Juliet Marillier - Hearts Blood
“At least that man wants you,” she said quietly.
Cold fury took hold of me. “I can’t believe you would condone what Cillian did yesterday. That sickens me. I understand your argument about Anluan, and I regret tiring him. I will be more careful in the future. But I’m not leaving Whistling Tor, Muirne; not until I finish the job I was hired for. I don’t believe my presence is dangerous to anyone.”
“Scribing is one thing.” She was angry too, but it showed only in her eyes. “I have some admiration for a woman who can do it with sufficient skill to earn her living. But you seek to do far more here than the transcription of a few documents.”
I had no answer to this, since she was right. I had made an undertaking to the host. I had promised to look for a counterspell. And what about Anluan, with his odd little smile, like a sudden burst of sunlight in a place full of shadows? This could not be neatly finished by the end of summer.
“You stirred up the host,” Muirne said, folding her arms. “The host is dangerous. Eventually, inevitably, it will turn against you.”
“How can you say that when you are part of the host yourself?” I asked, not caring whether I had overstepped the mark. “As for that little girl . . .” My fingers stroked the damaged cloth of the violet gown. “She’s too young to be fully responsible for her actions.”
Muirne’s eyes were cold. “You’re wrong,” she said. “You expose all of us to danger. Do your work if you must; write your copies. But Anluan should have nothing to do with the documents.Tell him you do not want his help.” She turned on her heel and was gone before I could say any more.
My mind was spinning. For a moment I could not remember why I was in the yard. I thought of Anluan, so relaxed, so happy after his success with the pen. I remembered the feeling of his body against mine as I guided his hand; the curious sense of loss as I stepped away, setting space between us. It was not the first time touching him had sent a flood of warmth through my body. Muirne had been right to warn me. I was letting myself feel too much. I was allowing natural sympathy to grow into something else, something with the power to cause real harm.
With a sigh, I finished rinsing the dishes, then poured out the washing water by the kitchen steps. Muirne had said Anluan should have nothing to do with the documents. But Anluan had hired me to translate the Latin so he could find out what Nechtan had written. He wanted to read the documents. Why was this dangerous? I could think of no reason but the one I had already considered myself: that Anluan might be inspired to attempt the same kind of work his great-grandfather had tried to such disastrous effect. He might believe that the only way the host could be banished was by sorcery. In walking down that path, he risked becoming Nechtan all over again. Muirne, who loved him, was quite reasonably taking steps to avoid what she knew would be catastrophic.
Back in the kitchen, I dried the dishes and set them in their places. I found myself wiping down the tabletop for the third time. I gathered Emer’s gown and went up to my quarters, expecting the worst. The door was ajar but nothing seemed to be out of place except for Róise. I had put her away in the storage chest this morning, but she was on the bed now, propped against my pillow with her torn skirt spread out around her.The child had ripped out far more of the silken hair than I had realized: one side of the doll’s head was almost completely bald.
I took a few deep breaths. There was work to be done; Nechtan’s documents awaited me in the library. But the encounter with Muirne had unsettled me, and the knowledge that someone had been in this chamber, tampering with my belongings even as I sat with Anluan in the library, set unease in my bones. Before I went back to work, I needed to put right the damaged memories of family.
I assembled my sewing materials and rolled Róise up in Emer’s gown. I stepped out of the bedchamber and almost walked into the young man in the bloody shirt. I gasped in shock; he took a step back as if equally disturbed.
“Oh—forgive me—” I fumbled for the right words.
“I mean no harm—I wish only to—”
Perhaps it was his hesitancy that put the strange idea into my head. “I need your help,” I said.“I need someone to guard my chamber for a while. I don’t want anyone to go in there before I return.Would you do this for me?” Foolish, perhaps; Muirne would most certainly have thought so. But I had not seen a host of evil presences, ready to turn on me at the least excuse. I had seen folk adrift without a purpose. I had seen men, women and children all together, yet each alone.They had nothing to do, nowhere to go.They were not wanted.They were not needed.They had nobody to touch them, to love them, to reassure them.They had lost themselves.
“What will you pay?” His voice was like the rattling of dry stalks in an autumn field.
“I will pay in work.While you keep watch, I will be searching for what I spoke of before, the key to setting you free. But I have other work to do first. Something has been broken, something precious.”
The young man sighed, reaching out a hand whose fingers were little more than bare bone. He touched the fabric of the tattered gown. “Hers ...”
Startled, I asked, “You knew her? Emer?”
“I cannot remember,” he said, but the memory was in those haunted eyes.They had changed when I spoke her name. I could have sworn there were tears glittering there.
“Will you keep watch for me? I will return before dusk.”
He bowed his head, a courteous indication of assent, and took up a position before the bedchamber door. His back was straight, his shoulders square, his booted feet planted apart. So stern was his expression, so formidable his stance that surely no one would dare challenge him.
“Thank you,” I said. “What is your name?”
There was a long pause, as if he had to dig deep to find the memory. “Cathaír, lady.”
“It is a fine name for a warrior. Farewell for now, Cathaír.”
I sat in Irial’s garden, under the birch tree, and stitched a new skirt for the doll, using remnants of Emer’s gown. I tried to weigh up hope against risk, purpose against peril. If it was too dangerous for Anluan to be exposed to Nechtan’s records—and Muirne had made a convincing case—I must reach the truth on my own. It must be done before summer’s end. Nobody had said what would happen if I failed to complete the job by then. Perhaps Anluan would let me stay on. But I could not assume so.That meant I must use whatever tools were at my disposal in the search for a counterspell. And there was one very powerful tool shut in a box by my work table, waiting to reveal more dark stories. Was I brave enough to set more of Nechtan’s writings on the table and look in the obsidian mirror again? Alone, without Anluan? I had given my word to the host. Perhaps I was already committed to this.
There was no way to fix Róise’s hair, not without a supply of silk thread. I made a little veil for her, using the same violet fabric, and sewed it securely to her head, concealing the damage. I murmured to the doll as I mended her, comforting stories of home and family: the warm kitchen, the orderly workroom, my sister singing as she cooked supper.When I came to Father, my voice faltered to a stop. One particular memory would stay with me always, no matter where I went. Blundering downstairs half-asleep, intending an early start on the important commission we were undertaking. Opening the workroom door. Finding that Father had risen even earlier than I had. He had begun work already; he had completed two lines before he died. The tall stool was tipped over. Father lay on his back on the floor, arms outstretched, eyes staring. The quill had fallen just beyond his reach; ink drops made a delicate pattern across the boards. His fingers, a craftsman’s long, graceful fingers, were open, relaxed, like those of a child sleeping. He was already gone.
“It was a good place, Róise,” I whispered, making a last neat stitch in her head-cloth and biting off the thread. “Until that day, it was the best place in the world. Then everything changed. Ita and Cillian came, and almost as soon as Father was buried, Maraid went away with Shea. I hope she’s all right. I hope they’re happy.” This thought surprised me. At the time, sorrow had claimed me so completely that I had hardly been capable of understanding that my sister was gone. Later, when I had begun to claw my way out of despair, I had felt bitter and angry towards her. Now, regarding the mended Róise and recalling the day of my seventh birthday, when Maraid had presented me with her creation and told me that since our mother was no longer in this world, Róise would keep an eye on me in her place, I realized that my resentment was fading at last. Perhaps Maraid had had no choice. Perhaps she had run away for the same reason I had: to save herself.
The violet gown was beyond repair.There was not enough of the skirt intact to furnish anything save this outfit for Róise. Perhaps I was foolishly sentimental to want to save it. I had not known Anluan’s mother, and she was long gone. But people had loved her. I rolled the gown up. Later, I would find a way to use it.
The sun was warm. The garden was peaceful. I could happily have stayed here all afternoon, doing nothing in particular. But the library door stood open and my work lay ready within. Practice being brave a little at a time, Anluan had suggested. This was not a little; it was almost overwhelming. But I must do it. If I were to have a chance of fulfilling the promise I had made to the host, I must go into the library and turn over those pages. I must open the box and take out the obsidian mirror. I must look into the darkness.
chapter seven
Ho sooner had we begun the next stage when a hammering on the door disturbed our labors.
There’s a hammering on the door. Nechtan feels his blood boil and makes himself take several slow breaths. The preparations must be perfect; he cannot afford any loss of control. He strides over, slides the bolt and whips the door open. “What?” he barks, glaring into the pasty features of his temporary steward, a man whose name he cannot quite recall.
“My lord, I very much regret the interruption, but—”
“Out with it! What is so important that you break my specific orders not to disturb me?”
“Lord Maenach is here, my lord. Not with a raiding party; he’s come with a group of councillors and kinsmen. There’s a priest with them, and Lord Maenach’s wife.They want to talk about an agreement, a treaty. Lady Mella said I must disturb you, since this is—”
“Go,” says Nechtan. “You’ve done as you were instructed.” He shuts the door in his servant’s face.
Aislinn is making the wreath. A lamp burns on the shelf above her workbench, its warm light transforming the soft mass of her hair to a glinting veil of gold. He wants to run his fingers through it, to gather the silken strands, to tug and make her cry out. Observing the neat, meticulous movement of her hands as she threads this most magical of herbs into the garland of winter greenery, eyeing the pleasing curves of her young body beneath the plain working clothes, he wants more than that. But he’s learned to suppress the stirrings of his body. To ruin his great work for the sake of such fleeting pleasure would be the act of an ordinary man, a weak man.
He turns his back on Aislinn. On his side of the workroom, three grimoires lie on the table, each open at a familiar page. The first: For the conjuration of spirits. The second: To call the servants of a darker realm. The third: Demons, imps, wraiths and visitants: touching on their true nature. Nechtan sighs.
“My lord, you need not read those again.” It seems Aislinn has eyes in the back of her head.“You’ll be using the other spell, the one you got from the monastery. The writers of those books have it wrong. I would wager none of them has put his theories to the test.They claim to be expert, but their writings are those of men who lack the courage to make their dreams reality.”
Nechtan smiles without turning. Aislinn is devoted; she’s giving him back his own arguments. “Quite true,” he tells her. “But we could have missed some small detail.This must be flawless, Aislinn.”
“It will be.” Her voice is shaking with emotion. Briefly, this perturbs him. He suspects that even if he had told her everything, instead of only the information she needs, she would still be prepared to comply with his wishes. She would do anything for him.Yet his little assistant is no dumb animal, following its owner out of blind instinct. Aislinn is quick, apt, quite a scholar in her limited way. Clever, but not too clever, Nechtan reflects, turning to watch her again as she weaves a white cord through the wreath, then ties the ends in a complex, particular knot.The ritual object resembles a headdress for a bride.
“All Hallows’ Eve.” Aislinn’s voice trembles as she hangs the wreath on a peg, next to the other items they will be using. “I can hardly believe it. My lord, I’ll never be able to thank you enough for letting me be a part of this great work.”
Another knock at the door.
“By all the powers,” Nechtan roars,“what have I done to deserve this? My house is full of fools!”
“Shall I answer, my lord?”
“No, Aislinn.” He opens the door.This time it’s his wife standing there like a skinny scarecrow in her drab gray, hands clasped nervously together, hair scraped back, jaw tight with nerves. The years haven’t been kind to Mella. She was never a beauty, not even when he wed her, and soon, very soon, she’ll be a hag. Bearing his son is the one good thing she’s ever done for him and for Whistling Tor. The dowry was useful, of course, but that’s long gone.
“Maenach is here.” She speaks without preliminaries. “He wants to treat for peace, Nechtan. He’s ready to talk to you, despite everything.You must come and speak with him.”
“Must?” The word hangs between them as Nechtan begins slowly to close the door. He sees the look in his wife’s eyes, the fear, then the sudden resolve. He’s surprised; he didn’t think the dreary creature had any spark left in her.
Mella puts her foot out, arresting the door’s movement. She looks past him, her eyes wintry as they pass over Aislinn. “Nechtan, don’t shut the door.This is our future, yours, mine and our son’s.”
“I have no interest in treaties,” he tells her, not that there’s any point; he knows from long experience that the patterns of his mind are beyond his wife’s comprehension. “They’re irrelevant. Sooner than you can imagine, all will change. Maenach will be less than a speck of dust under my boot. I will crush him.”
“Nechtan, listen to me, please. I’m begging you.” Mella’s face is creased with anxiety. He can see the wrinkles she’ll have as an old woman, if she lives that long. “This is a chance to stop the fighting, to make peace, to resolve the situation once and for all. I’ve never understood what it is you’re doing down here and I don’t especially want to, but neither your little village whore nor your so-called experiment is worth sacrificing your whole life for. The future of Whistling Tor, the future of your family and your people, lies in the balance. Come out, my lord, and sit at the council table.You are chieftain here. Be the man you should be.”
