The Dark Mirror by Juliet Marillier Read Free Book Online Page A

afternoons he studied. He tried not to notice how empty the house seemed,how quiet. He tried not to think of how small he was, how little he really knew of how to be strong, how to fight back. He tried not to worry about Broichan and what a long time it was taking him to come back home.
    Without the druid, the household had not observed the ritual of Gateway, marking entry to the dark time. Mara said that farther along Serpent Lake there would be a big heap of logs,pine, ash, oak, set by the shore ready for burning. Bridei would have liked to go down and watch folk leap through the flames, as Mara had told him they did. But there had been no point in bothering Donal; why ask when you know already the answer will be no? So all Bridei had done was set out a little bowl of mead and a platter of oatcakes on the step outside the kitchen. This was a sign of respect;thus, he invited the dead to share the household’s gifts, to be welcome there on this night when barriers opened and the worlds merged. In the morning, mead and cakes were gone; there was nothing left but a scattering of pale crumbs.
    Gateway night was well past now, and it would soon be Midwinter. The king’s council must be long over, but there had been no word from Broichan. The nights stretchedout. Lamps burned in kitchen and hall throughout the day, illuminating an interior that was always smoky, for the fire was constantly burning save when all slept. Mara muttered about the soot and hoarded supplies of oil. In his small chamber Bridei huddled in a blanket, candlelight flickering on the stone walls, and tried to concentrate on the lore. It felt as if his foster father had been goneforever. When was Broichan coming home?
    Three days short of Midwinter it snowed. The air had been hinting at it since early morning: there was no mistaking that stillness, that odd, deceptive sensation of warmth, as if the soft cloud blanket were easing winter’s grip even as it blotted out the sun. Bridei was outside helping the men move sheep from one field to another. The guards kept theirlong watch on the upper margins of Broichan’s land; their stalwart forms, their blue-patterned features were clearly visible up under the bare oaks on the forest’s edge.They worked shorter shifts in winter; at any time, there would be men coming in for roast meat and ale with spices, and other men putting on layers of clothing, skin cloaks, leather helms, heavy boots, ready for another battlewith the chill. Ferat was so busy he’d no time to grumble. There were two fellows to help him, both too terrified of the cook’s temper to do anything but work at top speed and pray that they made no errors.
    The snow began to fall as the last of the ewes were going through, herded by the overexcited dogs. Bridei’s job was to sit on the drystone dike by the gap and make sure they separated outthe right ones. The farming side of Broichan’s affairs was handled by a man called Fidich. It was clear Fidich had once been a warrior of some note, for the patterns he wore on his face were almost as elaborate as Donal’s, and he had markings on his hands, too, twists and spirals from wrist to fingertips. Fidich had strong shoulders and a grim expression, and a right leg that ended just below theknee. He walked with a crutch of ash wood, and could cover the difficult terrain of the farm with astonishing speed. He lived in a but on the far side of the walled fields all by himself. Never a sheep dropped an early lamb, nor a pig ventured out into a forbidden plot of land, but Fidich knew of it. The leg did make some things difficult. That was why a boy for gate-work was useful.
    “Right,lad, that’s the last!” Fidich called over the voices of three large hounds clamoring in chorus, and Bridei hauled the gate shut and fastened the bolt. The sheep on the other side, the ones relegated to a winter of sheltering under scrubby bushes and gleaning a living from what little feed could be spared, showed momentary