Heart's Blood

it, dark as night. The mirror of might-have-been; the broken mirror. Did I only imagine that I saw his crooked mouth form the name Caitrin as he struggled to make the shattered glass show him once more the image that had made him smash it to pieces?

“I’m here,” I breathed. “I’m here, beloved, dearest one . . .”

He straightened; looked up and around, almost as if he had sensed my call. But it was another summons he had heard. I saw him slip the piece of glass under the pillow on his bed, then go to the door. He paused to scrub a hand across his cheeks. He straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly.Then he opened the door, and there was Magnus, clad in similar garb, with a sword by his side. Anluan stepped out; the door closed, and the scene was lost. A moment later, there in the mirror was the chamber that had been mine. It seemed much as I had left it: neat, bare, empty. The place was a study in grays, shadow on shadow. The door stood slightly ajar. The only light was from the gallery openings beyond. It seemed to be dusk, or a stormy day.

One shadow caught my eye: a neat figure sitting cross-legged in the center of the floor with the little doll, Roise, in her hands. Not the ghost child. Muirne. Her eyes stared straight ahead; her expression was perfectly calm. Her hands worked in spite of that, pulling, tearing, ripping every remaining shred of hair from the doll’s linen scalp. Such strength in those hands; such violence that it sent a tremor of sheer horror into my bones. The little scarf I had made to cover the earlier damage lay on the floor beside Muirne’s outspread skirt, torn into pieces. Muirne’s face told me nothing, but now that I had seen Anluan’s notebook, I thought I could guess what was in her mind. She’s gone at last, gone forever, far, far away, and still she consumes your thoughts. She came here, you let her in, and she changed you. She changed everything.

“Caitrin? Are you ready for breakfast?”

The image fled. The mirror showed me my own face, eyes wide with shock, cheeks stained with tears. I was as white as Roise: linen pale.“I won’t be long,” I called to Fidelma through the closed door. I rolled the mirror in my nightrobe and thrust it back in my bag. My plait had unwound itself; I braided it again with my mind on Muirne’s detached gaze and her furious, destructive hands. That scene made no sense. I was gone from Whistling Tor.What could she hope to achieve by destroying my possessions? Was the woman simply unhinged?

And Anluan . . . I had seen him racked with regret and uncertainty, just as I was. I had seen him dash the tears from his cheeks and walk through his doorway to greet what faced him—another day as leader, another day of preparation for an impossible battle. He had found the courage hidden deep inside him.

He had been cruel to me that last night, taxing me with my cowardice over Cillian. But I had been crueller; what I had said was indefensible. Despite that, he had moved on bravely.Today, I recognized that he had been right to challenge me. I would not conquer my particular monster unless I could walk into that house in Market Cross and confront Ita and Cillian alone.

The day was sunny and bright, but not everything in this part of Connacht was so fair.We saw a troop of Norman men-at-arms riding to the north, the sun glinting on their shirts of chain links and glancing off their weapons. They bore long shields and wore helms of metal with nose guards. They looked formidable. Aengus pulled the cart into a byway and we sat there quietly as they passed.

Later, we saw a house and barn that had been burned. A thread of smoke still rose from the scorched remnants of the place, and something dangled from a tree, like a broken doll.A dog was barking hysterically, running to and fro on its rope, hurling its defiance at an enemy long gone. The men made Fidelma and me wait on the cart while they went to see if there was anyone who could still be helped. I saw Aengus release the dog; it bolted.The men came back and, in silence, we rode on.

I could have done with a councillor, someone like Rioghan, to make a plan and help me execute it. As it was, I made my own plan, which I explained to my companions as we neared the settlement. Confronting my enemy all alone would be foolhardy. It would put not just my safety but that of Maraid and her child—Holy Saint Brighid, I hadn’t even asked if it was a boy or a girl—in danger. That I would not do. So I explained how the plan would work, and the part each of us should play in it, and was pleasantly surprised when all three of them agreed without demur. Rioghan would have been proud of me.

My heart was beating fast and my skin was clammy with nervous sweat, but there was a purpose in me now, a will to succeed that was growing every moment. My strength was building with every turn of the corner, with every creak of the cartwheels, with every step that took me closer to my destination.

We reached Market Cross in midafternoon. Outside the home of the senior lawman, a substantial house shielded by a tall fence of woven wattles, we dropped off Fidelma, after sending Aengus in to make sure Colum was at home. Then Aengus drove us on until we were at the town square. He drew the cart to a halt beside the patch of well-trampled grass that housed the weekly market from which the town had got its name. On the far side of the square my childhood home could be seen: a comfortable dwelling of modest mud bricks, whose thatched roof was decorated with owls fashioned from straw. I got down, making myself breathe slowly. I squared my shoulders just as I had seen Anluan do, then walked across the grass to the front door. Aengus came behind me, while Brendan stayed with the cart and horses. By now, one or two passers-by had noticed our arrival, and there was some talk and gesturing. I could imagine what they were saying: Oh, there’s poor Caitrin home again!You know, Berach’s daughter, the one who lost her wits and ran away.

With my head held high, I stepped up to the door and knocked sharply. Anluan, I said silently to myself, making his name a charm against faint-heartedness. I knocked again. “Ita, open the door!” I called out. Still no response. They were home. The kitchen fire was smoking and I could hear someone out in the yard, raking or sweeping. The thready squalling of a small baby added itself to the mix, sharpening my courage. It was my house, after all. I gave the door a push, but it did not budge. I glanced at Aengus.

He put his shoulder to the wood and shoved.The door fell open with a crash. Following the instructions I had given him, Aengus took up a post against the wall just outside the doorway, where he could not be seen from within the house. I walked in.

The noise brought Ita to the kitchen doorway, where she stood with hands on hips, surveying me, a tall, thin figure with her hair scraped back tightly under a cloth. A curious sequence of expressions crossed her face. Whoever she had thought might be making a violent entry into the house, it was certainly not me.

“Caitrin!” She summoned a smile. It was as convincing as a grin painted onto a scowling gargoyle. “You’re safe!”

I almost asked her to explain; almost gave her the opportunity to tell me how fortunate it was that I had not been slain, or worse, by the evil sorcerer whose lair I had foolishly stumbled into—Cillian would have brought back his own version of events, I was sure. But no, I would not ask Ita for anything. I had several things to say, and I would not let her stop me, not this time, not ever again.

“Where is my sister?” I heard the iron in my own voice. Within the house somewhere, the baby was still crying.

Ita moved to take my arm; to usher me into the kitchen that had once been Maraid’s pride and joy, the warm heart of our home. Forcing myself not to wrench away, I allowed her to seat me at the table.The chamber was no