“No, Aislinn.” He opens the door.This time it’s his wife standing there like a skinny scarecrow in her drab gray, hands clasped nervously together, hair scraped back, jaw tight with nerves. The years haven’t been kind to Mella. She was never a beauty, not even when he wed her, and soon, very soon, she’ll be a hag. Bearing his son is the one good thing she’s ever done for him and for Whistling Tor. The dowry was useful, of course, but that’s long gone.
“Maenach is here.” She speaks without preliminaries. “He wants to treat for peace, Nechtan. He’s ready to talk to you, despite everything.You must come and speak with him.”
“Must?” The word hangs between them as Nechtan begins slowly to close the door. He sees the look in his wife’s eyes, the fear, then the sudden resolve. He’s surprised; he didn’t think the dreary creature had any spark left in her.
Mella puts her foot out, arresting the door’s movement. She looks past him, her eyes wintry as they pass over Aislinn. “Nechtan, don’t shut the door.This is our future, yours, mine and our son’s.”
“I have no interest in treaties,” he tells her, not that there’s any point; he knows from long experience that the patterns of his mind are beyond his wife’s comprehension. “They’re irrelevant. Sooner than you can imagine, all will change. Maenach will be less than a speck of dust under my boot. I will crush him.”
“Nechtan, listen to me, please. I’m begging you.” Mella’s face is creased with anxiety. He can see the wrinkles she’ll have as an old woman, if she lives that long. “This is a chance to stop the fighting, to make peace, to resolve the situation once and for all. I’ve never understood what it is you’re doing down here and I don’t especially want to, but neither your little village whore nor your so-called experiment is worth sacrificing your whole life for. The future of Whistling Tor, the future of your family and your people, lies in the balance. Come out, my lord, and sit at the council table.You are chieftain here. Be the man you should be.”
He lifts his hand and strikes his wife across the face, hard enough to send her reeling backwards. He closes the door; slides the bolt home.
“How deep need I go,” he mutters, “to keep the world out?”
My head dizzy, my vision blurring, for a little I did no more than sit quite still at the work table as the images in the obsidian mirror faded away to nothing and Nechtan’s thoughts slipped one by one out of my mind. Outside in the garden a thrush was singing.The sun had moved to the west, sending a stream of light through the library window.When I could move again, I wrapped the dark mirror in its cloth and stowed it away in the chest. There was another leaf of Nechtan’s writings on the table, another part of this story to be visited, belonging to the time after the experiment: the time of the wayward host. I would not look at it now.
When I felt strong enough I went outside again. I stood in the sunlight and spoke the words of a prayer, a simple one from childhood, asking the angels to watch over me. This vision had been less dark than the first. It was not so much what I had seen that was troubling; it was the way the mirror had drawn me into Nechtan’s mind. How many times had Cillian hit me in just the way Nechtan had struck Mella? And yet, watching that, my thoughts had been not hers but his, all violence and fury. Even now his anger flamed red in my mind. It sickened me.
Would it be like this from now on if I continued to use the mirror? Would a little of Nechtan’s evil rub off on me each time, turning me into a person who cared nothing for compassion, forgiveness, kindness, but only lived for power? I understood exactly what Muirne had been talking about. If doing this made me feel so wretched, what would it do to Anluan, with Nechtan’s own blood running in his veins? The chieftain of Whistling Tor was in many ways an innocent. He might be able to summon a host of specters to see off intruders, but this insidious evil could consume him from within. He must not be exposed to it.
“Caitrin?” It was Magnus, standing in the archway. He had a bundle on his shoulder; it looked as if he had only now come back from the settlement, though it was midafternoon. His strong features wore an unusually grim look. “There’s a problem.Where’s Anluan?”
“He went down to the farm some time ago.What’s wrong?” My mind went to Cillian and I felt cold.
“There’s a party of armed Normans on the open ground between the foot of the hill and the settlement, demanding that Anluan come down and speak with them. From what I could understand, they’re under orders to pass their message to nobody but him or his chief councillor. They wouldn’t tell Tomas what it was all about, and they weren’t interested in hearing anything I had to say. They’ve heard enough about this place to stop them from coming up the hill to deliver this decree or whatever it is. See if you can find the others, will you, Caitrin? I’ll fetch Anluan.”
