Juliet Marillier - Heart's Blood

I turned Nechtan’s document face down without reading any further. I pushed it over to the far edge of my work table, beyond easy reach, then took up the next sheet of ancient parchment.

They have slain the cattle that were Whistling Tor’s livelihood. They have taken lives in the settlement and set fires.Why do they refuse to heed me beyond the border of the Tor? They should be obedient to my will. I revisit the procedure endlessly in my mind, but can find no fault in it.There was no error in the preparations, no omission, no deviation from the form of words. All was carried out exactly as required. But it is wrong. Unleashed, this is no powerful army but a wayward rabble. If I can command their obedience only while I remain on the Tor, I will be set apart from all the world.

And, further down the page, this:

Folk are saying that I am cursed. I will prove them wrong. I will learn how to harness this monster.

“But you didn’t,” I murmured, setting that leaf on top of the other. “You couldn’t.”

“What was that?” Anluan set his quill down and flexed the fingers of his writing hand.

“Nothing. May I look at your work?”

“Of course.You are the teacher.”

I did not insult him with exaggerated praise, though my heart lifted when I saw how well he had absorbed the lesson. As for the fact that he had chosen to practice his script by writing my name—it was on the page three times, each version slightly more regular—that set a warm glow in my heart quite out of proportion to its cause. “Does this feel easier?” I asked. “It’s much more pleasing to the eye.”

“It is better, yes, and my hand hurts less.”

There was something in his tone that made me look at him more closely, seeing what I had missed a moment ago: the smudges under his eyes, the pallor, the droop of the shoulders. “Good work,” I said, keeping my tone light. “That’s enough for now. Ideally, you’d write a page a day with this method, until it came to you without thinking.”

“I must go,” Anluan said abruptly, rising to his feet. “Since I’ve sent Magnus down the hill for the morning, I’ll need to help Olcan with some work on the farm.” He hesitated on the threshold, cloak over his arm.“You look astonished, Caitrin. Cripple as I am, I am not entirely incapable.” Before I could frame a reply, he was gone.

I worked on until hunger drew me to the kitchen, where I assembled a meal of bread and cheese and ate it at the table. I remembered a stray dog Maraid had taken in once, a cowering, wary animal whose past had obviously not been a happy one. My sister had befriended it, using food, warmth and kind words. After a little, the dog took to following her about slavishly; it plainly adored her. But it was never quite at ease. It would cringe at the sound of a spoon dropped on the floor or a sudden sneeze. It would burst into frenzied barking when strangers came to the door. After some months the creature fell foul of a passing cart and was killed; we never knew how long it might have taken to learn trust. If too much harm has been done, perhaps that lesson becomes impossible. Remembering, I saw something of both Anluan and myself in that sad creature.

My simple meal over, I took my cup, platter and knife out to the pump to wash them. As I bent over the bucket, cloth in hand, a familiar voice spoke from behind me.

“Caitrin?”

I straightened, turning to look at Muirne. She had Emer’s violet gown in her hands, the skirt draggling onto the muddy ground by the pump. I saw at a glance that it was in shreds.

“The child,” she said. “I suppose you tried to befriend her. Do not be fooled by what you see. The little one is outwardly angelic. Inside is pure malevolence. No doubt she tugged at your heartstrings as she did with those of Emer, and of Líoch before her. I expect she spoke of her mother, or of being cold.You were kind to her, and look how she’s rewarded you. I’m afraid this gown is fit only to be ripped up for cleaning cloths.”

“No!” I almost snatched the garment from her. “I’m sorry,” I added, forcing my voice to be calm, though my heart was beating fast. “Perhaps I can salvage it.” The child, so small and frail, so innocent ... But she had done her ill work on Róise. “Where did you find this, Muirne?” I was certain I had left my door closed.

“On the gallery, in a heap. Doors and walls will not keep out the host, Caitrin.” She moved closer, putting a hand on my shoulder. “May I offer you some advice?”

“Of course.” Her touch made me uncomfortable.

“You are blundering into a situation you will soon be unable to control. Each day it becomes more risky. I cannot understand you, Caitrin.You see the host rampaging down the hill; straight afterwards you speak to them as if they were your friends.You witness Anluan’s near collapse, brought about by his efforts on your behalf, because of a man who came here in search of you , and instead of allowing him the rest he so desperately needs, you ask him for explanations, then demand that he summon the host again.You are a skilled craftswoman, a person of some intelligence, I must assume. And yet you put yourself at risk. You put Anluan at risk. These are the actions of a fool. Forgive me if I am too blunt for you. Someone must speak. Do you care nothing for him?”

I took a few careful breaths, trying not to hug Emer’s gown too tightly to my breast. I would not lie to her. Nor could I tell her what I realized was the truth: that I was coming to care more than I had ever intended. As for the host, all I had done was try to understand, try to help those I thought were in trouble. All I had done was see them as real men and women.With the tatters of the violet gown in my hands, and the memory of Anluan’s waxen pallor and exhausted eyes fresh in my mind, I felt a chill deep inside me. “Of course I care,” I said. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Nothing is as it seems here,” Muirne said quietly. “I ask you, as a woman and an equal, to leave Anluan alone. You think to change him, perhaps; to mold him into a form that is more acceptable to you. Men do not change.They cannot.”

I struggled for an appropriate answer. “That’s true of some, I’m sure.” Cillian, for instance. “But not all. Muirne, I’m not trying to change Anluan, I just ...” This was impossible. Anything I said, she would take as a criticism of herself. “I think he could do more,” I said. “Be more. He’s so weighed down by all of this,” I waved an arm vaguely, “he can’t see a way forwards. But he’s perfectly capable of being a proper chieftain; he is not lacking in intelligence, and the fact that he can never excel at hunting, riding or swordsmanship doesn’t mean he can’t be a leader. He’s brave. He’s perceptive. He could do wonders if only he could believe in himself.”

“This is not an ordinary man, Caitrin.You cannot apply the rules of the outside world to Anluan. He is the chieftain of Whistling Tor.”

“He’s an ordinary man as well,” I felt obliged to point out. “To be a chieftain one must first be a man.What he needs is purpose.”

“This is nonsense!” Muirne said, losing some of her customary calm. “You endanger him and you cannot see it! You should have left this place when you had the opportunity.”

I was slow to understand.“What opportunity?You mean I should have gone down the hill with Magnus this morning?”

She made no reply, simply waited until I should summon the wit to grasp her meaning.When I did so I felt cold.

“You’re not telling me I should have let Cillian carry me away, trussed up with a gag over my mouth?You, a woman, think I should have accepted that?”

“At least that man wants you,” she said quietly.