Mike Shevdon - The Eighth Court

“Awww,” said Alex. “Isn’t he cute when he’s asleep?”

Blackbird assumed she meant the baby, and moved quietly around so that she could lift him into her arms. He grumbled a little but was too asleep to complain. She rested him against her shoulder. “We’ll talk to your Dad tomorrow,” she said to Alex. “You go and get some rest.”

She took the baby through to the next room and laid him in the cot. He grumbled again when she laid him on the cool mattress, but Blackbird covered him with a warm quilt and after a moment he sighed in his sleep. She smiled and watched him for a moment. Then she went back into the bedroom. “Still here?” she asked Alex.

Alex looked up from the side of the bed where she was sat beside her father. “There’s something wrong,” she said. “I went to kiss him goodnight and he’s cold.”

“He’s probably just been lying outside the quilt too long,” she said. “He’s been on the go all day, Alex. He must be exhausted.”

“No,” said Alex. “He won’t wake up.” There was a tone in Alex’s voice that got Blackbird’s attention.

Blackbird frowned at Alex. On the one hand, waking up her father when he’d finally managed to get some sleep was a bit mean, but he’d have to wake up to get undressed and into bed anyway. She moved in beside him and shook his shoulder. “Niall, you’ve fallen asleep in your clothes. Wake up.” He didn’t stir. “Niall!” She shook him more forcefully.

“Why won’t he wake up?” asked Alex, a sense of panic rising in her voice.

“Move out of the way,” said Blackbird. Alex moved off the bed and she sat beside him and drew back his eyelids. His eyes were dilated almost to black. “That’s not good.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Alex, her voice rising towards panic.

“This shouldn’t happen here,” said Blackbird. “The wardings on the house should prevent it.”

“He’s not…”

“Alex!” That got her attention. “I need you calm and focused. Bring me the bag from the chair.” Alex brought the bag and Blackbird rummaged inside it, extracting a long yellow shard of bone.

“What are you going to do with that?” asked Alex.

“Give me your hand.”

“No,” said Alex, putting her hands behind her back.

“Alex, you want to help your father don’t you?”

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I need a drop of your blood,” said Blackbird. “I need to call you father back. He’s got himself lost again and I need you to help me.”

“What’s so special about my blood? Use some of your own.”

“Blood calls to blood, Alex. It always has and it always will. You are his daughter and of his line. Without it I can’t call him back.”

“There must be another way,” said Alex.

Blackbird sighed. “Very well. Bring me the baby.”

“What!”

“I said, bring me my son. He is also of Niall’s blood. One of you has to help him and if you won’t do it, then he’ll have to.”

Alex stared at the yellow shard in Blackbird’s hand. “You can’t… you wouldn’t.”

Blackbird’s eyes narrowed. “There are few things indeed, Alex Dobson, that I would not do. I am anchoring your father here. Do you want me to release him and fetch the baby myself?”

Alex hesitated. “Will it hurt?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Blackbird. “You were expecting me to lie to you?”

Alex slowly offered her hand. Blackbird reached for it and Alex almost snatched it away. Blackbird watched her. “Yes or no,” she said. “Willing is better, but I’ll take what I can get.”

“You’re mean,” said Alex, finally giving her hand.

“You don’t know the half of it,” said Blackbird, releasing her hold on Niall and grasping Alex’s hand around the fleshy part of her thumb.

“Hey, you’ve let go of Dad.” Alex protested. “Ah! Fuck, that hurts!”

Blackbird gouged the sharp bone fragment into Alex’s thumb. “Don’t flinch, girl, or I’ll make a mess of it.” Blood welled up in the jagged gash in Alex’s thumb. Blackbird released her and Alex immediately stuck her thumb in her mouth and sucked, looking resentful.

Blackbird took Niall’s limp hand and did the same, gouging a deep hole in Niall’s thumb that welled red. “Now mix your blood with his,” said Blackbird. “We need to reinforce the connection.”

“That’s gross,” said Alex.

Blackbird unceremoniously seized Alex’s wrist and tugged her towards the bed. “Do it,” she said.

The expression on Alex’s face as she pressed her bleeding thumb to her father’s was close to revulsion. Pressing their thumbs together opened the cuts and as she withdrew it left a trail of red spots on the white quilt. Alex’s eyes widened and she went pale.

“Bathroom!” said Blackbird, “Quick!”

Alex ran for the bathroom and there was the sound of retching as she threw up noisily in the sink. After a moment there was the sound of running water. She emerged, holding a wet facecloth tight around her wounded thumb.

“Better?” asked Blackbird.

Alex nodded slowly. “You’d think after all I’d seen, a little blood wouldn’t bother me.”

“Come and sit the other side of him,” said Blackbird. “I’d ask you to hold his hand, but I don’t want you throwing up on the bed.”

“I’m OK now.” She sat on the other side of the bed and held her father’s other hand, but her eyes avoided the spots on the quilt.

“Ready,” said Blackbird. “Once we begin, we’re committed. You can’t let go, no matter what.”

Alex nodded.

Blackbird used the tip of her finger to wipe a fat drop of blood from Niall’s thumb. Alex’s eyes went so wide that Blackbird could see a ring of white around them. Blackbird lifted the drop carefully and then licked it slowly from her finger. Alex paled — now was not the time to throw up.

A stillness settled in the room. Alex licked her lips unconsciously. The air felt heavy and dense as if it were about to thunder. Blackbird’s words sounded slow and thick, even to her own ears.

By his blood I bind him,

By his seed I summon him,

By his flesh I find him,

Niall Petersen, it is time to come home.

The temperature in the room dropped and the atmosphere shifted. There was a sense of opening, as if someone had thrown all the windows wide and let the air in. Niall’s eyes opened, but he did not see them.

“Niall?” said Blackbird. “Where are you?”

The passage was dark and smelled of damp stone overlaid with wood smoke. Dim light outlined where it ended as I shuffled forwards, stooping to ease under the low arch to where the flares in wall-sconces illuminated a room. The table in the centre had a man standing before it. Six arches formed the dome of the ceiling and five other passages led away into the gloom. At the peak, lantern windows let the smoke from the flares out into the night.

The man stepped back from the table. He wore a heavy cloak against the damp, and his clothes were woollen, though not of a style I recognised. His breeches stopped short at his calves over heavy socks and he wore leather boots which had been in mud up to the laces. His hair was pulled back in a silver clasp. In front of him arranged in a circle on the table were six massive horseshoes. Even from the passage I could feel the presence of the heavy iron. It made my bones ache to be near them.

He glanced at each of the passages nervously. Even though I stood in plain sight at the head of the passage, he did not see me. I looked at my hands. I looked real enough. Was I invisible?

The sound of heavy footsteps approaching drew his attention. He eased back his cloak, revealing a sword pommel, burnished by constant handling.