Heart's Blood

by Juliet Marillier

  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, Gearr�
�g.”

  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?

  Aislinn had probably got it wrong. It did seem far too simple, something Nechtan must surely have tried once he discovered he could not make the host obey. Still, my heart was racing with fearful anticipation. If what she had written in her book was indeed the counterspell,Anluan possessed the means to banish the host. He could undo the family curse and end a hundred years of suffering. I had to know more; I must see the ritual to find out how they had done it and what had gone wrong.This must be more complicated than speaking a few Latin words backwards.“Show me,” I muttered, my gaze moving from mirror to book and back again. “Show me quickly.”When Muirne found her book missing, she would come after me to get it back. She would not lightly give up its hidden treasure, the tool of immense power she had kept to herself all these years. I must find out how to use the spell before Muirne found me.

  Aislinn’s neat script looked up at me, its rows perfectly spaced, its letters round and careful, not a stroke out of place. I will be like a priestess; like a queen. The face of the obsidian mirror gleamed in the lantern light. Through the open door to Irial’s garden I thought I could hear a clamour down the hill, shouting, screaming, the clash of weaponry, the high, hysterical neighing of horses.

  “It’s started,” said Gearróg. “Stand strong, lads.”

  “God keep them,” murmured Orna. “You finding what you need, Caitrin?”

  I did not reply, for the mirror’s surface had begun to swirl, to change, to darken and lighten and open up, and there before me was the courtyard within the fortress wall, not overgrown as now, but bare and open. The cold light of a full moon bathed the central space, but under the trees lay a profound darkness. At the foot of the steps stood Nechtan, clad in black. The light from a brazier transformed his bony features into a mask of fire and shadow. “The herbs, Aislinn,” he said.

  “The herbs, Aislinn,” he says, and she passes over her small harvest, dry leaves reduced to powder, a mixture designed to aid the transition between worlds, to open portals.Tonight, of all nights, such doors may swing wide. At All Hallows, she muses, one would be a fool to expect anything but the unexpected. There is a tingling in her body, a sharp anticipation that makes her restless as she stands there waiting, knowing that if ever she was beautiful, it is now. The gown is of whitest linen, finer than any she has worn before, its borders embroidered with delicate flowers and vines. Nechtan has bade her wear her hair loose, and it cloaks her in pale silk. Aislinn can feel every thread of it against her skin. She can feel the weight of Nechtan’s gaze. His eyes devour her. Later, those eyes promise. Later.

  He has marked out the pentagram in sand, its points touching the circle that encloses it, a circle fashioned in the form of a serpent, its tail between its jaws. Now he casts the herbs into the brazier. The fragrant smoke begins to pass across the place of ritual.There is a great magic afoot tonight, but Nechtan will keep her safe. He loves her.When this is over, she will be his wife. Mella does not deserve him. She is not fit for him. Mella understands nothing of this work; her mind is too small to encompass it. Mella has never been beautiful.

  The moon hides behind a cloud; a shiver of wind crosses the courtyard. The brazier flares strangely, sparks dancing upward.“It’s time,Aislinn,” Nechtan says, his voice deep and soft. He comes towards her, an imposing figure in his ritual robe; he extends a hand. Aislinn takes it in hers. Ah, his touch! She feels it deep inside her; the secret parts of her body quiver and throb. Later . . . later. He leads her to the center.They have rehearsed this until it is perfect in every detail; not a grain of sand stirs as their careful feet pass over. Now they are in the middle of the pattern. Nechtan places her just so, arms by her sides, her face towards the place where he will stand for the invocation, on the second step leading to the main entry. He will be outside the circle.

  The house is in darkness. If Mella knows what is unfolding here, she has closed herself off from it. Perhaps she’s putting cold compresses on her bruised face, or tending to her whining brat. More likely she’s abed. She’ll sleep alone. From this night forward, she’ll always sleep alone.

  Nechtan bends to kiss Aislinn on the brow, a chaste touch. He makes his way across the circle to the foot of the steps. She sees him take several deep breaths, readying himself, summoning his strength.

  Aislinn knows the rules she must obey tonight. Keep silent; do not speak. Stand as still as stone.Whatever you feel, whatever you see, remain in the center. Do not be afraid. I will control them; they cannot harm you. She can do it. She’s practiced standing still for far longer than she’ll need to tonight; she’s learned to conquer the dizziness. No need to practice being quiet. Often she and Nechtan work from dawn to dusk with scarcely a word between them, content in their silent companionship.That he has chosen her, that she is so honored . . . It makes her heart swell. It is a miracle, a wonder, a blessing.

  She thinks of her secret, the charm she has discovered all by herself, with no need for Nechtan’s tutoring. She cannot wait to share it with him. As soon as this is over, she’ll tell him of the study she’s been doing in her own time, the things she’s learned, oh, many things, the secret knowledge she’s gained. Perhaps when they have lain together at last, and she has satisfied him, and he lies back to rest, she’ll say, quite casually, Guess what I discovered?

  The capricious wind stirs dead leaves across the flagstones.The moon emerges, a pale, blank face staring down at them. Nechtan begins a solemn progress around the circle, starting in the north.

  “By the enduring power of earth, I call you!” He walks to the east. “By the invisible power of air, I call you!” He moves sunwise, since this is a ritual of manifestation. “By the transformative power of fire, I call you!” And to the west: “By the fluid power of water, I call you!” He has cast the circle, and now begins a measured walk along the lines of the pentagram, making sure his feet do not disturb the pattern.

  When the figure is complete he stands at the north point, closest to the steps. He turns to face the center. “By the all-ruling power of spirit, which knows neither beginning nor ending, I summon you! I call you out of shadow! Out of boundless darkness I conjure you!”

  His voice is deep and powerful. It rings around the moonlit courtyard, making the trees shiver.The ancient words tug and pull, coax and beckon, cajole and command.Who could resist such a call?

  A trembling courses through Aislinn’s body, a premonition of change, and for the first time she is anxious. What if . . . ? No; look at Nechtan, his dark eyes blazing with confidence, his pose triumphal. He is a master of this craft and he cannot fail.

  Now comes the charm proper, the Latin words of power. Once, twice, three times he int
ones the spell: “Legio caliginis appare! Appare mihi statim! Resurge! Resurge!”

  All is silence. As she waits, still as a statue in pale marble, Aislinn hardly dares breathe.

  Around the circle, in the spaces between the star’s five points, wisps of vapor begin to rise. As she watches, her heart pounding, the threads and shreds form into shapes, figures of men in the clothing of ancient days, with weapons in hand and helms on their heads. There is a giant warrior with a club in his fist; there a young one with his shirt all bloody, clutching a spear, with his eyes darting to and fro, as if he is astonished to find himself here. Here a dark-skinned man with bow and quiver, there a thin fellow with a belt full of knives ...They are but half-formed, these spirit warriors, still more of mist than substance, their figures wavering as if inclined to vanish back to the realm of shadows from whence they have been summoned. Not strong enough yet . . .

  “Resurge!” Nechtan calls again, a great shout.

  Aislinn’s legs feel odd, numb and weak suddenly, as if she might collapse. She must not faint; she must not let him down. Stand still as stone. She takes a deep breath, fighting the weakness. But something’s wrong there too; she can’t seem to catch her breath properly. Remain in the center. She gasps, struggles, tries to suck in air, but her lungs aren’t working as they should. Her limbs feel leaden.

  The figures are clearer now, manifesting in what seems almost fleshly form; there are colors, the blue of an ancient shield, the red of a bloody shirt, a man’s fair hair shining in the moonlight. Stand still . . . in the center . . .Aislinn’s head feels strange. She snatches a shallow breath. She must not faint. She will not fail him. More spectral forms appear, a dozen, twenty, fifty. The spaces between the points are full of them, packed shoulder to shoulder, their eyes fixed on Nechtan where he stands on the steps, his face incandescent with triumph.