Heart's Blood (14 page)

“
I’m not looking in any mirrors,” I said aloud. No doubt the thing was bursting with visions of murder and mayhem.

I forced myself not to do so, but I must have moved a little. Something caught the light from the window, something shiny hanging from a nail in the wall just above the mirror. A key.

There,
said the mirror voice.
Off you go now, and tell no tales or they might come back to haunt you.

I snatched the key without looking at the mirror’s surface. My hands were shaking as I inserted it in the lock. The door opened smoothly. “Thank you,” I muttered, grabbing the bundle and going out.The landing was empty. I locked the door behind me and slipped the key in the pouch at my belt.

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.

“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:

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.

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:

There was so much sadness in these records. The more I read, the more I thought of the current chieftain, a man whose moods seemed to span a narrow range—at one end, sorrow, at the other, fury.Yet his father had been the peaceable, orderly maker of those botanical notes, creator of the lovely garden in which I had seen Anluan sitting as if enchanted into a forlorn shadow of a man.
I wish I could teach you to smile,
I thought.
But I fear it might be impossible.

I worked until it was too dark to read. I would not have a lamp in the library; it was much too dangerous with the documents there. As I left, I slipped one of Irial’s notebooks into my pouch. I would read it later, in my chamber, by candlelight.

I was last to supper, and tonight of all nights Anluan had decided to make an appearance. He sat at the head of the table, Muirne at the foot, though she was seldom in her chair—it became clear that in her presence nobody else would serve his lordship. She ladled his food, filled and refilled his cup, cut his bread and sliced his meat. I watched with some fascination, wondering how long it would be before he lost his temper and told her to stop fussing. In fact, she might have been invisible for all the attention he paid her. Had the memory of our trip to the tower not been so fresh, I could almost have felt sorry for her.The chieftain of Whistling Tor had not changed for supper. His red hair was unkempt, his chin rough with stubble, and he wore the same clothing he had had on in the library earlier. His shirt had a fraying cuff and needed laundering. Muirne’s outfit was spotless, as always.

“How’s the work progressing, Caitrin?” Magnus asked with a smile. “You look a little tired.”

“I’m perfectly well,” I replied, before Anluan could seize the opportunity to suggest I was not up to the task. Honesty compelled me to add, “I had a little problem this morning; one of the doors stuck, and it meant I started work late.”