Heart's Blood

“Of course not!” I snapped, my fraying nerves getting the better of me. “The plan makes good sense. Everyone agreed to it.” Except you. I fished in the basket for more mending, something to stop me from getting into an argument with Muirne, which would achieve nothing beyond upsetting me further. “I’m sorry,” I made myself say. “I am a little edgy.” It seemed I’d even upset Fianchu. He’d been lying at my feet, but now his head was up, his ears were pricked, and a subterranean growling was issuing from his throat. “Be calm, Fianchu, lie down, good boy.”

The dog ignored me, scrambling up to stand alert, the warning growls becoming barks of challenge. Alerted by the sound, Gearrog came along the path towards us. “What is it—aaaghh!” His words were lost in a groan of pain as he crumpled to his knees, his spear falling with a metallic clang to the stones of the path. He doubled up, shielding his head with his hands. His chest heaved; a powerful shaking possessed his body.

I jumped to my feet, mending forgotten. “Gearrog, what’s the matter, what’s wrong?” He was in terrible pain, hunched over and moaning. Fianchu began to whine, as if he, too, was in agony. A moment later, as I was crouched beside Gearrog, trying to get him to kneel up, the big dog bolted out through the archway and off into the forest. “Muirne, help me!” My guard’s body was seized by retching spasms; he fought for breath. “Fetch someone, quickly! We need help!”

No answer. I glanced frantically over towards the seat, but nobody was there. During the commotion, it seemed Muirne had slipped away from the garden.

“Gearrog, I’ll get help.Try to lift your head, here . . .”

Gearrog swung out suddenly, catching me across the arm and chest. I went sprawling backwards onto the flagstones, jarring hip and elbow.“Stop, make it stop!” he yelled. “Keep away! No! No!” The arm swung again. I ducked my head to avoid it. His eyes were wild. Whatever he was seeing, it surely wasn’t me.

My heart hammering, I got onto one knee.Try to help him or run away as fast as I could? He swiped the air, then clapped his hands over his ears. His features were twisted in a grimace of agony.“Make it stop!” he screamed.

Somewhere out in the forest Fianchu was barking. I crouched just out of Gearrog’s reach.

“Gearrog, it’s Caitrin.” I hardly knew my own voice, it was shaking so much.“Caitrin, you remember? I’m trying to help you. Just hold on a little longer. I’m going to fetch someone—”

Shouts broke out on the walkway, not warnings of coming danger but cries of pain. I looked up. Men were staggering, falling, clutching onto whatever they could find to stop themselves from a long drop to the courtyard. Weapons clattered down as hands lost their grip. Two men were at each other’s throats, fingers squeezing, legs braced, eyes bulging. Another snatched up a fallen knife and charged along the narrow way, screaming.

“Muirne!” I yelled. “Muirne, where are you? I need help!” A warrior leaped up onto the parapet, spreading his arms as if to launch himself into flight, and there was Cathair, seizing the man’s leg, shouting, “No, you fool! Hold fast! Hold fast, all of you!” One of the monks was cowering in a corner, trying to fend off a big fellow with an axe. Dear God, what was this?

A sudden chill by my right side. The ghost child was there, Roise clutched in one hand, the other slipping into mine.“Catty,” she whispered, “my head hurts.” And then, sharp and distinct, there came to my nostrils the smell of smoke. I whipped around, the child’s hand still in mine, Gearrog huddled on the pathway in front of me, and saw it seeping out under the library door, an insidious gray blanket. Through the glazed window something flickered, golden, deadly. The library was on fire. The manuscripts. The books. The grimoires—the ancient pages would go up like a torch. A burst of light, a flare of heat and the history of Whistling Tor would be gone.With it would go any chance of finding the counterspell.

“No!” shrieked Gearrog, rolling over, booted feet kicking, arms threshing. “Make it stop! Leave me be!”

Cold sweat broke out on my skin. From behind the library door I thought I could hear the crackling of hungry flames. I stood frozen as the child clutched at my skirt and began a piercing wail, “No fire! No fire!” Gearrog had come up onto his knees and was groping for his spear, which had rolled out of reach. His arm was twitching so violently that for now he had little chance of grasping the weapon.The smoke thickened around us. Blind panic was only a breath away.

“I need you to help me,” I said, squatting down beside the ghost child. “Take Roise up to my bedchamber right now. Run as fast as you can.You can get into my bed if you want. Stay there until I come, however long it takes.”

She obeyed, silent now, running across Irial’s garden through the drifting smoke and out through the archway. I turned back to find Gearrog on his feet with the spear in his hand, four paces away and facing me. His eyes were desperate. He would kill me without hesitation if he believed that would silence the voice in his head. Behind him the library burned.

“Gearrog,” I said shakily, “you’re a good man.You’re a warrior. Anluan needs you. He needs you to stand guard until he comes back up the hill. It won’t be long.”

The warrior shifted from foot to foot, his fingers clenching and unclenching on the spear shaft. His eyes darted from me to the walkway, where men still fought and yelled and fell.“Anluan doesn’t want me hurt,” I said.“I’m his friend. I’m your friend. Gearrog, the library is on fire. Please let me pass so I can save the books.” I edged forward; he stood immobile, blocking the way. God help me, if I didn’t get in there soon it would all be gone. “Gearrog, let me pass! Please!”

Gearrog lurched to one side, striking his temple with a clenched fist. “Stop your wretched ravings,” he muttered.This time he wasn’t talking to me. “Hush your poisonous prattling! Let a man do his work!”

Up on the walkway, someone started to sing. It was a ragged, desperate sort of song, dredged from old memory, the kind of tune a man reaches for when there is nothing else to keep the mind from tumbling right over into madness. Stand up and fight, men of the hill . . . A creaky old voice, not quite in tune, but raised high enough to cut through the mayhem of shouts and screams, scuffling and cursing:

“Stand up and fight, men of the hill

Dauntless in courage, united in will

Swing your swords proudly, hold your heads high . . .

Gearrog was staring up towards the walkway as new voices joined in, first one, then another, then more and more in an uncertain chorus.“Brothers together,” he muttered, “we live and we die . . .”

I dashed past him, along the path, up the steps, pausing for a moment to snatch my handkerchief from my belt and press it over my nose and mouth before I pushed open the library door. In my mind a desperate list of priorities was forming itself: Irial’s notebooks, which were nearest to the door and might not yet be damaged. The grimoires,