Juliet Marillier - Heart's Blood

I drew a deep breath. “Magnus,” I ventured, “you mentioned the ones out in the forest. Who are they?” Feeling the pressure of four men’s eyes on me, I added,“It’s just that when I was first coming up the hill, when Olcan and Fianchu found me, I’d been hearing strange voices, voices that made me lose my way. And I’m sure I felt . . . hands. Down in the village, people were talking about a curse, about fearsome beings on the hill. If I’m to stay here, I would be happier if I knew exactly what these things are.” Or maybe not, I thought as soon as I had spoken. If the vision in Nechtan’s obsidian mirror was any indication of what I could expect at Whistling Tor, perhaps blissful ignorance was preferable.

The four men looked at one another. Each of them seemed to be waiting for someone else to answer.

“In that mirror earlier,” I said, trying not to see it again, “a man called Nechtan, Anluan’s ancestor, was talking about an . . . army. He was preparing an experiment, and hoping the result would make him powerful.That could have been about a hundred years ago, by my calculations. The folk in the village said the whole place had been under a curse for a hundred years. I thought . . . well, I suppose it is none of my business, but I do have to read the family documents, so . . . does the curse date from Nechtan’s time? Is it something to do with those whispering voices and creeping hands? These others you mention, the ones who live out there?” I could not believe I was asking such questions. The old Caitrin, the confident, serene one, would not have hesitated; she would have sought out whatever information she needed to do a good job. I lifted my chin. I could be that woman again if I tried.

Olcan had his elbow on the table, his mossy head resting on one hand. “Big story, Caitrin,” he said. “All you need to know is, the Tor’s old. It’s older than the memory of any ordinary man, older than the most ancient story that was ever told around the fire at suppertime. A hundred years is just an eye-blink to this place.There’s a lot of memory in these walls; there’s a lot of power in these stones.Yes, there are one or two folk living out in the woods who are not quite your usual man-at-arms or kitchen maid. Some of them you’ll see, some you’ll hear, some may pass you by without being noticed at all.You shouldn’t be afraid.”

“Folk,” I managed. There were goose bumps all over my body. “What sort of . . . folk?”

“All sorts, Caitrin,” said Magnus calmly. “Nothing to worry about. You’re on the Tor as Anluan’s invited guest. While you’re here, Anluan keeps you safe. Nobody and nothing can touch you.”

It was not a restful night. The bedding I had been given failed to keep out the chill, and when I did manage to drift off into sleep, Nechtan tangled with Cillian in my dreams, jolting me awake with my heart pounding and my body drenched in nervous sweat.When I could bear it no longer I got up, slid back the newly installed bolt on my door, and went out to the gallery that edged the upstairs rooms. I stood with my bare feet in the litter of leaves and twigs and gazed out over the gentle chaos of the garden, the trees and bushes illuminated by the cloud-veiled moon to shades of uncertain blue and gray. By the pond, a figure in a red cloak paced to and fro, to and fro. It was true, then: there was an all-night sentry on duty. I watched him awhile, and at one point he looked up and raised a pale hand in greeting.The cold forced me back to bed, where I tossed and turned until morning.

As soon as it was light I made my way down to the kitchen, where Magnus already had the fire burning and water heating.

“We don’t gather for breakfast,” the steward said.“If you want water to wash, you’ll have to wait. I can’t spare the time to pump it.”

“I’ll do it myself,” I said, hoping this did not break any rules.

He spared me a glance. It was not unfriendly. “Good for you. The pump’s out the back door in the yard. Take that bucket there, it’s lighter to carry than the other. I’ll be leaving a pot of porridge beside the fire. Help yourself when you’re ready. Don’t know how early you plan to start work.”

“Early,” I said. “There’s a lot of it.”

I made the mistake of rolling up my sleeves before I left the kitchen, and was instantly aware of the big man’s stare. I turned away, but not before he had seen the bruises on my arms.

“Who did that?” asked Magnus, an edge in his voice that would have made a grown man tremble. “Who set those marks on you, Caitrin?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I muttered, hauling my sleeves back down. I headed for the door out to the yard, but he was there before me, his solid form blocking the doorway.

“Yes, it does.We knew you were running away. Stands to reason, doesn’t it? Why else would anyone want to stay up here all summer, except to escape from something? Rioghan told me you were all over bruises.”

“Rioghan?” How could he know about the marks Cillian had left on me, the ones that showed on my arms, the many, many more that were concealed under my gown?

“Last night, in the garden,” Magnus said, and I remembered that I had been standing on the open gallery in my night attire while the councillor patrolled the garden below. Rioghan might have seen a good expanse of arm, shoulder, upper chest. “Who hurt you?”

“It makes no difference who,” I said. “The bruises will fade.They’ll be gone soon.”

“Of course it makes a difference. Someone beat you, not once but over and over; that’s blindingly obvious.”

“It’s not important,” I murmured. “Really.”

Magnus put his big hands on my shoulders. Despite the gentleness of his touch I could not help flinching. He spoke quietly, leaving his hands where they were. “It’s important to us, Caitrin. Maybe you’ve had nobody to stand up for you; maybe you’ve been all on your own. But you’re at Whistling Tor now. You’re one of Anluan’s folk. If a man thought to set a violent hand to you now, he’d soon find you’re not on your own anymore.”

My eyes were suddenly brimming with tears. I could not find any words. As he released his hold and stepped back, I simply nodded, picked up my bucket again, and went out.

By the time I had performed my ablutions and returned to the kitchen, Magnus was gone. I ate my porridge, then headed for the library.

On the threshold I hesitated, glancing over at the table where I had been working before.The pages of Nechtan’s account were still spread out there. At one end of the work space lay a considerable pile of other loose leaves, and the stone jar had been placed on top of these so drafts could not scatter them.There was no sign of the mirror.

I took a deep breath and went in.The chest in which I’d found Nechtan’s writings was on the floor, its lid closed. In the center of the table was a scrap of parchment on which a couple of lines were written in an unmistakable hand.

Mirror in chest. All papers here.

I was filled with gratitude by this terse note, though I would have been happier if he had taken the mirror right out of the library. I knew its capacity to entice, even from within a box. Never mind that. I’d made a plan for the day’s work and I would get on with it. Sort through the papers from the chest this morning, reading anything in Latin. Start on cleaning the library this afternoon.

As the morning passed, I realized there was an aspect of this kind of scholarship that I had not anticipated: boredom.The tale of Nechtan’s cruelty had been unpleasant but dramatic. It would have captured my attention even without its attendant vision.What I had before me today was entirely mundane and prosaic. A particularly hard winter, with stock losses. A good harvest of pears. An uneventful ride to visit a chieftain named Farannán. Unspecified trouble brewing in the southeast. Nothing about Nechtan’s family, the wife he had dismissed so cruelly, the new son. No reference to the experiment or to his quest for power. Who would have thought that the enigmatic, ruthless figure of the vision could be so . . . ordinary?