Juliet Marillier - Hearts Blood

• Название: Hearts Blood
• Автор: Juliet Marillier
• Жанр: Прочая старинная литература

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The makeshift infirmary filled up.The stunning success had not been achieved without casualties, and the spectral monks went to and fro with their basins and bandages, splints and potions, tending to the wounded from the settlement and from the force Magnus had brought for the surprise attack.

I had barely time to greet Anluan before he was surrounded by a press of excited folk. As I moved across the courtyard, the tale came to me in fragments. All across the Tor folk were talking, talking, trying to put it together. The chieftains of Whiteshore and Silverlake, with their remaining troops, were even now dealing with the ragged remnant of the Norman army. Cleaning up, I heard someone call it. The horses having bolted, the enemy was fleeing on foot, disordered and terrified. No doubt Stephen de Courcy had heard the tales of Whistling Tor before he decided to lay siege to the place. That was not the same as waking from sleep to find oneself doing battle with an army like Anluan’s. Magnus was of the opinion that Lord Stephen would already have decided against claiming the hill for his own. Just in case he had not, Brión of Whiteshore and Fergal of Silverlake were out there reminding him of the wisdom of such a choice.

Anluan’s first party, led by Cathaír and made up entirely of spectral warriors, had entered the Norman encampment while the enemy was sleeping, then manifested abruptly, spooking the horses and causing general pandemonium. Though the Normans had greatly outnumbered their attackers, they had not had time to assume their fighting formations or establish sufficient order to strike back effectively. While the host was still wreaking havoc among them, the substantial forces led by Brión and Fergal had mounted their surprise attack, driving the enemy up onto the hill. There Anluan’s second force, under his personal command, had fallen upon the Normans with much screaming and wailing, vanishing and reappearance, trickery and surprise, not to speak of the traditional use of arms—by all accounts, the warriors of the host had put their combat skills to fine use.The men of the settlement had played their part bravely. Fighting alongside those who had been the stuff of their worst nightmares had been a challenge, but their time on the hill had prepared them for it, and they were proud of their efforts. I did hear several men ask how long it would be before they could go back down to the settlement and see what was left of their homes and belongings. They had lost four of their own, and one of them was Tomas the innkeeper.We would be burying him and Orna side by side.

Olcan’s face warned me of a further loss. His ruddy cheeks were ashen, his good-natured smile quite gone. Four men of the host carried Fianchu on an old door.The dog’s breath rasped in his throat. He lay quite still save for the labored rise and fall of his chest.

“What happened?” I asked, going over to lay a hand on Fianchu’s neck. There was life in the small eyes yet, but it seemed to me they were clouding, dimming by the moment.

“He saved Lord Anluan’s life,” one of the bearers said.“Leaped forward as a poxy gray shirt swung his sword, took a heavy blow to the back.Where should we take him?”

This last was addressed to Olcan, who pointed towards the house. I was stunned. I had thought both Olcan and Fianchu would go on forever. Somehow I had not imagined an ordinary death of this kind could befall either—they had been on the Tor forever, or so I had believed. I watched Olcan follow his dying friend to the front door and inside.The courtyard was full of folk and abuzz with talk; the forest man moved through the crowd as if he were quite alone. Anluan and Rioghan were surrounded by people from the village. Eichri was deep in conversation with another monk, not one of his spectral brethren but a flesh and blood cleric who must have accompanied the wounded up the hill. I hesitated, thinking of Aislinn and the news I must impart to Anluan as soon as I could extricate him from the crowd. Olcan must not keep this last vigil without friends by his side.

Magnus came up beside me. He was clad in full battle gear, his garments showing the stains of a fight well fought, his hair dark with sweat where the leather helm had covered it, his gray eyes calm. “Poor old Fianchu,” he said.

I nodded, holding back my tears.A chieftain’s wife needed to be strong at such times, and if I was not wed to Anluan yet, I would be soon. “I’m going inside to keep Olcan company,” I said. “But I need to talk to you, and to Anluan, Rioghan and Eichri, as soon as possible. It’s urgent. Even if Fianchu is dying, I’m afraid this can’t wait.”

Magnus glanced towards the steps, where the chieftain of Whistling Tor was facing a new kind of siege, from folk who realized at last that here was a leader who could help them, and were now asking all the questions they had been saving for years. Beside him, Rioghan was attempting to maintain control, while Cathaír stood guard behind. “We might have trouble getting him away,” he said.

“Tell him it’s about the counterspell.”

“It is?” His brows rose. “I will, then. Welcome back, by the way.”

“You, too.You’ve achieved remarkable things here while I was gone; I can hardly believe it. Magnus, I need to warn you about Muirne. It may be hard for you to believe, but she tried to poison Anluan. Certain things happened while the battle was going on, and that’s what I need to explain to you all.”

In fact, word of my discovery was spreading like wildfire through the host, for Gearróg had been unable to hold back the news. I heard them murmuring one to another as I crossed the courtyard with Magnus at my side—she’s found it, maybe tonight, she thinks we can all go, at last, at last—and in my mind I repeated the words of Nechtan’s Latin charm, on which it all depended. I wondered why Aislinn had risked keeping any part of the answer written down. She was clever; she must have realized that even those fragmented scribblings might allow a scholar, someone who knew Latin, to find the answer to the puzzle and lift the curse she had laid on Whistling Tor. It would have been far safer to keep the charm in her memory, where only she could find it.

But no. I recalled that terrifying moment in the vision when she had tried to speak the words that could free her from Nechtan’s spell. Dying and unable to remember. Dying and unable to save herself, even though she had discovered the remedy without her mentor’s aid.When she found herself, after death, entrapped in her own curse and bound to each chieftain of Whistling Tor in turn, likely she no longer trusted her own memory. So, instead of destroying the book that held the feverish notations of that earlier self, the one who wanted above all to impress the man she idolized, Muirne had hidden it away, locked in the special place where she thought nobody would ever look. Even Irial, who had used the stillroom regularly for his work, must not have known it was there. She was clever, no doubt of that. I hoped she had no more tricks to play on us.

We found Gearróg and charged him to make sure the message was passed on to Anluan as soon as possible. Then Magnus and I made our way to the kitchen where, as I had expected, Fianchu had been laid in his familiar corner by the fire. He had a blanket over him, and Olcan sat cross-legged by his side, murmuring. In his soft undertone I heard a catalogue of Fianchu’s good deeds, his many acts of kindness, strength and loyalty. I settled myself beside the forest man, my eyes streaming. Magnus, ever practical, busied himself putting on the kettle and clearing the table, saying nothing.The women from the village had gone off to start packing up for the return home, which would happen as soon as Fergal and Brión sent word that it was safe to leave the Tor.

We stayed as we were awhile. Olcan’s voice made a steady counterpoint to the labored sound of Fianchu’s breathing, each rise and fall a harder mountain to climb. Always a little slower, a little fainter . . .

The others came in one by one. Eichri was first. He knelt to lay a comforting hand on Olcan’s shoulder. “Remember that time he saw off a whole pack of wolves?” the monk said with a little smile. “They didn’t rightly know which side was up and which was down.You’ve got a big heart, Fianchu.”

The dog lay quite limp under his blanket; it was by no means sure that he could hear anymore, though Olcan kept murmuring to him and stroking his neck. “Brave boy. Dear old friend. Best dog in the world.You have a good rest now—that’s it . . .”

Magnus stepped over and passed me a handkerchief. I mopped my face and blew my nose.We waited.

It was not so long.Against all expectations Fianchu lifted his head for a moment, and Olcan bent to whisper in the dog’s ear, so softly that I could not hear what he said. Fianchu put his head down again, relaxing on the blanket, and Olcan bent over him.There came a rattling and rasping as the dog’s breathing faltered, and then silence.

“He’s gone,” Eichri said. “May he rest well; he deserves no less. A valiant hound, loyal and brave.”

“I’m so sorry, Olcan,” I managed.“He was a wonderful friend to all of us, so gentle when he needed to be, yet fierce and strong enough to play his part in battle . . . I’m sure there’s never been another like him.”

Olcan muttered thanks. He had moved so Fianchu’s head was on his knees.The dog lay limp, the tip of his tongue protruding from his mouth. Olcan’s hand continued to move gently against the hound’s neck, but he was silent now.

Anluan and Rioghan came in soon after that. Anluan looked dead on his feet. His face was a mask of exhaustion, the bones prominent, the eyes too bright. He had not even had the chance to change his clothes. I wanted to throw my arms around him, to weep against his shoulder, to tell him over and over how proud and relieved and happy I was. But this was not the time for that. I simply looked at him with all the love I had in me.

Anluan put a hand against his leather breast-piece, over his heart, and smiled his crooked smile.The weary eyes softened; I had never seen such a blend of pride and tenderness. Then he went over to Olcan and Fianchu, and crouched down beside them.

“I know there are things that need to be talked about,” Olcan said.“Go ahead, don’t mind me. I’ll just sit here a bit.”

“You put up a brave fight down there yourself, Olcan,” said Rioghan. “Expert hand with the axe.”

“Did what I could.Wish I could have saved him.”

“Fianchu showed exemplary courage,” said Anluan. “He was a dear friend to us all. I owe him my life. I owe the two of you a debt of gratitude that can never be repaid.This is not your struggle.”

“Ah, well.” Olcan accepted the ale cup Magnus offered him. “Maybe it’s not, but I feel like part of your family now, and so did he. He was a good dog, Fianchu.” His simple epitaph spoken, he lifted the cup, drank, set it back down. “Welcome home, Caitrin. Didn’t think to say it before. It’s good to see you.”

“Gearróg said you had urgent news for us, Caitrin,” Anluan said. “He’s standing guard beyond the door there, and we’ve sent Cathaír round to the other side, so we’ll be warned if anyone comes. Tell us what has happened.”

We seated ourselves at the table, though Olcan stayed on the floor. I told them the tale of Nechtan’s experiment, so nearly successful but turned awry by the girl who had not wanted to give up her life so her mentor could have his uncanny army; her discovery of the counterspell, her delight at her own cleverness, her despair when she could not use the words to save herself. The curse pronounced in silence, the curse whose form I knew because the obsidian mirror gave me a window into the mind of whoever had written the text that lay beside it. One hundred years of ill luck; one hundred years of sorrow; one hundred years of failure.

“And she had the power to make it work,” I said, as my audience sat around me hushed and still.“She had learned far more from Nechtan than he probably ever realized; she was as apt as he was at the casting of spells. I will shadow your steps and those of all you hold dear, that was part of it. She has done so for four generations, stirring up the host and whispering words of despair to each chieftain in turn. She has used her skills in sorcery to add to the chaos.”

“But . . .” Anluan’s arm was tense against mine. “How could I not see this? How could I not recognize it? You’re saying all of it, the voice they fear so much, the frenzy that causes them to lose their minds and attack at random, has been entirely her doing?”

“I believe so,” I said.

“Great God, Caitrin!” exclaimed Anluan. “If anyone other than you had told me this I would have dismissed it as sheer fantasy. Whispering words of despair. That rings true. I have been all too ready to believe them. To claim them as my own. I must have been blind.”

“I suppose,” I said, “that part of her skill may be in making others see her as perfectly harmless.” She hadn’t tried very hard with me; her enmity had been plain from the start. Still, it had taken me a very long time, almost too long, to realize the extent of her malice and her power.“It seems your father spent time with her, perhaps even seeking her help with his botanical work and welcoming her companionship after your mother died. But . . . well, there’s something I found that I think you should read now. It was stored away with Muirne’s personal things.” I fished Irial’s last notebook out from the pouch at my belt, opened it at the first page and gave it to him.

In the silence that ensued, Magnus got up and poked the fire, I refilled people’s cups, and Olcan sat quietly with his old friend. Rioghan and Eichri looked at each other across the table, the shadow of a looming farewell removing all trace of their customary sardonic humor. When Anluan had finished reading, he sat in silence for a little. Then he said flatly, “She killed him. He wanted to live, and she killed him.”

“I believe so.Your father died from the same poison she used on you.” I glanced at Magnus, whose eyes had widened. “In this letter, Irial writes of making the decision to step out from his fog of grief; he tells the shade of Emer that he will never forget her, but that he will watch her live on in Anluan. It is not the message of a man about to kill himself from despair. Aislinn—Muirne—chose to keep this from Anluan, and from you, Magnus. She loved him, and she wanted to keep everything the way she believed it should be here on Whistling Tor. It was bad enough that Irial loved Emer as he could never love Aislinn.When he wanted to bring hope to the Tor and the folk who lived here, when he wanted a life for his son that would be better than his own, Aislinn must have seen it as a betrayal. She couldn’t bear it. So she ended it. I believe she was responsible for your mother’s death as well, Anluan. That could never be proven, of course.” I said nothing of Conan and Líoch.This was more than enough for now.

“Holy Mother of God,” muttered Magnus. “The uncanny fire; the way nobody saw a thing until it was too late . . .”

“Fire without smoke; smoke without fire. The method is in one of those grimoires. As I said, she was—is—an able practitioner of sorcery.”

Anluan had bunched his good hand into a fist. His eyes were cold as frost. “There is no doubt that Nechtan wronged her,” he said. “But this is indeed a long and bitter vengeance.Where is she now?”