Heart's Blood полностью

I found it about halfway through. The poison brewed with precise quantities of dragon-claw berries, ground and steeped in a strong mead, then strained through gauze and left to stand for seven days. The onset is rapid, Irial had written. First comes a graying of the skin, followed by shortness of breath, loss of speech, then unconsciousness leading to death in little more than an hour.The antidote is . . .

“Heart’s blood,” I muttered as I ran across the garden with the book in one hand. Folk dodged out of my way—many had been waiting as I searched. “I should have guessed. Curse Muirne! Cathaír, I need someone who can help me brew this.”

I reached the corner where the herb grew. I fell to my knees; Cathaír held up the lantern.The circle of light bathed the soft gray-green leaves of the comfrey bush and showed, beneath it, the dried and withered remnants of the heart’s blood flowers. Only two. One handful of finely chopped petals, Irial had written. As fresh as possible.

“It has to work, this must be enough,” I muttered, reaching across to pluck my pathetic harvest. Around the garden the song rang out, more confident now: “Brothers together, we live and we die!” Rioghan had tutored them well. He had taught them hope in the face of despair.

“I will help you.” It was the wise woman of the host, she with the moon tattoo on her brow. Her features were calm, but I saw pain in her eyes; the frenzy, it seemed, touched each and every one of them.“You need other herbs?”

“Dried flowers of lavender—there’s a bunch hanging in the stillroom. I’ll run ahead to the kitchen.” Back into the library, the quicker way, through the darkened space and out the other door, surprising the old warrior, Broc, who stood roaring out the song with his hands gripped tight as ancient ivy around his spear. Fianchu barking, racing ahead of me as if he knew just what had to be done. Cathaír coming behind me, desperate to keep me safe, fighting the pain.The kitchen full of folk, the fire glowing, Orna’s friend Sionnach lifting a steaming kettle. Orna herself in the doorway, and coming in after her the wise woman, a sheaf of dried lavender in her hands. She had been quick.

“One of you chop this as finely as you can. One of you shred the lavender blooms. Orna, we need . . .”The look on her face halted me.

“He’s still alive,” Orna said quickly. “But we haven’t long. What is it we’re brewing?”

“Life, I hope. It’s an antidote to what I think he was given—simple enough, just these two plants made into a tea.”

“Have you a precise measure for this?” asked the woman of the host. “Heart’s blood is a perilous herb. Give him too much and it will carry him off forever.”

“Two cups of water, just off the boil.” The remedy was burned into my mind; I could see every stroke of Irial’s writing.“One handful of finely chopped heart’s blood petals. Two handfuls of lavender.” I looked at the scant harvest of heart’s blood. “I don’t know if this is enough.” Terror welled up in me. That Anluan should die for want of a single flower . . .

“Half quantities,” said Orna, taking a knife from the bench and coming up to the table. “You can’t expect a man barely conscious to swallow two whole cups of this stuff. It should be enough, don’t you think?” She glanced at the spectral woman.

“It will suffice, I believe.”

“Let’s do this, then. Sionnach, don’t put that kettle back on—didn’t you hear what Caitrin said? Just off the boil.”

“Did Muirne come?” I asked shakily, realizing the task had been taken out of my hands. Orna chopped; the wise woman measured; Sionnach poured the hot water into the jug. Outside the singing went on. I hoped the sound would not carry as far as the Norman encampment, or the surprise attack would be no surprise at all.

“Wretched tune,” muttered Orna, but her tone was good-natured.“I’ll be hearing it in my sleep. I can even hear Tomas singing. Fair enough, I suppose; we’re one and the same now. Men of the hill. And women.”

“She did not come,” the ghostly woman said. “The girl in the veil. If you achieve this, if you cure him, she will fear you more than ever.”

“Fear?” I echoed, started. “Muirne fear me?” But there was no time to ask more. Eichri was at the door.

“They’re saying you found it. The antidote. Is it true?” He sounded desperate; a faint rattling sound told me he was trembling.

“We’re bringing it now,” I said. “He only has to hold on a few moments more.” Dear God, don’t take him from me . . .

“You’d want to make haste,” Eichri said.