Heart's Blood

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. Gearrog 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 Gearrog’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 Gearrog, 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.