Heart's Blood

I was not setting foot in the great hall again, ever. Instead of retracing my steps along the route Muirne had used, I looked for a door at the foot of the tower and found one, unbolted. Why hadn’t she chosen this far simpler way? I ran through the grounds—the scarecrow lifted a hand in greeting and I nodded as I passed—and back in the front entry. Once inside the house I discovered that even this shorter path had its difficulties. Doors seemed to be in unexpected places, steps led up where before they had gone down, windows let light onto formerly dark landings. It was like the day I had first come up the hill, when my surroundings had seemed to change at random. By the time I reached the library, through a process of trial and error, it was at least midmorning.

I halted on the threshold. Anluan was seated at one of the larger tables, writing in his little book. He had not seen me. His left hand curled around the quill, holding it in a death grip; there must be pain in his fingers and all along the forearm. I studied the angle of the page, the slant of the pen, and wondered how hard it might be to correct the bad habit of many years. He had forgotten to conceal his right hand; he was using it to keep the page steady as he wrote. Though the fingers lay unmoving, they did not look in any way deformed.There was a certain grace in the curve of the hand. There was beauty in the very concentration on his face, an intensity of purpose that made him look different; younger. There is another man here, I thought. One whom folk seldom see.

I must have moved or made some small sound, for he looked up and spotted me before I could retreat. With a practiced gesture he whipped a fold of his cloak over the limp right hand, then closed the book. “You’re late,” he said.

“I’m sorry. Muirne took me to look at some old clothing. Then the door shut of itself. It took me a while to get it open again.”

He said nothing, simply regarded me gravely.

“May I ask you a question?” Such opportunities were rare indeed, so I might as well seize this one.

“You have too many questions.”

This felt much like reaching out my fingers to Fianchu, not knowing if he would make friends or bite. I pressed on.“I walked through the great hall just now. I saw some things in the mirrors, I couldn’t avoid them. And there was a mirror in the tower room. It—it seemed to speak to me; it told me how to open the door. Did Nechtan make those mirrors? How could he learn to do such things?”

Anluan’s sigh was eloquent. I am weary of this.Why don’t you do your job and keep quiet?

“Did he have a hereditary gift of some kind, or did he study the art of . . .” I found I could not quite say what I had intended.

“Go on,”Anluan said.“You think my great-grandfather was a sorcerer? A necromancer? Hereditary gift, you say. Perhaps you see evidence of the same dark talents in me. No doubt those folk down the hill have a theory as to what secret practices may have warped me in both body and mind.”

I stared at him aghast. His brows were knitted in a ferocious scowl, his eyes were blazing, his tone was full of bitterness. So quick to anger. So quick to assume the worst.“The villagers had plenty to say, yes,” I told him. “But I prefer to make up my own mind. And I haven’t been at Whistling Tor long enough to do that yet.”

His sapphire gaze remained on me as the silence drew out. Finally he said, “Magnus told me you were ill treated, before you came here. Beaten. Who would do that?”

This was a blow in itself. “It’s in the past,” I muttered. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Ah,” said Anluan. “So you may ask questions but I may not?”

“Didn’t you say my work amounted to sort, read, translate?” I snapped. There was no need for him to ask about my situation, absolutely none. “All you need to know about me is that I have good eyes and a steady hand.”

“It doesn’t matter what I said. You ask about sorcery. You suggest a hereditary talent.You leap to conclusions, just as the superstitious folk of the village do, and assume I possess the same interests and qualities as my great-grandfather.” Anluan was on his feet now, his jaw tight, his left hand bunched into a fist. I felt Cillian’s grip on my 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.