Juliet Marillier - Hearts Blood
By his side was Cathaír in his bloody shirt. He had a sword sheathed at his hip and a thrusting spear in his hand. It seemed to me his eyes were calmer today; indeed, there was a purpose about all this motley band that stilled my heart, letting hope in. Perhaps they could do it. Perhaps, even beyond the boundaries of the hill, they could hold strong against the frenzy if it came, and follow their chieftain to victory.
Olcan was on Anluan’s other side with Fianchu on a rope leash. They were formidable, the two of them, all harnessed strength. It was hard to believe this fearsome war hound had slept curled around a little child, warm against her eternal cold. Close by them was Rioghan, grim as death.
A rattling of bones preceded the appearance, from among the trees, of the skeletal horse and its monkish rider. Eichri looked in my direction, and he and his mount grinned. On the edges of the assembled force stood men of Whistling Tor settlement, Tomas among them. They had perhaps sufficient armor for half their number, but the pieces had been shared: one man had only a helm, another mismatched wrist guards; a third, luckier individual had a worn breast-piece. Some bore round shields, chipped and worn but freshly painted with the emblem of a golden sun on a field of blue. I recalled the mirror of might-have-been and the image of Anluan riding out with a band of fit young warriors under a banner with just such colors.The men from the settlement looked decidedly nervous.They had grown up on stories of the host, dark stories of murder and mayhem.To reach this point must have required a remarkable degree of leadership by both Anluan and Rioghan, and a great deal of courage from these ordinary folk.
“It’s time,” said Anluan, turning to include the entire assembly in his gaze.“You know the plan. Keep to it and we’ll drive these invaders off our land and into oblivion. Men of the settlement, you know what rides on this.We fight for our land, for our families, for the future. Men of the host, for you the stakes are still higher. Win today and you win us time to seek out the counterspell.Win me this battle and I swear to you that I will find it, if it takes all the years of my life.
“Men, you know what you must do. The first wave goes beyond the boundary of the hill, and beyond the line where I am certain I can keep you in check, whatever comes. If the frenzy touches your mind, you won’t be able to sing to hold it off, not until the moment of attack. Once outside the fortress walls we must maintain total silence or the enemy will be alerted. I will be there to lead you. I am your chieftain. If the frenzy comes, remember that mine is the only voice you must obey. If madness threatens to drive you off course, cling to that.You are my men; you are the men of the hill.We march to victory.When every last Norman soldier is gone from our territory, when Whistling Tor is ours again, we’ll march up here with our hearts high, singing fit to rattle the walls of this fortress.”
The urge to give this speech the resounding cheer it deserved showed on every face. That nobody uttered a word was testament to the transformation of this extraordinary band of frightened villagers and wayward specters into a disciplined fighting force. Anluan turned his head towards me. He smiled, and in that smile I saw his love for me, and his fear. I found a smile of my own and hoped it was full of confidence.
“Forward, men!” Anluan said, and they moved away, out through the gap in the wall and down into the dark forest.The men of the hill: young and old, dead and living, monk, councillor, warrior, craftsman, innkeeper, farmer. Hope shone in their eyes; pride held their bodies straight and tall. Above the trees the sky held the faintest hint of dawn.
“Well, then,” said Orna when the last in the line had vanished from sight. She wiped a hand across her cheek. “You’d best not stand about in your bare feet any longer, Caitrin, not to speak of that shirt that shows half your legs. Let’s see if we can find you a gown somewhere. Coming in?” This last was addressed to the wise woman.
“We will wait out of doors.” The woman with the moon tattoo had been joined by the others I had seen on the night of Anluan’s council, the village wife and the elegant creature with glittering jewelery and features of faded beauty. “Be wary, Caitrin,” the wise woman added. “If poison was in the jug, you, too, were an intended victim. If you are right, and the girl in the veil has done this, she is cleverer and more devious than any of us believed.We thought her harmless. Her devotion to the chieftains of Whistling Tor seemed of little consequence. She may have the ability to make others see in the way she wishes them to see. She is still here. She still watches you.Take care.”
I nodded, a frisson of unease passing through me. This rang true. It could explain the surprising blindness of all the men of the inner circle to just how odd Muirne’s behavior was.They thought her well meaning and harmless. Often they hardly seemed to notice her. And perhaps that was just the way she wanted it. How convenient to be so invisible that when bad things happened, nobody gave any thought to the possibility that she might be the one responsible.
Some time later, clad in a borrowed gown, shawl and slippers, I sat at the kitchen table with a group of women from the settlement. Gearróg stood guard at the outer door. At the inner one were stationed two village boys no more than thirteen years old, a sharpened stick apiece.
“I’ve a good carving knife within reach,” Orna murmured, following my dubious gaze. “And there are three pokers in the fire, red-hot every one.We won’t be sitting back and letting the Normans take this place, Caitrin. Whistling Tor is our home. Nobody’s going to drive us out.”
I hoped it would not come to that, since the enemy would only reach the fortress if Rioghan’s bold strategy failed and Anluan’s army was cut down. Or if that army was touched by the frenzy and turned on its own. “I wish we could see what’s happening,” I said, hugging the shawl around me and trying not to imagine the worst.They would be at the foot of the hill by now, dividing into their two groups, one to go forward across the boundary, one to wait under concealment of the trees. What I had not asked, because I did not want to think about it, was where Anluan planned to be when the first group manifested in the center of the Norman encampment. To keep them strong beyond the boundary, he would need to be close to them, to lead them.They were spectral in nature and could not be killed. Anluan was a living man.
“Cold out there,” commented Orna, speaking to fill the nervous silence.
I realized that I had left Gearróg’s cloak lying across a bench when I changed my clothes. I picked it up, intending to take it to him, and realized there was something in the pocket: the little book I had taken from Muirne’s secret hoard. I drew it out.
“What’s that?” Orna asked. And, when I did not answer, “Caitrin?”
I stood very still, the book in my hands, its front cover slightly open to reveal, scribed in neat minuscule, the name Aislinn. “She used a crow quill,” I murmured absently, turning the first page with fingers that were less than steady. “Orna, I must read this. Will you take the cloak to Gearróg, please?”
I set the book on the table beside Irial’s notebook. I could understand why the smaller book had been hidden away; not only did that name reveal Muirne’s identity, but I could see from a glance that the pages contained personal notes, formulas, diagrams suggesting this might be the very same work book in which she had been scribbling when I had first set eyes on her in the obsidian mirror. A diary of cruelty, of sorcery, of grand ambition gone terribly askew. But why had she put Irial’s notebook with it? That was just one of many. She might have wanted to stop me finding the antidote, but that book had been missing since I had first read Irial’s records: long before her jealousy had led Muirne to today’s evil act.Was there some further evidence of wrongdoing in Irial’s book? I leafed through the pages, looking for anything unusual, and glimpsed a heading: For the preparation of heart’s blood ink.The components and method were set out below.There was not a shred of excitement in me, only disappointment at yet another page with nothing I could use, no key, no clue.
Wait a moment.There was an essential difference here, something that made this particular volume stand out from Irial’s other notebooks. I leafed back to the beginning; checked the middle again; examined the last pages. There were no margin notes in this book, no record of Irial’s long time of sorrow. On the very first page, in Irish, not Latin, Anluan’s father had written this:
Farewell, my sunshine and my moonlight, my sweet rose, my love. Six hundred days have passed since I lost you, and I will shed no more tears, though my heart will mourn until we meet again in the place beyond death. Our son lives and grows. While I have been so sunk in grief I hardly knew myself, Magnus has nurtured him with such wisdom and tenderness that he might be a second father. In our boy I see all your good gifts, Emer: courage, wit, steadfastness, hope. Today, in the garden, Anluan fell and hurt his arm. It was not to me that he ran for reassurance, but to Magnus. I must start afresh. I must shut my ears to the voice of sorrow and despair if I would help our son grow to be a man.Though I write no more of my sadness, never believe I have forgotten you, beloved. Every day, you live on in him.
Mother of God. How cruel, how needlessly cruel to hide this book away so that Anluan would never know how much his father loved him; to keep it from Magnus, who bore a weight of guilt that he had not recognized the depth of his friend’s despair. These were not the thoughts of a man about to kill himself from grief. In my mind, I saw Muirne with the sorrowing Irial, the man whose garden she haunted, the man whose workroom she had made her own, her secret place. I saw her watching him with Emer; I saw the look on her face, twin to the one she had sometimes turned on me. I imagined her lighting the fire that took her rival’s life. I had no difficulty at all in believing that she had poisoned her beloved Irial solely because he loved his wife and son too much and had nothing left for her. She had believed Emer’s death would make him hers. She had been wrong. So she had killed him as well. And today she had almost killed his son.
With shaking hands I opened Aislinn’s little book. She was here in the house somewhere. She would come back, and when she did I must be ready for her. What to do—read from beginning to end, which would take some time, as there was Latin here as well as Irish, or skim through the book quickly? I began to turn the pages, glancing at numbers and figures that meant little to me, a pentagram within a perfect circle, the latter drawn in the form of a snake devouring its own tail. A list of unusual herbs, with notes as to precisely how each should be gathered. Goldenwood to be cut only on the sixth day of the moon, and with a sickle of bone; the harvest not to be allowed to touch the earth, but to be conveyed with great care to the place of preparation. Preparation for what? Here and there, observations that were not related to her work: Nechtan is a paragon of learning and courage. I can never hope to match him. And a few pages later: He watches me when he believes I am not looking. He confides his deepest secrets. He loves me. I am filled with happiness.
It made my skin crawl, and yet I felt a trace of pity for her, remembering Nechtan in the obsidian mirror, and how easily he set aside his lust for the girl in the interests of the work ahead. Love? Never that. Such an idea had been only in Aislinn’s mind.
Only three days until All Hallows’ night. My gown is almost ready; I will fashion the wreath on the last day, so it will be fresh. I can scarcely believe that he has entrusted me with the most vital task of all. When he has marked out the secret pattern, I will stand in its center. As he speaks the words of the invocation the beings will emerge, drawn by my essence. The army will form around me, between the points of the pentagram. I know the words of the charm; he rehearses them endlessly, muttering to himself as he attends to the tasks of preparation. I asked him to describe precisely how it works, but he will not tell me.To know more is to be at risk, Aislinn, he said, and I will not risk you, my dear. He tells me I will be like a priestess; like a queen.
And on another page:
He has not touched me yet. But he looks; oh, how he looks. He has said nothing of afterwards, yet I see a promise in his eyes.When this is over and Mella is gone, we will be together.
And then, at the foot of an untidy page on which various nonsense words—erappa, sinigilac, egruser—had been scrawled, crossed out, combined in various ways as if she were solving a puzzle, she wrote:
I have it at last.The secret.The key. I have it. So simple, too simple for a mind like his that seeks always for higher ground, for challenges beyond the limits of ordinary men. He scoffs at the very thought that we might ever need this; and perhaps he is right.After the great work is done, I will tell him that I have discovered what he could not. I cannot wait to see his look of pride.
“What is it?” Orna was staring at me. “What are you reading?”
“Sinigilac oigel,” I muttered, feverishly turning pages. “Legio caliginis . . . army of darkness . . .” I sprang to my feet, clutching Aislinn’s book in my hand.The other women stared.“I have to go to the library,” I said.“Now. I need the obsidian mirror. Gearróg!”
He came racing in, then halted abruptly, his hand halfway to his sword hilt.
“We’re going to the library. Bring a light.” My eyes fell on the two lads guarding the inner door, both of whom looked half asleep. They’d have trouble fending off anything bigger than a stray dog.
“I’ll come.” Orna was taking a lantern from a hook, picking up her warm shawl. I would feel far safer with her and her big carving knife next to me than these boys trying to be men. “Sionnach, keep an eye on this door. The rest of you, be ready to snatch one of those pokers and use it if need be. Lead the way, Gearróg.”
We ran, the three of us, through the house to the library door, unguarded now since Broc had left his post to join the march down the hill. Trembling from head to foot, I went to the desk where I had spent long hours with quill and inks restoring order to the chaos of Anluan’s collection. I drew a deep breath, reached down and opened the chest that had held Nechtan’s personal papers. I drew out the cloth-wrapped bundle; set it on the table; unveiled the obsidian mirror. Gearróg had stationed himself by the door to Irial’s garden, alert for danger. After placing the lantern for me, Orna had gone to stand just inside the other door. For all her pallor, there was a grim and capable look about her, and I knew I owed her a great debt for her courage.
I opened Aislinn’s notebook to the page where she had begun to describe the ritual: the secret pattern, the invocation, her role as a sort of conduit for the spirits. There was a chance, slight but real, that what had worked with Nechtan’s writings might also work with those of his devoted assistant. I must try, at least. A creeping dread was coming over me, a dark misgiving. I hoped very much that I was wrong. It seemed Aislinn had believed her scrambled Latin was a charm of power. A counterspell: she must have believed that, for why would one reverse the words in an invocation—warriors of darkness, come forth—save for the purpose of sending those demons back where they came from?
