Heart's Blood

Cathair squatted down beside the girl, and while his eyes were as wild and shifting as always, there was something gentle in his manner. “Little sister,” he said, “have you come in here before?”

“Mm,” she murmured, but did not look at him. Her head was bent over her ruined baby.

“Is there a book here?” the young warrior asked.“Does the lady in the veil have a special book hidden away?”

A silence.

“Please,” I said, trying to keep my voice as calm and kindly as Cathair’s, though a scream was welling up in me. “If you know where it is, please show us.”

A little hand rose; a finger pointed to the box on the bed. It was much too small to hold a book, even a tiny one, and my heart sank anew, but I lifted it and unfastened the catch. I opened the lid to see my mother’s embroidered kerchief, folded precisely. Under this was a strange assortment of little items: a strip of bright weaving in shades of violet and purple; a decorative buckle from a lady’s shoe; a striking cloak-fastener of silver and amber. She’s kept a trophy from each of us, I thought. From each of those she hated and thought to kill. From each who took a beloved chieftain from her.

“What’s that at the bottom?” Cathair asked.

“It’s a key.” A thin thread of hope at last. “What does this open?”

The child shrank into herself, perhaps frightened by my desperation.

“Please,” I said more quietly.“Please help me. Lord Anluan is very sick; we have to save him. Do you know what the key is for?” I lifted the embroidered kerchief and spread it out on the bed. “You can put the baby in this and wrap her up safely.”

The child placed her pile of scraps in the middle of the kerchief and watched while I tied the corners together, two and two, making a neat bundle. “The mirror,” she murmured.

“Mirror?” There was an odd note in Cathair’s voice, and when I looked up I saw him put a hand to his brow as if in pain. “What mirror?”

Abruptly, the girl began to cry. “My head hurts,” she whispered, picking up the kerchief bundle and holding it against her breast.

Not this; not now, oh please . . . “Hold fast, Cathair,” I said. “I need you. We must find this book.” From outside, in the garden, came sounds of folk cursing, wailing, shouting.

The young warrior staggered, thrust out a hand, gripped the bench and straightened. He pursed his lips and whistled a few desperate notes: Stand up and fight . . . men of the hill . . .

“That mirror,” sobbed the ghost child, and pointed.

It was old, corroded, revealing nothing at all save the crusted debris of long neglect. It stood against the wall at the back of the workbench, screened by a row of jars. As I moved them aside their contents stirred in an unsettling semblance of life. I lifted the ancient mirror away and there, behind it, was a wooden hatch with a keyhole.

“Dauntless in courage . . . united in will,” sang Cathair, and other voices joined in from outside the stillroom, men’s deep tones, women’s higher ones. “Swing your swords proudly, hold your heads high . . .”

I turned the key; I opened the door.

“Books,” said Cathair, breaking off his song. “Here, let me shine the light for you.”

Two books, one the same as Irial’s notebooks, the other even smaller. I opened up the first on the workbench and saw the familiar spidery script and delicately rendered illustrations. “This is it,” I said, slipping the other book into a pocket of Gearrog’s cloak. Quickly, quickly . . .I began to turn the pages. Some kind of journal entry, not related to herbs at all; a poultice for earache in children; a discussion of various herbs that might be used to alleviate grief . . .

I found it about halfway through. The poison brewed with precise quantities of dragon-claw berries, ground and steeped in a strong mead, then strained through gauze and left to stand for seven days. The onset is rapid, Irial had written. First comes a graying of the skin, followed by shortness of breath, loss of speech, then unconsciousness leading to death in little more than an hour.The antidote is . . .

“Heart’s blood,” I muttered as I ran across the garden with the book in one hand. Folk dodged out of my way—many had been waiting as I searched. “I should have guessed. Curse Muirne! Cathair, I need someone who can help me brew this.”

I reached the corner where the herb grew. I fell to my knees; Cathair held up the lantern.The circle of light bathed the soft gray-green leaves of the comfrey bush and showed, beneath it, the dried and withered remnants of the heart’s blood flowers. Only two. One handful of finely chopped petals, Irial had written. As fresh as possible.

“It has to work, this must be enough,” I muttered, reaching across to pluck my pathetic harvest. Around the garden the song rang out, more confident now: “Brothers together, we live and we die!” Rioghan had tutored them well. He had taught them hope in the face of despair.

“I will help you.” It was the wise woman of the host, she with the moon tattoo on her brow. Her features were calm, but I saw pain in her eyes; the frenzy, it seemed, touched each and every one of them.“You need other herbs?”

“Dried flowers of lavender—there’s a bunch hanging in the stillroom. I’ll run ahead to the kitchen.” Back into the library, the quicker way, through the darkened space and out the other door, surprising the old warrior, Broc, who stood roaring out the song with his hands gripped tight as ancient ivy around his spear. Fianchu barking, racing ahead of me as if he knew just what had to be done. Cathair coming behind me, desperate to keep me safe, fighting the pain.The kitchen full of folk, the fire glowing, Orna’s friend Sionnach lifting a steaming kettle. Orna herself in the doorway, and coming in after her the wise woman, a sheaf of dried lavender in her hands. She had been quick.

“One of you chop this as finely as you can. One of you shred the lavender blooms. Orna, we need . . .”The look on her face halted me.