The Dark Mirror by Juliet Marillier Page A

gone from her cheeks, walked forward without question and proffered the small bundle for his examination. The druid’s dark eyes narrowed. From the woolen shawl, Tuala waved a flowerlike handin a kind of salute and gave agurgle whose meaning could have been anything. Broichan’s mouth tightened. He scrutinized the infant closely, without touching.
    “Very well, Bridei,” he said eventually, his tone level. “I’ll hear this explanation of yours in private. Come.” He turned without further ado and limped off. Bridei hastened after him. Behind them, nobody was saying a word.
    Broichan’schamber was not the comfortably appointed domain of a wealthy landholder, although he was in fact a man of extensive resources. This room was in keeping with what he truly was: a scholar, a mystic, a philosopher. His discipline, his clarity of mind, his passion for learning, all could be seen in the orderly, uncluttered space that was his private sanctum. The only person who came in here when Broichanwas away was Mara. The stone shelves held rows of jars, bottles, crucibles, and flasks, each in its place, each gleaming dully in the light of candles and the flicker of the fire on the small hearth—a concession to his illness, this, for it had ever been Broichan’s habit to endure the cold. He constantly tested the mind’s control of the body. The pallet was made up with fine woolen blanketsand fresh linen, but it was narrow and hard: what meager comforts existed in this quiet space owed more to Mara than to Broichan himself, Bridei knew. There was an oak table and two benches. Scrolls were stored in a frame on the wall, and writing materials, goose quills, ink pots, were set out on their own shelf. A plait of garlic hung by the slitlike window. Dried herbs in bundles dangled here andthere, lending a sweet fragrance to the air, and wizened berries in a brass bowl were evidence that Broichan had attempted, already, to begin some work. Mara might eventually succeed in bullying him into resting, but it wouldn’t be easy. The druid’s cloak hung neatly on a peg; his boots were set by the hearth, side by side. The chamber was spotless; not a speck of dust could be seen on anything.

    Broichan closed the door behind the two of them and went to stand by the table, leaning both hands on it. Bridei stood facing his foster father. He held himself very still; it was something he was good at, even when his heart was threatening to jump into his throat from anxiety, as now. He relaxed his hands. He made his features calm.
    “Let me tell you what I see here.” Illness had not muted thedruid’s voice: it rang deep and powerful as an ancient bell. “I see an infant that has no business inside the four walls of any human dwelling; an infant that holds danger in every blink of its fey eyes. I see several stalwarts of my household viewingthis infant with expressions of doting indulgence. And I see a young woman who’s most certainly not here by my invitation.”
    “I—”
    Broichan raisedhis hand slightly, and Bridei’s words dried up in his mouth. “I’m not finished,” the druid said calmly. “I see one more thing: I see my foster son, a boy who promised to be good while I was away; to do as I would wish him to do.” His midnight-dark eyes rested on Bridei in terrible question. It became much harder to keep still. It sounded as if Broichan had decided already. Tuala would be gone bydusk, cast out alone into the forest to freeze, to starve. She would cry and cry, and nobody would come. But no. Bridei clenched his hands so tight the nails cut his palms. Concentrate. Remember.
There is
learning in everything. He remained still, breathing slowly as he’d been taught, keeping his gaze steady. And realized, suddenly, that this inquisition was not, in fact, about Tuala or the GoodFolk. It was about him. It was not about what he had done, but why he had done it. All he had to do was give the right explanations, the ones that complied with