Heart's Blood

by Juliet Marillier

  “Mm.” A look of speculation entered Eichri’s shadowy eyes. “This place is full of magic, Caitrin. Whistling Tor was a place of eldritch tales long before Nechtan came along to dabble in sorcery. Such a long cloak of uncanny history is not so easily cast aside. Anluan should keep his books, just in case he needs them.That’s my opinion. Farewell, my dear. Look after that fine man of ours.”

  “I will.” I scrubbed a hand across my cheeks.

  “It’s time.” Anluan’s deep voice sounded across the darkening courtyard and a hush descended. Magnus lit a torch from the little brazier and climbed the steps to set it in a socket near the door of the house. The flickering red light sent Anluan’s shadow across the ritual circle to touch the empty space in the center. The people of the host began to gather between snake and star, five silent groups of men, women and children. I had wondered how the spaces Olcan had marked out could accommodate so many, but there they were within the lines of sand, a somber, shadowy throng. Rioghan slipped off his red cloak, dropping it onto the flagstones where it lay like a pool of dark blood. Eichri was waiting close by.The two old friends embraced, looking long into each other’s eyes.

  “I’ll wager two silver pieces we end up together again, Councillor,” Eichri said, and Rioghan said, “Done, Brother!” But all they exchanged was a smile. Eichri’s brethren were forming a small procession, their lips moving in silent prayer. He stepped into the line, and they moved into the circle as if entering a chapel. Rioghan placed himself with the warriors, who clasped his hand in greeting and farewell, each in turn.

  Gearróg was at the foot of the steps, keeping guard over Anluan until the very last moment. I went to stand beside him.

  “Thank you, Gearróg,” I said. “For keeping Anluan safe for me; for courage beyond the call of duty. For being yourself. I hope you will see your dear ones again soon. I wish you happiness, my loyal friend.”

  If he could have spoken at that moment, he would have. I could see that there was too much in his heart to allow words. He gave a nod, then moved away to take his place amongst the host.

  On the bottom step close by me a small figure crouched, head down, shoulders hunched, bundle in her hands. Trying to be overlooked; trying to be invisible.

  “It’s time, Caitrin,” Anluan said, glancing at the child, then at me.

  I sat down on the step beside her and put an arm around her shoulders. It was like plunging my arm into ice water. “Sweetheart,” I murmured, “you have to go now. You need to step into the circle with the others. Time to say goodbye.”

  Frost-white face turned up towards mine; shadowy eyes fixed on me. “Go where?” she asked.

  “Somewhere good,” I told her, feeling like a liar and a traitor. “You might see your mama again, maybe.”

  “I want to stay with you,” the ghost child said, her little voice clear and true. “You can be my mama.”

  A spear straight to the heart. I could not find an answer, for none was right.

  “Come, little one.”The wise woman reached out a hand.“Step over to me. Take care not to set your feet on the sand; lift them up high, as if you were dancing.”

  The child did not look at me again. She walked across, stepping neatly, carrying my mother’s embroidered kerchief and the last fragments of Róise, token of my sister’s love. She stood beside the wise woman, between two points of the star. Her eyes stared into nowhere.

  “We’re ready to begin,”Anluan said quietly. Magnus stood on his left. I wiped my eyes on my sleeve, then took up my position on his right. Olcan was by the brazier. “I will call her.”

  But there was no need to call. From the archway to Irial’s garden Muirne stepped forth.The neat concealing gown and veil were gone. She wore an ancient garment that had once been white, a high-waisted gown with an embroidered hem. Its skirt wafted around her as she approached. Her hair was loose, a shimmering waterfall. A little wreath of greenery crowned her head. Her eyes shone in the moonlight. “I’m here, my lord,” she said.

  My skin prickled. Aislinn come of her own accord to help us? Aislinn already clad in her ritual garments, calm and willing? We had been certain Anluan would need to summon her, and that she would have to be forced to play her part. We had anticipated reluctance, fury, perhaps fear. Not this.

  “There is much I could say to you, Muirne,” Anluan said, keeping his tone level; no trace in it of the bitter fury I knew he bore towards her for the deaths of his beloved parents, the attempt on my life, the long years of suffering.“But I will say only this. For the wrong my great-grandfather did you, I am sorry. For the wrong you have done to me and my people, God will judge you.”

  She watched him calmly, not a flicker of emotion on her face.

  “Tonight is All Hallows,” Anluan said.“One hundred years have passed since you cursed the family at Whistling Tor, and it is time for the doom you set upon us to be lifted.”

  “You are no Nechtan,” Aislinn said. “Try, by all means. Try and fail. You’re so good at that.”

  Anluan took a deep breath, held it a moment, released it slowly. “Take your place in the center, Muirne. Regrettably, it seems we need your assistance.”

  “It seems so,” she said, and turned to walk across, lifting up her skirt so it would not brush the ritual markings out of place.The folk of the host shrank back as she passed, and someone hissed. In the very center of the pentagram, Aislinn halted and stood facing us, hands clasped demurely in front of her. “I’m ready,” she said calmly.“Attempt your little spell by all means.”

  Anluan fixed her with his gaze. “You will be silent,” he said, and she was.The faint smile that played on her lips troubled me; it was as mocking as her words. If she was prepared to stand there, in the very spot where she had suffered betrayal and death, she must be quite certain we would fail.

  Olcan had strewn the ritual herbs on the brazier, and the air was filling with their scent, pungent, compelling, startling the mind to wakefulness. Anluan commenced his slow progress around the circle, pausing at the quarters. I knew from the grimoires that for a spell of banishment the circle must be cast the other way, so he walked contrary to the sun’s path, and the form of words we had chosen was different, too.

  “Mystical spirit of water, we honor you!”Anluan moved past the ghost child, who stood beside the wise woman in the west of the circle. The little girl had bowed her head and was staring at the ground. “Purifying spirit of fire, we honor you!” He passed the warriors, who stood tall in pride at today’s achievement. “Life-giving spirit of air, we honor you!” He walked by the monks, who knelt with hands together in prayer. Several ghostly women were supporting one another with joined hands or arms linked; their eyes followed his progress.“Nurturing spirit of earth, we honor you!”

  Anluan had completed the circle and now began to pace out the lines of the pentagram, walking with care so the sand was not disturbed. In keeping with Nechtan’s ritual nobody stood within the points of the star, but all huddled in the spaces between, save Aislinn, alone in the very center, looking like a winter princess from an old tale, all white and gold.

  Anluan’s slow walk was done. He turned at the final point, standing where the lines joined in the north; he lifted his arms and spread them wide. “Divine essence of the soul, source of all goodness and wisdom, we honor you!”

  He paused, drawing a deep breath. It was time for the counterspell. His voice rang out anew, deep and compelling. “Erappa sinigilac oigel! Mitats ihim erappa!”

  A shiver went through the people of the host, a shadow of memory. The words held power.They hung in the air, conjuring the unknown.

  “Egruser!” Anluan called. “Egruser!”

  He waited a little, and the air grew colder around us. He spoke the words of banishment again. I sensed a darkening, though no cloud had covered the full moon. As Anluan opened his mouth to speak the words a third time, it seemed to me that something was pulling towards the circle, as if it would draw us all into that world beyond death. My jaw was ti
ght; my heart hammered. Now . . . now . . .

  “Egruser!” Anluan cried, and the spell of dismissal was complete.

  Silence. Nothing stirred. Nothing changed, though the bone-deep chill remained over us all. Then Aislinn’s laugh came like a peal of bells. “What did I say?” The look she turned on Anluan was almost affectionate, like that of a wife teasing a husband for his endearing clumsiness.“Caitrin got it wrong.You got it wrong.You are no sorcerer.” She turned in place, surveying the folk of the host, folk who had just seen their dearest hope dashed. “He’s failed you,” she said.“You were fools to expect anything else.”

  “Shut your poisonous mouth!” roared Gearróg, stepping towards her with hands outstretched as if to take her by the neck and throttle her. Others moved too, the old warrior Broc, one or two of the younger men.

  “Hold still!” called Anluan, and they did. “Do not disturb the pattern!”

  “This is over, Anluan,” Aislinn said. “You can’t do it. Admit it. Your foolish woman there has made a promise you can’t keep.This does not end so easily.”

  “Be silent!” Anluan roared. Out in the circle the ghost child began to cry, a little, woeful sound.

  “What do we do now?” muttered Magnus.

  Think, Caitrin. The Latin words had been right, I was sure of it.The pattern was right; the herbs were as close as we could get them.The elemental greetings had been carefully worded—Anluan’s reluctance to tread the path of sorcery had made that essential.This was the right place, the right time . . . I gazed across the circle, desperate for an answer, and met the limpid eyes of Aislinn. I remembered Nechtan’s lust for her, the way he’d seen her every move as an invitation. She’d been young, pretty, desirable—for him, perhaps more desirable because she was also clever. That girl in the first vision had begun to lose her conscience, but she was far from the evil being who stood amongst us now. Nechtan had wanted her. He had chosen not to bed her. He had known that to do so would ruin his great work of magic.

  And that was the answer.There was only one thing wrong here, and it was not the spell of banishment. “Anluan,” I said, “we must do it again.”

  He looked at me, face ashen white in the moonlight, the irregularity of his features more marked than usual.

  “But not with Aislinn in the center,” I said. “That’s why she was so willing, because she knew it was wrong.When Nechtan was preparing for the ritual, he needed her as an innocent, a maiden untouched—he resisted temptation to keep her that way.That must have been a requirement of the spell.After the evil she has wrought here over a hundred years, Aislinn can no longer play this part. Someone else must stand there: a young girl who is untainted by sin.”

  A restless whispering among the folk of the host. A stir in their ranks, and the ghost girl was pushed gently to the front.

  “No!” I cried, finding it suddenly hard to breathe. Not this little one, so frail, so tender. She had trusted me, whispered her sorrow to me, taken refuge in my bed. She had asked me . . . My heart skipped a beat. Dear God, this was what we had to do. This, which felt so wrong, was the way to work the counterspell. It was the opposite of what had happened the first time.This was no living girl, but a spirit. If she stood in the center, she would be left behind, left in this world when the others departed.And that was just what she wanted. “Anluan,” I said, “I think this is right. But first we must make the child a promise.”

  His eyes were on Aislinn, and when I followed his gaze, I saw a dawning horror on her face. “I’m sure it’s right,” I added in an undertone.

  Aislinn moved, lightning quick, bolting out of the center heedless of the pattern. Sand scattered. Before she could break through the folk of the host, two pairs of strong arms halted her flight: Cathaír’s on one side, Gearróg’s on the other.

  “A promise,” Anluan said. “What promise?”

  “That if she stays, we will be mother and father to her.” I considered the long years ahead with a child who could never get warm, a child who would remain as she was, five years old, while Anluan and I grew old and weary. She was a spirit; how could it be otherwise?

  “Men, hold Muirne there,” Anluan ordered. “Olcan, please step into the circle and remake the pattern for us.”The authoritative tone gave way to a gentler one. He moved down the steps, stood by the outer edge of the pattern, squatted down. “Little one,” he said, “come forward.”

  The child approached, careful to keep her feet clear of the lines of sand. Not too close; she was not quite sure of him.

  “We need you to help us,” Anluan said. “You’ll have to be very brave; as brave as Olcan’s big dog who saved me today. Can you do that?”

  A bob of the thistledown head.

  “The others are going away,” he said carefully. “Cathaír and Gearróg, Rioghan and Eichri and all these people, they’re going to another place. If you want, you can stay with Caitrin and me.You can stay here.We will be your mother and father. Is that what you want?”

  “No!” Aislinn’s scream cut through the air, brittle as fine glass. “You can’t do this!” Held fast in the two men’s grip, she thrashed and fought, her fair hair flying.

  “Be still, Muirne! Hold your tongue!”

  She obeyed; Anluan had always been able to command her on the Tor, and his control still held, though her eyes were desperate.

  “Don’t be scared,” Anluan said to the little girl. “Just whisper it to me, yes or no.Will you help us? Would you like to stay?”

  The child nodded, her solemn gaze locked on his pale face. She whispered something, but it was only for Anluan’s ears.

  “Very well,” he said, rising to his feet. “You must go over there, to the middle of the big star, and stand very still until I say you can move. Can you do that?”

  Aislinn’s lips were moving, though she made no sound. I imagined her words: Don’t send me away, please, please! I love you! But Anluan was watching the little girl as she picked her way across the lines of sand.

  The child stood in the center, feet together, bundle tight against her chest. The moonlight shone on her gossamer hair. Olcan had swept the sand back into place, then retreated to the brazier; the pattern was remade. Anluan came back up the steps, turned, raised his arms. The host stood ready once more.

  “Erappa sinigilac oigel! Mitats ihim erappa!”

  A shifting, a swirling all around the circle.The chill was as deep as the harshest frost of winter. Time seemed to falter in its tracks; sudden cloud extinguished the moon. The child gave a wail of terror and dropped the embroidered kerchief. An eldritch gust caught the little bundle, skidding it across the flagstones to an inner corner of the pentagram, close to the spot where the two warriors held Aislinn captive. Quick as a heartbeat,Aislinn’s foot came over the line to kick the bundle beyond the child’s reach.

  “My baby!” shrieked the little girl. “I need my baby!”

  “Come and get her, then,” taunted Aislinn, her voice reedy and ragged, as if it cost her dearly to disobey Anluan’s command. “Come on, you’re supposed to be brave, aren’t you, little spy? Just run over and grab your precious baby. Didn’t look after her very well, did you? She’s only a bundle of rags now.”

  The little girl stood shaking, trembling, full of the urge to rush across and snatch back her darling, but holding still because she had promised. Beside me, Anluan drew an uneven breath. All hung in the balance. One word wrong, one gesture out of place and we would fail again. We could not ask the child to do this a second time; there had been a note of utter terror in her voice.

  Gearróg muttered something and let go of Aislinn. Cathaír held firm. Gearróg stooped to retrieve the bundle, then moved into the center of the pentagram, kneeling to put the kerchief in the child’s hands. She was sobbing with fright. He picked her up; settled her on his hip. “It’s all right, little one,” he said.“We’ll do this together, you and me. A game of pretend. We’re pretending to be brave dogs on guard, like Fianchu.” He gazed over at Anluan and nodded as if to sa
y, You can go on now.

  No going back. No thinking beyond this moment.

  “Egruser!” Anluan called. “Egruser!” and as he spoke the ritual words a scream ripped across the circle, a wrenching wail of anguish: “Nooooo!” Even as she fought against the charm, Aislinn faded. Shadows danced.The torch blew out, leaving the circle in near darkness.The wind gusted again. The leaves shivered on the trees; the pattern of sand went whistling away across the flagstones.

  From one breath to the next, the host was gone. Between the points of the ritual star the spaces were empty. In the center, a stalwart figure stood with feet planted and head held high, and in his arms was a smaller person, whose hair was no longer gossamer-white but dark as fine oak wood.

  “Magnus,” said Anluan in a voice unlike his own, “light the torch again.”

  “Gearróg?” I stepped down, not quite sure what I was seeing there, but knowing I had just witnessed an act of such selfless courage that it took my breath away.

  Light flared as Magnus touched the torch to the brazier and lifted it high.

  “By all the saints,” he said in tones of awe.

  Gearróg set the child down and she ran to me. Her hair shone glossy brown in the torchlight; her face was rosy.When I lifted her, she felt warm and real. Gearróg was examining his hands, moving his feet, touching his face as if hardly able to believe he was still here.

  “I’m . . .” he said, disbelieving. “I can . . .”

  Without a word, Anluan strode across to throw his arms around the guard. Olcan fetched another torch, and it became apparent that something truly astonishing had occurred. Here before us were two living beings: a little girl of five, a sturdily built man of perhaps five-and-thirty. Blood flowed beneath their skin; their bodies were solid flesh. Gearróg put a hand against his chest.“Beating like a drum,” he said in wonder.“Sweet Jesus, my lord, you’ve wrought a miracle.”