Juliet Marillier - Heart's Blood

I shook my head to clear it of such fancies. I would begin to sort these loose sheets, starting with the ones in the worst state of repair. If Anluan had any sense, that would be where he had begun his own somewhat limited attempt to do the job, so I would perhaps find the next part of that intriguing narrative somewhere amongst these deteriorating pages. So he’d lost the use of his right hand. I pondered this, wondering whether, if I tried using my left, my writing would be even more wayward than his. I had heard that a person could learn to use the other hand just as well, given time. Perhaps Anluan had not had time. Or perhaps he had lacked the will. He’d given up trying to talk to me quickly enough.

All of the documents from the little chest seemed to be in the same writing, a bold, regular hand.The style of script was antique and the penmanship was that of a scholar. The pages were so brittle there seemed a danger they would fall apart before I could get the job done, and the ink had faded badly. Little life remained in these records.

I skimmed the pages. One or two were in Latin, but most were in Irish and dealt with nothing more nefarious than an account of the daily life of house and farm:

... a good crop of new lambs, most of the ewes have dropped a pair, some three ... weather mild, fewer losses than last year ...

... dispute with Father Aidan, who considers my area of study perilous. Nothing new in that.

Fergus got an excellent price for our calves at this year’s market.

I have a son.They tell me he is healthy, though he appears red-faced and small. I am surprised, not at his fighting spirit, but that my wife has at last proven herself useful at something.

That jolted me. I had been beginning to warm to the writer, an ordinary man making a record of losses and gains on his farm—sheep, cattle, where had they been kept?—and debating issues with the local priest. But after that callous remark, I found I could not like him at all. My area of study. Likely the writer was one of the unusually scholarly chieftains of Whistling Tor.

He is to be named Conan, for my father.

I began on the second bundle of papers. For these the scribe had used Latin and a different style of script to go with it, a rounded half-uncial rather than the common hand of his Irish writings. Or perhaps this was a different writer.The pages seemed of similar age, the ink equally faded.

Autumn of the thirteenth year of the tenure of Glassan son of Eochaid as high king.We approach the time known as Ruis, in Christian nomenclature All Hallows. A time of transition, when we step into the dark. A time when end is beginning and beginning end.

Not only was this Latin, but the style of expression was more formal. I smoothed the page out carefully. The parchment had been scraped back and reused at least once, perhaps several times; it seemed there had not always been a ready supply of materials at Whistling Tor. I tried to guess the document’s age. Glassan son of Eochaid. A hundred years, give or take a little? Hadn’t Tomas or Orna said something about a hundred years of ill luck? I couldn’t find the writer’s name anywhere on the pages, but perhaps if I read on, it would be there.

The dark mirror flickered. I turned to look over my shoulder, half expecting to see Muirne there with her neat clothing and disapproving expression. But there was nobody; I was alone in the library. I turned back and my gaze caught a touch of red, not in the mirror but out in the garden. Had it been Anluan whose presence I had sensed before, standing in the doorway watching me without a word? He was seated on the bench now. He had his left elbow on his knee, his right arm across his lap, his shoulders hunched, his head bowed. White face, red hair: snow and fire, like something from an old tale. The book I had noticed earlier was on the bench beside him, its covers shut. Around Anluan’s feet and in the birdbath, small visitors to the garden hopped and splashed and made the most of a day that was becoming fair and sunny. He did not seem to notice them. As for me, I found it difficult to take my eyes from him.There was an odd beauty in his isolation and his sadness, like that of a forlorn prince ensorcelled by a wicked enchantress, or a traveler lost forever in a world far from home.

I must stop being so fanciful. Less than a day here, and already I was inventing wild stories about the folk of the house.This was no enchanted prince, just an ill-tempered chieftain with no manners. If he’d been spying on me, that was his prerogative as my employer, I supposed; after all, I was on trial. I turned my attention back to the documents. The words on the page swirled and moved, and I rubbed my eyes, annoyed at my lack of concentration.

I have applied myself assiduously to the great work of preparation. I keep the door locked.That does not stop the ignorant from seeking my attention with intrusive knocking. The child was sick—some minor malady, a cough, a slight fever. It was inappropriate to call me; trivial domestic matters are for others to deal with. It is for precisely this reason that our principal place of experimentation is situated beneath the floor level of the house, guarded by bolts and key, and by charms and wards to keep out marauders of a less earthly kind. The minds of ordinary folk cannot comprehend the nature of our work ...

Something moved on the surface of the obsidian mirror. I glanced quickly, started with shock, stared deep, the hair standing up on my neck. Surely not ... but there it was. Within the dark stone was the image of a man standing in an underground chamber, a long, shadowy place lined with shelves on which stood crucibles, flasks, jars of powders and mixtures, books ... so many books in one place, their covers stained and worn as if from long and frequent handling. Anluan . . . No, this man was much older. In the uneven light from candles set around the chamber, his features became those of a carven saint: the eyes deep and penetrating; the mouth thin-lipped, disciplined; the bones of cheeks and jaw jutting beneath the pale skin.With long-fingered, dexterous hands he sorted implements on the bench before him, knives with odd-shaped blades, pincers, screws, other things whose uses I could only guess at. This one. He selected a gleaming instrument like a miniature scythe. I’ll get my answer from the old hag with this one.

A chill ran through me. I shut my eyes, opened them again in disbelief, my gaze moving between the lines of black script and the gleaming surface of the dark mirror. What was this? I could see the work chamber of the document as if I were standing right there opposite the writer. I could see his long, ascetic face as he pondered the dilemma facing him. And I knew his thoughts; knew them and felt the edge of a terrible darkness touching my mind. How could this be? I was here, in the library by full daylight, and yet I was in that underground place, my hands feeling the touch of cold metal as the man took up his blade; my mind knowing his evil purpose. The mirror ... the mirror held the memory of time past, and as my eyes fell on it once more I felt the man’s presence as if he and I were one. Now there was no looking away.

The old woman lies on the table, grimly silent. He’d been confident of achieving success before Aislinn got back with the herbs, but the crone is holding out beyond all expectations. She knows, of course. Of all the local women who dabble in a little white magic, this one has the reputation as the most experienced, the one who will understand without a doubt exactly what is meant in the grimoire by potent powders of summoning . But this wrinkled ancient with her parchment skin and her crooked fingers isn’t giving the secret up easily. Perhaps she is so old she no longer fears death; she may be using what arts she has to dull the pain. She’s already endured techniques that would make grown men soil themselves.