the mornings he would work with Erip, then Wid. Increasingly, as Bridei’s knowledge of the realm of Fortriu, its mountains and glens, its lakes and streams, its bays and islands developed, the two old men taught him together, their lectures growing into heated three-way discussions, for they encouraged Bridei’s own contributions. From Erip he learned the history of the Priteni, the patterns of kingship, the nature of neighbor and enemy. The folk of the north were descended from the seven sons of the original ancestor, Pridne. It was from him that the name Priteni came, a name that embraced all the inhabitants of Fortriu, the folk of Circinn to the south, and in the untracked places of the far north, the wild tribe known as the Caitt. On the islands beyond that northern shore dwelt a people that called itself simply the Folk. The Folk, too, were of Priteni blood, and were powerful by virtue of isolation, with their own king and their own governance.
Fortriu and Circinn had once been a single kingdom, united in its adherence to the old gods, strong and secure. That had changed the last time a king was elected, for the voting chieftains had been unable to reach agreement on a candidate. Now the kingdom was split, with the Christian Drust son of Girom, known as the Boar, ruling the southern realm of Circinn and their own king, Drust the Bull, maintaining the old traditions in Fortriu, which extended the length of the Great Glen from the king’s fortress of Caer Pridne in the northeast to the last line of defense against the Gaels in the southwest. Between these two realms and their kings there was a constant, simmering unrest.
Wid’s lessons dealt with power games and councils, the reading of a man’s expressions and gestures, the things that might or might not be said in certain company. They dealt with the passing on of secret messages and with learning to listen for what was carefully not being said. Those skills were hard to try out here at Pitnochie. It was all too easy to guess what Fidich, for instance, was thinking as he clutched a beaker of ale and pretended not to be looking at Brenna, or what Donal was dreaming of as he polished his sword and whistled an old marching song under his breath.
“I need to practice this,” Bridei protested. “We talk all the time of assemblies and kings’ councils, but all I ever get to see is the house and the farm. How am I ever going to learn properly if I’m shut away here all my life?” Such a complaint was unusual for him; he had ever been obedient to those he respected. It had been a long morning of theory.
“All your life?” Wid queried, brows raised. “An old man of—what, just twelve? I think you’ll find there will be opportunities soon enough. If Broichan’s not ready to let you travel, he may be prepared to bring a bit of the world to you. Perhaps not yet, but soon. Be patient. He has his reasons.”
“Wid?” queried Bridei.
“Yes, lad?”
“I was just thinking. What will I become when all this is done? When my education is finished? A scholar? A councilor? Shouldn’t I be learning about my own folk in Gwynedd? I suppose I will go back to my father’s court some day”
“Maybe,” Wid said with a little smile. He had been asked these questions before, but never so directly. “We’ll touch further on Gwynedd and on Powys, its neighbor, and on other faraway lands. For you, Fortriu is more important. And a man’s education is never finished. You should know that by now.”
“But I am not one of the Priteni,” Bridei pointed out. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful. I love learning the lore and history of the north. But—”
“Your mother was from here,” Wid said quietly.
“My mother!” Bridei was startled; he had not thought about her for a long time. “She was from Fortriu? Then I might have family here, aunts and uncles, cousins maybe. Why didn’t Broichan tell me? What do you know about her?”
“Very little,” Wid said, beginning to tidy up his scrolls. “Her name was Anfreda. That’s about all I can tell you. Don’t you remember?”
Bridei was silent a little. After a while, he said, “I was only four when I came here. I don’t remember any of them really. Perhaps my father, a bit. Not the others.”
“Mm. Broichan could tell you more.”
“He won’t talk about her. I don’t think he knows.”
“Ah, well,” said Wid, “all things in good time. Shall we go in search of some dinner?”
AFTER THE MORNING’S lessons it was time for Donal’s tuition. Bridei had become competent with sword and staff, efficient with knives, adept at detecting covert pursuit and evading it effectively. He had honed his skills in archery until all that separated him from Donal himself was the need to use a smaller bow. He had learned, over the course of a summer’s chilly ventures into the dark waters of Serpent Lake, to swim well enough to get himself to shore should he be out sailing and suffer some kind of mishap. He was able to row a small boat. Once he grew out of Pearl and moved up to Blaze, he learned how to take his pony over jumps, how to lean sideways from the saddle and snatch a bundle up from the ground and how to throw a spear into a target while galloping past. Donal’s were good sorts of lessons; time went all too swiftly while he was doing them. He did wish that he could practice fighting with someone closer to his own size, but the settlement remained forbidden. Both Donal and Broichan said it was still unsafe.
Sometimes Donal finished the lesson early, and there was a little time before the final, most testing part of the day’s learning: Bridei’s session with his foster father. Those snatched times were precious. Tuala would be waiting for him, standing still and quiet under the oaks at the edge of the sward where Donal and Bridei practiced swordsmanship, or perched on a stone wall near the stables watching while they rehearsed maneuvers with knife or staff. She would
take him to see some funny-looking mushrooms she had found, or tell him a bit of gossip she’d heard from Brenna, or demonstrate how she’d taught one of the dogs to chase after a ball. Or Bridei would tell her some of what he’d learned in the morning: kings and tribes, battles and journeys. Then, all too soon, it would be time for him to go to Broichan. Those were lessons Tuala could not watch. They took place in the druid’s own quarters now, and she was forbidden entry there.
“Broichan doesn’t like me,” she said to Bridei one day as they sat under the oaks together, watching Fidich chop wood down by the stables. It was not a complaint so much as a simple statement of fact.
“He’s just not used to children,” Bridei told her. “He doesn’t know how to talk to you, that’s all. It’ll get better as you grow up.”
“What about you?”
“What do you mean?”
“He is used to children. You’ve been here since you were little. He talks to you, and teaches you, and lets you in his special room.”
“He didn’t let me in when I was your size. You just need to give him time.”
Tuala shook her head. “He doesn’t like me. Or he would let me have lessons, too. Brenna says all I need to learn is sewing and cooking. But I want to learn what you’re learning: all about the world.”
Bridei bit back the obvious riposte: you’re a girl. Though plainly true, it did not seem at all the right response for Tuala. In his wildest imagination he could not see her sewing and cooking. “I’ll teach you as much as I can,” he told her.
Tuala twisted a stalk of grass between her small, white hands. “Can you teach me scrying?”
Bridei felt suddenly chill, though he was not sure why “What do you know about scrying?” he asked her.
“I know Broichan does it with his bronze mirror. I know wise women and druids do it. You can see what’s going to happen. And what happened before. I’d like to try that. I think I could do it.” There was an odd note in her voice.
“Why, Tuala?” Bridei thought he could guess what the answer would be.
She bowed her head; the curtains of glossy dark hair fell forward, almost concealing her small face. “So I can see them,” she whispered.
“Them?”
“The ones who left me here. My family. I think I might see them.”
Bridei’s heart twisted. “We are your family now,” he said gently.
“You are,” Tuala agreed, raising sorrowful eyes to meet his. “But Broichan isn’t. He doesn’t want me here.”
“Did he say—?”
“He doesn’t need to say. Bridei, will you teach me?”
“How can I? He keeps his special mirror locked away, and—well, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t want me to. It’s a secret sort of study, you need lots and lots of preparation for it, and it can be dangerous if you get it wrong. He could teach you, but I don’t think I could. I’ve only tried it a couple of times and I didn’t do it very well. Broichan said it didn’t matter. It’s the other lessons that count more for me.”
Tuala was silent for a little. Her fingers were weaving the grass into a minuscule basket. Then she said, “This one counts for me. I’ll have to teach myself.”
Bridei frowned. “Be careful. I told you, it’s dangerous, like all the magical arts. Anyway, you don’t have a mirror.”
“I expect I can find one,” she said, and tucked the tiny basket down between the roots of the great oak. “You’ll be late for your lesson.”
All the way back to the house he could feel her watching him, although she had remained where she was, under the trees. He worried about Tuala sometimes. One moment she was off through the woods like a little wild thing and the next she was sounding like someone’s grandmother. Still, she was only six. With luck, by tomorrow she’d have seized on a new interest and forgotten all about being a seer.
Broichan was waiting for him. “You’ve been running,” the druid observed.
Bridei worked hard at slowing his breathing. He would not apologize. Because he had run, he was not, in fact, late. He did not wish to be drawn into a discussion of how he should be spending his free time. “Yes, my lord,” he said after a moment, his voice quite steady and not at all breathless.
“Sit down,” Broichan said.
Bridei sat on the bench opposite his foster father with the breadth of the oak table between them. The table held a scattering of birch rods, each carved with its own particular marking. Bridei was careful not to disturb them. This was a pattern of augury.
“Tell me what you see here.” Broichan’s voice was deep and resonant, a sound full of both mystery and authority. The face was calm as always, the dark eyes hooded, the braided hair falling across his shoulders. There were gray threads in the plaited locks now.
Bridei studied the birch rods. He’d begun to learn these signs very early; by his first summer at Pitnochie he’d been familiar with their basic meanings, and now he understood there were as many ways of putting together their wisdom as there were stars in the sky. A skilled interpreter was not merely seeking to ascertain a meaning, but to select what was relevant amongst myriad meanings.
“Are you looking for an answer to a particular question?” he asked Broichan, examining the lie of the rods, the places where they intersected and which had fallen above or below the others. Of course, the person who had cast them down was the one best fitted to understand the pattern of their falling; no doubt Broichan had already completed his own interpretation.
The druid gave a nod. “The question I asked was complex. The answer, in its turn, is many-branched. Because you will see it in more simple terms, you may be able to provide a clearer resolution. It was a question about leaders and loyalties. A deep question about Fortriu itself.”
Bridei thought awhile, letting the small sticks of birch go in and out of focus, making himself see what lay beyond the incised pattern of line and symbol that marked their pale surfaces. “I see two creatures here,” he said, “bull and boar, each with its own kind behind it. Enemies are coming from the west and the south, attacking them both and trying to come between them. But there’s one rod, here, that joins the two. The eagle. It holds them together, bridging the gap. And see here, a half-hidden one, underneath. The shadow”
“And?”
“One unexpected move, and many would fall: boar and bull and eagle all together.”
“Leaving only the shadow,” said Broichan gravely “And alone, the shadow can achieve nothing. Thank you, Bridei; you may gather the rods back into their bag now, and while you do so, let’s test the efficacy of your tutors’ lessons in history. The symbolism here is obvious. Let us say it reflects the years to come, the next ten years, perhaps, or fifteen. How would you interpret this picture of bulls and boars?”
“The bull must be our own king, Drust son of Wdrost, for the bull is his kin-token; Erip tells me the stones that circle his great fortress are full of such images. The boar is Drust son of Girom, monarch of Circinn. That means the two tribes shown in the augury are the two kingdoms of the Priteni: we of Fortriu, who follow the true faith of our ancestors, and the southerners, the Christians.”
“Beset by enemies, all of us,” mused Broichan. “Yes, even a child could see that. Circinn’s hard put to defend its borders against barbarian rabble from the south. As for us, we face wave upon wave of Gaels bent on seizing every last crag, glen, lake, and streamlet we have to call our own. And yet we are a strong people, Bridei. An enduring people. What meaning do you place on that one link, the eagle, bridging the gap so tenuously? The chieftains of the Priteni have minds of their own and their kings are equally stubborn. To unite bull and boar seems to me as unlikely as yoking a pair of wild stags and expecting them to work as a team.”
The birch rods were packed away now, secure in their kidskin bag. Bridei fastened the leather cord around them and placed the bag on its shelf. Higher up, a tiny cradle, withered and faded, still lay in the shadows. He sat with chin in hand, thinking hard. Any answer given to Broichan mu
st be well considered, or one might as well say nothing at all.
“I think,” Bridei said, “that the eagle is the most important of all for Fortriu. It would be a good symbol for a king, better than bull or boar, although both of those are very strong in their ways. The eagle flies high above everything: he passes over the whole of the Great Glen, and beyond the Glen to the western isles, and northward to the lands of the Caitt, and southeast to Circinn. He can fly over the realms where both kings rule; his clear vision shows him that the land is not split tribe by tribe, but is one whole, strong and indivisible. Or should be. I don’t wish to sound disloyal to King Drust, of course.”
“No,” said Broichan mildly, “and if you were in other company, I know you would choose not to express such ideas as these. No doubt Wid has cautioned you of the dangers of being misinterpreted. Here at Pitnochie, amongst trusted friends, you can speak your mind freely. And your sentiments are admirable, Bridei. We would all wish to see the Priteni united, as they were before the scourge of the new religion swept across the south and poisoned the mind of Drust the Boar. Now, of course, we have two kings, two realms and two faiths. This has weakened us greatly. All your talk of eagles does not alter the fact that this schism has shattered our capacity to resist armed incursions. The Gaels have made themselves at home in the west; they breed a new generation in the settlements where our grandfathers dwelled, and their boots trample our hallowed ground. Each time they mount an attack they step a little farther in. Could we withstand another major offensive? I doubt it. You saw the shadow of their cruelty in the Vale of the Fallen, Bridei. We cannot allow them the freedom of the Glen; we cannot permit a repetition of that mindless slaughter of good men, that pollution of our heartland. Unfortunately our own kings show a marked reluctance to invite each other to the council table. How can they? One is loyal to the ancient tenets of Fortriu; the other is a traitor to his blood-deep faith.”