Heart's Blood

“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.