Heart's Blood полностью

We ran, the three of us, through the house to the library door, unguarded now since Broc had left his post to join the march down the hill. Trembling from head to foot, I went to the desk where I had spent long hours with quill and inks restoring order to the chaos of Anluan’s collection. I drew a deep breath, reached down and opened the chest that had held Nechtan’s personal papers. I drew out the cloth-wrapped bundle; set it on the table; unveiled the obsidian mirror. Gearróg had stationed himself by the door to Irial’s garden, alert for danger. After placing the lantern for me, Orna had gone to stand just inside the other door. For all her pallor, there was a grim and capable look about her, and I knew I owed her a great debt for her courage.

I opened Aislinn’s notebook to the page where she had begun to describe the ritual: the secret pattern, the invocation, her role as a sort of conduit for the spirits. There was a chance, slight but real, that what had worked with Nechtan’s writings might also work with those of his devoted assistant. I must try, at least. A creeping dread was coming over me, a dark misgiving. I hoped very much that I was wrong. It seemed Aislinn had believed her scrambled Latin was a charm of power. A counterspell: she must have believed that, for why would one reverse the words in an invocation—warriors of darkness, come forth—save for the purpose of sending those demons back where they came from?

Aislinn had probably got it wrong. It did seem far too simple, something Nechtan must surely have tried once he discovered he could not make the host obey. Still, my heart was racing with fearful anticipation. If what she had written in her book was indeed the counterspell,Anluan possessed the means to banish the host. He could undo the family curse and end a hundred years of suffering. I had to know more; I must see the ritual to find out how they had done it and what had gone wrong.This must be more complicated than speaking a few Latin words backwards.“Show me,” I muttered, my gaze moving from mirror to book and back again. “Show me quickly.”When Muirne found her book missing, she would come after me to get it back. She would not lightly give up its hidden treasure, the tool of immense power she had kept to herself all these years. I must find out how to use the spell before Muirne found me.

Aislinn’s neat script looked up at me, its rows perfectly spaced, its letters round and careful, not a stroke out of place. I will be like a priestess; like a queen. The face of the obsidian mirror gleamed in the lantern light. Through the open door to Irial’s garden I thought I could hear a clamour down the hill, shouting, screaming, the clash of weaponry, the high, hysterical neighing of horses.

“It’s started,” said Gearróg. “Stand strong, lads.”

“God keep them,” murmured Orna. “You finding what you need, Caitrin?”

I did not reply, for the mirror’s surface had begun to swirl, to change, to darken and lighten and open up, and there before me was the courtyard within the fortress wall, not overgrown as now, but bare and open. The cold light of a full moon bathed the central space, but under the trees lay a profound darkness. At the foot of the steps stood Nechtan, clad in black. The light from a brazier transformed his bony features into a mask of fire and shadow. “The herbs, Aislinn,” he said.

“The herbs, Aislinn,” he says, and she passes over her small harvest, dry leaves reduced to powder, a mixture designed to aid the transition between worlds, to open portals.Tonight, of all nights, such doors may swing wide. At All Hallows, she muses, one would be a fool to expect anything but the unexpected. There is a tingling in her body, a sharp anticipation that makes her restless as she stands there waiting, knowing that if ever she was beautiful, it is now. The gown is of whitest linen, finer than any she has worn before, its borders embroidered with delicate flowers and vines. Nechtan has bade her wear her hair loose, and it cloaks her in pale silk. Aislinn can feel every thread of it against her skin. She can feel the weight of Nechtan’s gaze. His eyes devour her. Later, those eyes promise. Later.

He has marked out the pentagram in sand, its points touching the circle that encloses it, a circle fashioned in the form of a serpent, its tail between its jaws. Now he casts the herbs into the brazier. The fragrant smoke begins to pass across the place of ritual.There is a great magic afoot tonight, but Nechtan will keep her safe. He loves her.When this is over, she will be his wife. Mella does not deserve him. She is not fit for him. Mella understands nothing of this work; her mind is too small to encompass it. Mella has never been beautiful.