Heart's Blood

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. Gearrog!”

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, Gearrog.”

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. Gearrog 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 Gearrog. “Stand strong, lads.”

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