Heart's Blood

shoulders and took an involuntary step backwards.“You are as quick to judge as other folk.They make their assessment in a moment and it stands for a lifetime.”

“You’ve done the same,” I said. “You seem to have reached all kinds of conclusions about me and what I’m thinking. But you know nothing about me.”

“Then tell me,” said Anluan.

A trap: I had walked straight into it. I moved to the window and looked out. It had begun to rain; the drips trickled down the glazed surface like slow tears. After a little I said, “I’m a scribe. I’m eighteen years old.There’s nothing else to tell.” My voice was less even than I would have wished.

“I was wrong about you,” Anluan said quietly. “Sometimes you find talking the hardest thing in the world.”

I went to the table where I had been working the day before, opened my writing box, took out my father’s knife and began preparing a quill. The familiar tools of my trade brought back a sudden sharp memory of home, Father and I seated side by side, intent on our work, and, in some other part of the house, Maraid busy with broom or duster, or chopping vegetables for the evening meal she would insist all of us attended together, no matter how pressing the need to complete a commission. Suppertime is family time, my sister would say. Nothing’s more important than that.

Anluan was scrutinizing me; he had not missed the change in my mood. “What?” he demanded.

“It’s nothing.” I willed my memories into a locked corner of my mind. “I’d best get on with my work.”

“You answered a question for me, so I will answer yours,” Anluan said gravely. “Did Nechtan study the dark arts? I believe so. I reveal no secrets when I tell you this; I anticipate that when you read his Latin notes you will discover references to it. Has the family an inherited talent in sorcery? I hope not. I have never put it to the test and I don’t intend to. If your imagination has painted you a picture of hidden torture chambers in this house, you should disregard it.”

“Imagination? I didn’t invent that scene of torture, I saw it in one of your mirrors. Haven’t you ever used them yourself, my—Anluan?”

A shudder went through him.“I have not, and I will not. As that man’s kin, I would never take such a risk.”

“I see.”This was dark indeed. He feared that if he used Nechtan’s artifacts, he might become his great- grandfather all over again.“Have you thought of destroying the mirrors? I saw something very unsettling in the great hall. I cannot imagine why anyone would keep such malign objects.”

“I said I’d answer one question, not a dozen.” He’d put his shutters up already; the interchange was over.“Return to your work. I will not trouble you further.”

At the precise moment he spoke, there was Muirne at the garden door, waiting for him. I could not see a drop of rain on her clothing, yet beyond the window the foliage was dripping. As Anluan reached the doorway she slipped her hand through his arm, and they went out together, he bending his head as she said something, perhaps: You’re tired. She’s upset you. A moment later they were gone.

For the rest of the day I allowed myself to read.There was a sequence of records written in Irish by Anluan’s grandfather, Conan, that had caught my interest earlier, and they soon had me deeply absorbed. Conan’s style was less fluent than his father’s, and his writing less regular; he had perhaps been more man of action than scholar. His account was compelling:

Still they dog me and will not be ruled. A battle with the folk of Silverlake ten days since. At first the host followed, obeying my commands. But at the point of closest encounter my control over them faltered.The spell of mastery was broken and they rampaged wildly, heedless of whom they attacked. They hacked and stabbed at the enemy, my own personal guards and each other without discrimination. There was no choice but to flee the field. By the time I drew the host back within the boundaries of the hill I had lost every one of my guards, and the villages on either side of the road had been laid waste. Folk cursed me as they died. Tonight I will study the grimoires again. I fear there is no way to rein these creatures in. If my wretched father, God rot his stinking bones, could not harness them, why would I do any better?

These creatures. Was he referring to the army with which Nechtan had hoped to dominate his enemies? The host. It sounded wayward, destructive, terrifying. There is no way to rein these creatures in.

I glanced out the window, then back at the parchment before me.The forest was close; it encircled the fortress of Whistling Tor. Nobody could go up or down the hill without passing under those trees. Could some kind of ravening horde really be still living in the woods out there, something capable of inflicting death and destruction more or less at random? Perhaps Conan had been a drunkard or a madman, given to wild imaginings. I rather hoped so.

I recalled that Nechtan had referred to a book hidden away in the monastery’s secret collection, containing a particular form of words he needed for his experiment. A book of magic: a grimoire. If spells really existed for calling forth eldritch forces such as those Conan referred to, then one had to suppose there were also counterspells, charms for banishing them. Maybe there was a Latin grimoire here in the library somewhere; could that be what Anluan was hoping I would find? It seemed unlikely. If the family had possessed a book with such a charm in it, surely as soon as Nechtan discovered that he could not control the army he had conjured, he would have sent it straight back where it came from.

The documents chronicled Conan’s continuing struggle with what he had been bequeathed.

Many days of rain. They say the river will flood soon. A losing battle to persuade the villagers up onto the hill where they will be safe. I sent Enda down again, since he at least can make the trip without an unwelcome retinue.The people barred their doors against him.There will be drownings.

An unwelcome retinue—the host again? Surely they hadn’t followed Conan wherever he went? Reading further, I found references to a great flood, and also to Conan’s wife:

Three children of the settlement were swept away in the rising waters. Lioch wept and upbraided me for not doing more. I bade her be glad our son is here in the fortress and safe, and not to chide me for the burden my wretched father laid on all of us.What does she expect: that I should loose the host to wreak havoc where it will, as he did? I asked these folk to come to my house; I bade them come, and they would not. If their children drown, be it on their own heads.

The books reveal no answers. If my father ever had what I need, he hid it from me. Such an act does not surprise me. The man was riddled with hatred.

News from the southeast: a new incursion. I do not know how I can bring myself to lead the host out again.