Heart's Blood

chapter three

I couldn’t pluck up the courage to explore, even though Anluan had given me the rest of the day off. I retreated to my unwelcoming bedchamber and sat on the pallet, thinking. Even with the mirror gone, I could hardly bear the idea of stepping back over the library threshold.The job would surely involve delving deeper into Nechtan’s extremely unpleasant life.The little chest might well contain the next part of his journal, in which the experiment he was working up to might be explained in full, repellent detail.

The thought disgusted me. And it fascinated me.To my horror, I realized I wanted to read on. Did Nechtan and his assistant open whatever portal it was and bring forth a fearsome army? Was that even possible? If I used the mirror again, would it open the same window into that man’s dark thoughts? What might I see there?

I shuddered, remembering. Sickening as the scene in the vision had been, equally appalling was the fact that Nechtan had evidently taught his assistant not just the skills of sorcery but also his own warped moral codes. She was the one who had fetched the little dog; that had been her idea. She had chosen to stay in the chamber and watch as Nechtan demonstrated his expertise in torture. In the mirror vision, she had been a presence in the shadows, a figure leaning over to scrub the table, a fall of golden hair. I had never quite seen her face. But her voice had revealed her approval, her admiration, her slavish willingness to help. If Nechtan was the one who had made her that way, Anluan’s great-grandfather had truly been an evil man.

As it began to grow dark, I ventured out to fetch water from the pump, carried it up to my chamber in a bucket and washed my face and hands. I combed and plaited my hair, pinning the braids up on top. With no fresh gown to change into—the one I’d worn for travel needed sponging and airing—the best I could do was give the green one a brushing down. If I stayed here, I was going to need additional clothing to see me through the summer. I had a nightrobe and a change of smallclothes. Apart from those, my pack had held only an embroidered kerchief that had belonged to my mother and the doll Maraid had sewn for me after Mother died. Róise was only a handspan tall. Her features were worked in fine thread and she had dark silky hair, the same color as mine. Her nut-brown skirt was made from one of my mother’s, her cream linen tunic from one of my father’s shirts.A favorite blue ribbon of Maraid’s formed her sash. I could not look at Róise without thinking of my family. The doll made me sad and happy both at once. In the dark time I had clutched her to my breast all night long. I had soaked her embroidered face with wretched, helpless tears.

I set Róise on the pillow. She looked somewhat out of place in this bare, dim chamber. I must ask Magnus for a lamp, or at least a candle; those steps would be treacherous at night. As for the question of clothing, the first spell of wet weather would see me in difficulty. I had not anticipated spending so long in a place where there would be no opportunity to sew or to borrow suitable garments. It was further evidence of how poorly I had planned my flight from Market Cross. Perhaps the practical Magnus would have an answer. He’d probably tell me to ask Muirne. A chieftain’s wife—if that was what she was—generally did distribute her own old clothing to the poor and deserving, but even on the unlikely chance that Muirne would put me in that category, there was no way her garments could be made to fit me. She was of slight build, while I had a smaller version of my sister’s figure, my bosom and hips generous, my waist narrow. Ita had once remarked that it was a whore’s body.

Suitably tidied, I made my way to the kitchen where the table had been cleared of cooking paraphernalia and was set with seven bowls, seven spoons and seven goblets. Magnus was stirring a pot on the fire.

“Can I do anything to help?” I asked.

Before he could answer, a familiar figure in a red cloak and gold chain made a regal entrance into the chamber.

“Rioghan!” I exclaimed, finding myself well pleased to see a familiar face, even one fairly new to me.

“Welcome to Whistling Tor, Caitrin,” Rioghan said, and swept into his well-practiced bow. “What a delight. We see few visitors here, and even fewer comely women.”

I felt myself blush scarlet.

“You’re embarrassing the girl, Rioghan,” said Magnus, setting his pot on the table. “She’s not one of your flirtatious court ladies.”

“I was merely speaking the truth,” Rioghan said. “Please be seated, Caitrin. There is a woeful lack of ceremony to our repasts here. Our welcome is nonetheless genuine.”

“Thank you,” I said, and sat. The king’s councillor took the place opposite me.

The forest man, Olcan, came in next, with Fianchu in close attendance. The enormous hound went straight for a corner by the hearth, where a meaty bone lay beside a pile of old sacks. Fianchu settled on the sacks and began a purposeful crunching.

“Ah, Caitrin,” said the forest man. “So you found the house. Staying?”

“For a trial period. I’ve been given some work to do in the library.”

“Good,” observed Olcan, seating himself beside me. “Hope you stay awhile. Fianchu likes you. Don’t you, boy?”

Intent on his bone, Fianchu made no response.

“That smells good, Magnus,” I said.

“The meal will be humble, alas,” said Rioghan in melancholy tones. “Times have changed at Whistling Tor. This was once a fine household, Caitrin. Supper was consumed in the great hall. Ale flowed copiously.The floors were thick with sweet-smelling rushes. Bards entertained the crowd with harp and pipe. After the meal there was dancing.” He sighed.

Magnus had begun to ladle out the contents of the pot, serving each of us in turn. It seemed odd to me that we were starting without Lord Anluan or Muirne, for both of whom, by my count, places had been set. But it was not for me, the newest arrival, to say anything about it. When I heard footsteps in the hallway I thought they had arrived, but it was Brother Eichri who entered, looking even thinner and paler than before. There was a transparency about his skin that enabled me to see clearly the bones beneath. His high frontal tonsure rendered his head skull-like. Yesterday he had worn a cape over his habit. Now, with that garment gone, I noticed that in place of a monk’s cross he was wearing a peculiar necklace. There were odd little objects hanging from it, things I was not sure I wanted to identify. They reminded me of the unpleasant scene in the obsidian mirror.

Brighid save us, the man was gaunt. His bones seemed to jangle as he settled himself on my other side.“Caitrin, daughter of Berach,” he said with a toothsome smile. “What a pleasure. Villagers scare you off, did they?”

“No, they let me in,” I said, realizing that I had in fact shown some courage over the last day or so. “I stayed down there overnight and came up this morning.”

“She’s working here,” Magnus said. “Scribing for Anluan.Trial period. Remember your manners, you two.”

“I’m happy to see you again, Brother Eichri,” I said.The presence of a holy man in this place of shadows and whispers was reassuring.

Across the table, Rioghan’s dark brows shot up to supercilious heights. “Brother?” he echoed. “He’s long since relinquished any claim to such a title. Eichri might more accurately be dubbed sinner, evildoer, transgressor, apostate, criminal—” He halted, perhaps seeing my expression.

“I thought the two of you were friends,” I said, shocked by his outburst.

“They are,” said Magnus, setting a platter of bread on the table. “They go on like this all the time. Don’t let it bother you.” He sat down beside Rioghan. “I heard you had a little problem with a mirror.”

“I did.” The memory made me shudder. “What it showed me was so horrible I’m afraid I bolted out into the herb garden and was violently sick. Fortunately, Lord Anluan was there and I was able to explain what had happened. He said he’d put away the mirror before I have to start the work again.”

I became aware that all eyes were on me with varying degrees of amazement in them.

“Have I said something wrong?” I asked.

“Only surprising,” said Magnus. “Go on, eat, it’s getting cold.”

I eyed the others. Magnus had dipped his spoon in his bowl, about to start. Olcan was helping himself to bread. Eichri and Rioghan were glaring at each other across the table.

“Do Lord Anluan and Lady Muirne eat separately?” I asked.

Eichri surprised me by giving a snort of laughter.

Magnus said, “They’d usually sup here with us. It’s a small household and we don’t stand on ceremony. But Anluan’s uncomfortable with folk from outside. He may not make an appearance tonight.”

“He will,” Rioghan said instantly. “I wager a gold piece to whatever you can offer, Brother.”

“He won’t,” Eichri retorted.“I stake the finger bone of a virgin martyr, Councillor.”

“A what?” I spluttered.

“Oh, he’ll have one,” Rioghan said. “He’s got all sorts.”

And when I took another look, I saw that the items suspended on the cord around the monk’s neck included an assortment of dainty bones. Maybe they were human and maybe they weren’t. It was one of many questions I knew I would not ask.

“By the way,” Magnus said, dipping a chunk of bread in his bowl, “Muirne’s not the lady of the house, though she may act as if she is.”This was directed to me.

He offered no further explanation, and it seemed inappropriate to ask for one. Perhaps Muirne was a kinswoman of limited means, the kind who often finds shelter in the household of a nobleman. That would go a certain way towards explaining her manner.

A slight stirring of the air; I glanced up to see the familiar gray-clad figure in the doorway, her large eyes on me. It felt curiously as if I had summoned her with my thoughts. She advanced into the chamber, going to the shelves and picking up a tray.

“He’s not joining us then?” asked Magnus.

“He’ll eat in his chamber tonight.” She brought her tray over to the table. “He’s weary. Out of sorts.” In a sequence of movements so neat and effortless that I could see they were part of an oft-repeated routine, she took up Anluan’s bowl and held it while Magnus filled it. She added spoon and knife to the tray. Magnus cut a wedge of bread; Muirne placed it neatly beside the bowl. Once or twice she glanced my way, and I could see in her expression that I was the reason for Lord Anluan’s absence. Muirne took her tray to the bench, picked up a jug, filled his lordship’s cup.

“Pay up, Councillor,” Eichri said, rubbing his bony hands together in glee. “Let’s see the color of your gold.”

Rioghan sighed, reached deep within the folds of the crimson cloak, and sent a shining coin spinning across the table into the skinny fingers. “It’s the same hue it was yesterday,” he said in resigned tones. “Brother.”

“I hope Lord Anluan will be feeling better soon,” I made myself say as Muirne headed for the door, intent on her mission. She left the chamber without a word. Perhaps she had not heard me.

“Ale, anyone?” asked Magnus, getting up to fetch the jug. He glanced at me. “Don’t mind Muirne,” he said. “We’re none of us accustomed to visitors. She worries about Anluan, doesn’t like to see him upset. She’s a good-hearted little soul.”

I was hungry; not surprising after what had occurred earlier in the day. Magnus and Olcan ate steadily, in the manner of people who have done a full day’s physical labor, but Rioghan and Eichri only picked at the small servings they’d been given. I expected Muirne to return and eat with us, since she had taken no provisions for herself, but the meal progressed and she did not come.

“You’re a fine cook, Magnus,” I said. The supper was somewhere between a soup and a stew, heavy on vegetables and light on meat, but seasoned with an interesting blend of herbs. “This is a delicious meal.”

“Enjoy it while you’ve got it,” he said.“Fresh provisions today. Now it’s steadily downhill until next time I pay a call on Tomas.”

“But you must grow a lot of things up here,” I ventured, thinking of the farming activities I had read about earlier.

“I do what I can. Olcan helps me.” Magnus dipped his bread into his bowl. “We’ve got chickens, a couple of cows, some other stock, and the vegetables, of course. Still, we can’t work magic.You a cook?”

“Not much of one. My sister used to do all that.”

“Your sister, eh?” Rioghan leaned back in his chair, examining me. “Is she made in the same mold as you, all curves and curls?”

I could not summon the light response required. Instead, Ita spoke in my head, her voice a derisory whisper: See the way men look at you? You’re made to be a whore, Caitrin. Be thankful Cillian wants to wed you.Without him you’d be headed down a path to ruin.

“You’re upsetting the young lady, Councillor.” Eichri’s cavernous voice was stern.

“Maraid does look quite like me, only bigger,” I said. I must find a new line of discussion.“How long have you lived at Whistling Tor, Brother Eichri?”

They laughed, the monk, the councillor, Olcan and Magnus all together.

“Seems like forever,” Rioghan said in dour tones. “We’re sick to death of the fellow.”

“Too long,” Eichri said. “Yet, it seems, not long enough.”

There was nothing I could say to that, since I had no idea what he meant, only that it sounded very sad.“I—Magnus, you said something before that suggested . . . I don’t want to pry, but aren’t there any other folk living here, apart from yourselves, I mean? It’s such a big house. How can you manage without grooms, farmhands, people to wash clothing, scrub floors, tend to stock?”

Magnus broke a piece of bread between his big capable hands.“It’s just us,” he said, glancing around the table. “Us and the ones out in the forest.”

“That makes you a delightful surprise, Caitrin,” Rioghan put in. “Our dusty old web has caught a splendid butterfly.”

“As to how we manage, a man does what he has to,” Magnus said.“We work hard.”

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?

I was falling asleep as I read. I glanced out the window, wondering if Anluan was in the garden again, but there was no sign of him. A light rain had begun to fall; the grayish green fronds of chamomile and wormwood bowed down under its gentle persistence. I turned my gaze back to the page, where Nechtan set out a dispute over access to a particular grazing area. My eyelids drooped.

I woke with a crick in my neck and an uncomfortable awareness that I had been sleeping with my head pillowed on my arms for quite some time—the light in the library had changed, and my body was aching with cramps. Sitting up, I realized I was no longer alone. Anluan was standing in the doorway to the garden, watching me. Under the scrutiny of those piercing blue eyes, I wilted.This was not a good start.

“You sleep soundly,” he observed.

“I’m sorry. I was awake most of the night. It was cold. And . . .” No, I would not tell him about the flight from Market Cross and the exhaustion that was more than physical. I would not speak of the nightmares. “Thank you for putting it away, Lord Anluan,” I added. “The mirror, I mean.”

“Mm.” He still had his eyes fixed on me.Their look had become wary, puzzled, as if he was trying to work out exactly what sort of creature I was. “Not Lord, just Anluan. We don’t use titles in this household. You’d best get on with your work.”

“Yes, I . . . May I ask you a question, Lord . . . I mean,Anluan?” Did this chieftain really mean me to call him by his given name?

“A question.What question?” His tone was less than encouraging.

“I was told—the others told me, over supper last night—of certain . . . presences, in the woods. I was warned of the same thing down in the settlement, and I thought the folk there were exaggerating, the way people do sometimes, to tell a more entertaining story. But it seems it’s true.”

Anluan regarded me, and all I could read on his uneven features was a profound desire to be somewhere else. After a long pause he said, “You like to talk.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, taken aback.

“You find it easy to talk.”

“Not always.” Cillian used to wait until Ita went out somewhere. He would only hit me in private. I was accustomed to being so frightened that I couldn’t move, let alone speak. I had despised myself for staying mute and frozen as he hurt me, but the little voice inside me, the one screaming No!, had been drowned out by the terrified hammering of my heart. After I told Ita the first time and she wouldn’t believe me, after I learned she was blind to the bruises, I never tried to tell again.“But . . . it would be useful if you could answer some questions for me, since you are the only person here who can read and write. If I’m to make sense of these records . . .” My voice trailed off; his expression was becoming more distant with every word I spoke.

“The task is simple enough,” Anluan said, not moving from his stance by the door. “Sort, read, translate.Your job is unrelated to these tales and rumors.What is your question?”

“It is . . . I . . . you say, tales and rumors.” Tension coiled in my stomach, a familiar sensation. “Is it not true, what the others said about the strange beings in the forest?”

The crooked mouth went into a tight line. I had angered him. I felt myself shrink down, although he had not moved.“What does that matter?” Anluan snapped. “Can you do this work on your own or can’t you?”

I made myself breathe. It’s not Cillian. Be calm. Speak up. “I—I—” My voice was a feeble squeak. I cleared my throat and tried again. “I can do it on my own, yes, though possibly not by the end of summer. If you could help—if . . .” I clutched my hands together; he would think me a halfwit if this was the best I could do.“It would help if I knew which was Nechtan’s script,” I managed. “I noticed he used two different hands, one for Irish and one for Latin, or so it seemed.”

Anluan wrapped his good left arm over his weak right one, under the cloak he seemed to wear even indoors. “The documents from the chest, those I placed on the table for you, are all Nechtan’s,” he said, his tone marginally quieter. “Yes, he used two styles. Conan had an Irish hand similar to his father’s, but you’ll find his script less even. Irial’s writing was informal and much finer. He preferred a narrow quill.” Then, with a cursory nod, the chieftain of Whistling Tor was back out the door into the garden, leaving me to my labors.

Weighing up the odd conversation, I considered it a small victory that he had given me a useful answer to my second question. Nechtan, Conan, Irial. There were three records to be found here, four distinct hands, and only one set of documents to be translated. I could speed up the job considerably by sorting all the loose leaves first, storing them in an orderly fashion and making a catalogue as I went. Not so hard.

I set to work once more, leafing through the records and trying by guesswork to put them in chronological order. It was only when I heard Fianchu barking somewhere outside that I realized I had been staring at the same sheet for some time, while my mind wandered over Whistling Tor and its extremely odd chieftain, a man who was not only one of the rudest I’d ever met, but who seemed incapable of carrying on a normal conversation. What ailed him? The crooked face, the damaged arm and leg would stop him from conducting such physical activities as were expected of a man in his position: hunting, riding, fighting. Did he also have some impairment of the mind that skewed his perceptions and made him susceptible to sudden bursts of ill temper? I recalled a young man known as Smiling Seamus, back at Market Cross. The tale went that the midwife had dropped Seamus on his head soon after birth; whatever the cause, he had grown up different from other folk, slow to learn, almost like a child, but amiable in temperament. Anluan was the opposite of amiable. And he was a scholar. On the other hand, some of his utterances were almost like a child’s, oddly direct, as if he saw the world through simpler eyes than most. There was certainly something strange about him, something not quite right.

I made myself get up, stretch and walk around the library. I needed to tackle this a different way or I’d make no progress at all. Gritting my teeth, I swept the contents of one of the bigger tables into a pile at one corner. Then I began working my way through them, picking up each little book or scroll or parchment sheet, wiping off the dust with a fold of my skirt, reading a few lines, then setting the piece in the appropriate group. The work table soon held three piles of material—Nechtan’s, mostly loose leaves of deteriorating parchment, spotted brown with age and, where folded, falling into pieces; his son Conan’s, a far smaller heap; and a group of documents whose writers I could not identify. Many of these were in Latin; I glimpsed the words diabolus and mysteria and shivered. Somewhere in here there might be a key to Nechtan’s unusual activities, the ones of which the local priest had so disapproved. Somewhere he might have written more about the experiment, the army he intended to summon or conjure, the immense power he would then be able to wield against his fellow chieftains. And somewhere there might be a link with the family curse and these mysterious beings that Anluan didn’t want to talk about. That was foolish of him, really. Here I was with his family records, after all. If there were dark secrets in the history of Whistling Tor, wasn’t this library the likeliest place to discover them?

I did not make a pile for Irial. The notebooks of Anluan’s father were already collected on their own shelf in a corner of the library. When I opened the covers of one or two, I saw that the lover of plants and their lore had written the year and season on the front page of each. Irial’s books were not dusty. Someone had wiped the leather covers clean and set the volumes vertically, with stones at either end to hold them in place. Above the neatly organized books, a bunch of dried flowers and foliage in a jar and an unlit lamp shared their own shelf, and on the flagstoned floor in front there was a woven mat, its colors darkened with age and wear to a uniform purple-gray. The area was almost like a shrine.

Irial’s books were works of art. His botanical drawings were finely detailed and drawn with both accuracy and charm. He’d used a crow quill sharpened to a point. It was quite plain the artist had loved what he did, unusual as such a pastime might be for someone in his position. It made me wonder what sort of leader Anluan’s father had been. Perhaps he, too, had failed to carry out the duties the folk of Whistling Tor expected of their regional chieftain. Tomas and Orna had been blunt about Anluan’s inadequacy in that regard. Perhaps his father had spent hours in the garden and in the library, pursuing what had obviously been an activity he enjoyed with a passion, and had neglected his district and his folk. Perhaps he had never taught Anluan how to be a chieftain.

Something caught my eye, and I turned the little book in my hands sideways. Irial had written his botanical notes in Irish, which made sense—this language would render his work accessible to a wider readership. But in the margin, in a script so small and fine that at first glance it seemed decoration, not writing, was an annotation in Latin. The most potent remedy known to man cannot bring her back. This is the hundred and twentieth day of tears.

A chill went down my spine.What was this? Another secret, something so private the writer had chosen to set it down in this odd, almost cryptic fashion? Whose loss had Irial mourned for so long?

I moved the notebooks over to the work table, where the light was better. At around midday, Magnus brought me food and drink on a tray, which made me feel guilty for causing him more work. I went out to the privy and returned immediately to the library. There were many, many margin notes, scattered apparently at random through the botanical notebooks, all of them Latin and written in that minute script that tested the most acute of eyes.

It is the forty-seventh day of tears.To see her face in his wounds me.

I long for an ending. Sweet whispers. I must not heed them. The five hundred and third day of tears. Holy Mother, how long had the man gone on grieving?

The notes did not follow the same chronological sequence as the little books. I imagined Irial going back to his old records day by day in the time of his sorrow, setting each observation on a page chosen at random. The last entry I could find was five hundred and three. I searched for the first, and eventually found this: The fifteenth day. My heart weeps blood.Why? Why did I leave them?

And then this: She is gone. Emer is gone. Beside it, in a different ink, a scrawled number two. On the day he lost her, perhaps he had been incapable of writing.

I returned to my chamber when I judged it to be almost time for supper. Now both my gowns were the worse for wear, the brown still stained from my journey, the green dusty after my long day’s work. I brushed down the skirt as well as I could, and washed my face and hands. It must still have been evident that I had been brought to tears by Irial’s notes, for the moment I appeared in the kitchen Magnus set down his ladle, ushered me to a chair and set a brimful cup of ale in front of me.

“What’s wrong?” His broad features wore a frown of genuine concern. When I did not answer immediately, he added, “Come on, get it off your chest.” His manner was kindness itself.

“I’ll be fine. I read something that made me sad. Something that reminded me of home.” I knew about loss. I knew about the numb sorrow that went on and on. “Magnus, what can you tell me about Anluan’s father?”

“Irial?” He turned back towards the fire to stir his pot, but not before I had seen the change on his strong features. Here was another with an abiding sadness. “What do you want to know?”

I realized, to my surprise, that in Magnus’s company I felt safe. On the other hand, anything I told Magnus, Anluan would know before morning. I did not want to share today’s reading matter with the lord of Whistling Tor. “Was his wife called Emer?”

“She was. Who told you that? Not him, surely. He never talks about her and seldom about his father.”

“I saw a reference to her in the documents.When did she die, Magnus? How old was Anluan?”

“This job of yours, it’s going to open up old wounds.”

“I suppose it will, and Anluan has already told me I must read and write and not think about what I’m doing, more or less. But I don’t see how I can transcribe family history if I don’t know how it all fits together.”

“I did warn him the process might be painful,” Magnus said. “The lad was seven when his mother passed away; nine when his father followed her. Irial did his best for as long as he could. After that, all the boy had was me. Irial hired me as a fighting man, not to bring up his son.”

I was silenced. Nine, and both parents dead—it didn’t bear thinking of. At least Maraid and I had had our father until we were young women, though the loss of him had been no less crushing for that.

“Irial was a good man,” Magnus said.“A fine friend, a loving father. Whatever it is you’ve found, you’d best not speak of it to Anluan. He’s already—”

Sounds in the hallway indicated the arrival of the rest of the household, and our conversation came to an abrupt end. Fianchu erupted into the room, bounded over to me and licked my face, almost sending me sprawling, then went to his usual spot by the fire. Olcan, Eichri and Rioghan came in after the hound, greeted us and took their places. We waited briefly, but Anluan did not make an appearance. Magnus began to cut up a leek and cheese pie to accompany the soup, and there was Muirne in the doorway. She was in the same gray gown and overdress, or perhaps another, identical in color and cut, for it was immaculately clean and appeared newly pressed. Her snowy veil looked freshly laundered. Her gaze passed over us, revealing nothing.

“He’s not supping with us tonight?” Magnus queried.

“He’s tired. His leg aches.” I watched as she performed the same routine as last night’s, holding the tray as Magnus served Anluan’s meal, filling the cup, checking that everything was placed precisely so. She left without another word.

My four companions made good company. Magnus kept me well supplied with food and ale. Olcan regaled me with Fianchu’s exploits for the day. Eichri and Rioghan exchanged barbs across the table and moved their food around on their platters, but I did not see either eat a bite.As the meal drew to a close, I plucked up the courage to ask Magnus a new question.

“I came here with only a small bag, as you probably saw. I’ll need at least one more change of clothing to get through the summer, and I have no funds to buy cloth, even supposing they have some down in the settlement. Would there be any old things here? Something I could alter, perhaps, just to get by?”

“I don’t know.” Magnus sounded doubtful. “We wear everything until it’s falling apart; then we use it as cleaning cloths and suchlike. You can sew?”

“My sewing is certainly better than my cooking. Do you think Muirne might be able to find something for me?”

“You could ask,” Magnus said. “She’ll know where such things are, if we have any.”

“I don’t think she approves of my being here,” I said, hoping this did not sound discourteous. “It might be a little awkward.”

There was a little pause; then Magnus said, “She’s devoted to Anluan, Caitrin. She looks after him, tends to him, keeps him company even when all he’s fit for is staring at his boots. He can be as miserable as a wet winter day. It takes an unusual person to tolerate such a man. Anything that upsets him, she’ll disapprove of. Don’t take it personally.”

“She surely won’t object to finding you a gown or two,” said Rioghan. “There must be old things stored away. If anyone knows where, it will be Muirne. She knows every corner of Whistling Tor.”

Lying awake in bed some time later, I thought of sad Irial and his lost Emer, and that little boy left an orphan at nine years old. Before he could properly read and write. Before he had the least idea of how to be a chieftain. Most of what Anluan had learned he must have taught himself, unless Magnus had found him a tutor. If he had, the fellow hadn’t stayed long enough to teach his charge Latin.

I wondered in what corner of the fortress Anluan and Muirne had their private apartments and how they had spent their evening. I thought of the beings out in the woods, the ones nobody seemed prepared to talk about. I considered Nechtan’s experiment. What exactly was this army he had tried to bring forth? With my mind full of puzzles, I fell asleep to the melancholy call of an owl, somewhere out on the wooded hill.