Juliet Marillier: Heart's Blood

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

chapter seven

chapter eight

chapter nine

chapter ten

chapter eleven

chapter twelve

chapter thirteen

chapter fourteen

chapter fifteen

Summer

About the Author

ALSO BY JULIET MARILLIER

THE SEVENWATERS NOVELS

Daughter of the Forest

Son of the Shadows

Child of the Prophecy

Heir to Sevenwaters

SAGA OF THE LIGHT ISLES

Wolfskin

Foxmask

THE BRIDEI CHRONICLES

The Dark Mirror

Blade of Fortriu

The Well of Shades

FOR YOUNG ADULTS

Wildwood Dancing

Cybele’s Secret

ROC

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Published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Previously published in a Macmillan Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd. edition.

First Roc Printing, November 2009

Copyright © Juliet Marillier, 2009

Calligraphy by Gaye Godfrey-Nicholls of Inklings Calligraphy Studio

All rights reserved

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

Marillier, Juliet.

Heart’s blood/Juliet Marillier.

p. cm.

eISBN : 978-1-101-14924-9

I.Title

PR9619.3.M26755H43 2009

823.‘.92—dc22 2009022217

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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To Saskia and Irie,

with love

Acknowledgments

Gaye Godfrey-Nicholls of Inklings Calligraphy Studio provided expert guidance on all aspects of scribing. John Aris helped me with the Latin invocation. The members of my writers’ group assisted me through this book’s bumpy road to completion, sharing practical advice, moral support and strong coffee. My multiskilled family helped with everything from brainstorming to proofreading. My editors, Anne Sowards at Penguin, Julie Crisp at Tor UK, and Mary Verney at Pan Macmillan Australia, worked cooperatively to produce a single editorial report, making my life much easier. My agent, Russell Galen, continued to provide excellent support. A big thank you to all.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious

and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

chapter one

at a place where two tracks met, the carter brought his horse to a sudden halt.

“This is where you get down,” he said.

Dusk was falling, and mist was closing in over a landscape curiously devoid of features. Apart from low clumps of grass, all I could see nearby was an ancient marker stone whose inscription was obscured by a coat of creeping mosses. Every part of me ached with weariness.“This is not even a settlement!” I protested. “It’s—it’s nowhere!”

“This is as far west as your money takes you,” the man said flatly. “Wasn’t that the agreement? It’s late. I won’t linger in these parts after nightfall.”

I sat frozen. He couldn’t really be going to leave me in this godforsaken spot, could he?

“You could come on with me.”The man’s tone had changed.“I’ve got a roof, supper, a comfortable bed. For a pretty little thing like you, there’s other ways of paying.” He set a heavy hand on my shoulder, making me shrink away, my heart hammering. I scrambled down from the cart and seized my bag and writing box from the back before the fellow could drive off and leave me with nothing.

“Sure you won’t change your mind?” he asked, eyeing me up and down as if I were a prime cut of beef.

“Quite sure,” I said shakily, shocked that I had been too full of my woes to notice that look in his eye earlier, when there were other passengers on the cart. “What is this place? Is there a settlement close by?”

“If you can call it that.” He jerked his head in the general direction of the marker. “Don’t know if you’ll find shelter. They’ve a habit of huddling behind locked doors at night around here, and with good reason. I’m not talking about troops of armed Normans on the road, you understand, but . . . something else.You’d far better come home with me. I’d look after you.”

I slung my bundle over my shoulder. On the tip of my tongue was the retort he deserved: I’m not so desperate , but I was not quite brave enough to say it. Besides, with only four coppers left and the very real possibility that pursuit was close behind me, I might soon be reduced to accepting offers of this kind or starving.

I stooped to examine the weathered stone, keeping a wary eye on the carter. He wouldn’t attack me, would he? Out here, I would scream unheard. The stone’s inscription read Whistling Tor . An odd name. As I traced the moss-crusted letters, the man drove away without another word. The drum of hoof beats and the creak of wheels diminished to nothing. I took a deep breath and ordered myself to be strong. If there was a sign, there must be a settlement and shelter.

I headed off along the misty track to Whistling Tor. I had hoped to reach the settlement quite quickly, but the path went on and on, and after a while it began to climb.As I made my way up, I could see through the mist that I was walking into ever denser woodland, the dark trunks of oak and beech looming here and there above a smothering blanket of bushes and briars. My shawl kept catching on things. I wrenched it away with my free hand, the other holding tight to my writing box. I stumbled. There were odd stones on the path, pale, sharp-edged things that seemed set down deliberately to trip the unwary traveler.