Heart's Blood полностью

The moon hides behind a cloud; a shiver of wind crosses the courtyard. The brazier flares strangely, sparks dancing upward.“It’s time,Aislinn,” Nechtan says, his voice deep and soft. He comes towards her, an imposing figure in his ritual robe; he extends a hand. Aislinn takes it in hers. Ah, his touch! She feels it deep inside her; the secret parts of her body quiver and throb. Later . . . later. He leads her to the center.They have rehearsed this until it is perfect in every detail; not a grain of sand stirs as their careful feet pass over. Now they are in the middle of the pattern. Nechtan places her just so, arms by her sides, her face towards the place where he will stand for the invocation, on the second step leading to the main entry. He will be outside the circle.

The house is in darkness. If Mella knows what is unfolding here, she has closed herself off from it. Perhaps she’s putting cold compresses on her bruised face, or tending to her whining brat. More likely she’s abed. She’ll sleep alone. From this night forward, she’ll always sleep alone.

Nechtan bends to kiss Aislinn on the brow, a chaste touch. He makes his way across the circle to the foot of the steps. She sees him take several deep breaths, readying himself, summoning his strength.

Aislinn knows the rules she must obey tonight. Keep silent; do not speak. Stand as still as stone.Whatever you feel, whatever you see, remain in the center. Do not be afraid. I will control them; they cannot harm you. She can do it. She’s practiced standing still for far longer than she’ll need to tonight; she’s learned to conquer the dizziness. No need to practice being quiet. Often she and Nechtan work from dawn to dusk with scarcely a word between them, content in their silent companionship.That he has chosen her, that she is so honored . . . It makes her heart swell. It is a miracle, a wonder, a blessing.

She thinks of her secret, the charm she has discovered all by herself, with no need for Nechtan’s tutoring. She cannot wait to share it with him. As soon as this is over, she’ll tell him of the study she’s been doing in her own time, the things she’s learned, oh, many things, the secret knowledge she’s gained. Perhaps when they have lain together at last, and she has satisfied him, and he lies back to rest, she’ll say, quite casually, Guess what I discovered?

The capricious wind stirs dead leaves across the flagstones.The moon emerges, a pale, blank face staring down at them. Nechtan begins a solemn progress around the circle, starting in the north.

“By the enduring power of earth, I call you!” He walks to the east. “By the invisible power of air, I call you!” He moves sunwise, since this is a ritual of manifestation. “By the transformative power of fire, I call you!” And to the west: “By the fluid power of water, I call you!” He has cast the circle, and now begins a measured walk along the lines of the pentagram, making sure his feet do not disturb the pattern.

When the figure is complete he stands at the north point, closest to the steps. He turns to face the center. “By the all-ruling power of spirit, which knows neither beginning nor ending, I summon you! I call you out of shadow! Out of boundless darkness I conjure you!”

His voice is deep and powerful. It rings around the moonlit courtyard, making the trees shiver.The ancient words tug and pull, coax and beckon, cajole and command.Who could resist such a call?

A trembling courses through Aislinn’s body, a premonition of change, and for the first time she is anxious. What if . . . ? No; look at Nechtan, his dark eyes blazing with confidence, his pose triumphal. He is a master of this craft and he cannot fail.

Now comes the charm proper, the Latin words of power. Once, twice, three times he intones the spell: “Legio caliginis appare! Appare mihi statim! Resurge! Resurge!”

All is silence. As she waits, still as a statue in pale marble, Aislinn hardly dares breathe.

Around the circle, in the spaces between the star’s five points, wisps of vapor begin to rise. As she watches, her heart pounding, the threads and shreds form into shapes, figures of men in the clothing of ancient days, with weapons in hand and helms on their heads. There is a giant warrior with a club in his fist; there a young one with his shirt all bloody, clutching a spear, with his eyes darting to and fro, as if he is astonished to find himself here. Here a dark-skinned man with bow and quiver, there a thin fellow with a belt full of knives ...They are but half-formed, these spirit warriors, still more of mist than substance, their figures wavering as if inclined to vanish back to the realm of shadows from whence they have been summoned. Not strong enough yet . . .