He was thinking of what had happened to his mother, perhaps. But the situation was not at all the same. Besides, he’d said himself that Emer’s death might have been accidental. “I’m sure I’ll be safe,” I told him. “How soon are you going?”
He glanced up at the walkway again; the pacing forms of the guards flickered, dreamlike, amongst the shrouds of mist. “We’ve men on watch who will alert us when the Norman party rides into view,” he said.“That’s if anything can be seen through this mist. Magnus says we’ll have time to get down to the settlement before them, if they use the Whiteshore road.”
Magnus chose that moment to appear in the kitchen doorway.“Breakfast,” he said. “You can’t be a hero on an empty stomach.”
“Not much of a hero,” murmured Anluan. “But perhaps I can learn. Shall we go in, Caitrin?” He held out his arm.The gesture was formal, but as I slipped my arm through his, I had the curious feeling that each of us was incomplete without the other. Apart, we would always be wanting; together, we were whole.
Since I could not tell him this, I said,“Come home safely,” my voice so quiet that I might have been speaking to myself.
The sun rose higher and the mist dissipated. A call came from the sentries atop the wall, and Anluan and Magnus set off down the hill.With Fianchu following me, I went to Irial’s garden as Eichri, Rioghan and Olcan headed for their various positions. Everything had been planned to the last detail.
I settled on the bench with a basket of mending, needing an occupation for my hands. My stomach was tying itself in knots. I would not be at ease until I saw Anluan walk back in through that archway, smiling his crooked smile and telling me all had gone to plan.
Muirne had not been present at breakfast, but she joined me in the garden soon after the men left. She did not offer to help with the mending, simply sat at the other end of the bench and watched me, features grave, hands folded in her lap. Gearróg was stationed just inside the archway, spear in hand. Neither of them had much conversation today.
Time passed.A little breeze rustled the leaves of the birch tree. I patched the knee on a pair of Magnus’s trousers and repaired a seam on a gray tunic of Anluan’s.With my eyes on the plain linen, I saw instead his wan face, his troubled eyes, a lock of his hair escaping its cord to tumble down over his pale brow, frost and flame. I imagined him standing as straight as he could, facing Lord Stephen’s emissaries; in my mind, I heard his deep voice speaking with such authority that everyone sat up to listen. He could do it. Of course he could.
The tunic was done. I folded it neatly and put it back in the basket. I got up and stretched, glancing at the sky and trying to judge how much time had passed. I walked around the pathway, stooping to examine the heart’s blood plant. Buds were developing, their tight-furled forms barely hinting at the brilliant color to come. Within a turning of the moon, the blooms would be ready for harvest. There was a lean-to building against the garden wall, a low stone structure that I assumed might hold tools, including perhaps equipment for distillation and decoction; an herbalist like Irial must have had such paraphernalia. I’d never seen the place open; the door was bolted. Perhaps nobody had used it since his time. I entertained a brief vision of myself in there, making a perfect batch of heart’s blood ink. Then I returned to sit on the bench, thinking how long ago that day seemed when Anluan had accepted my wager.
“You appear agitated, Caitrin.” Muirne’s voice was calm as a millpond. “Are you having second thoughts about this plan?”
“Of course not!” I snapped, my fraying nerves getting the better of me. “The plan makes good sense. Everyone agreed to it.” Except you. I fished in the basket for more mending, something to stop me from getting into an argument with Muirne, which would achieve nothing beyond upsetting me further. “I’m sorry,” I made myself say. “I am a little edgy.” It seemed I’d even upset Fianchu. He’d been lying at my feet, but now his head was up, his ears were pricked, and a subterranean growling was issuing from his throat. “Be calm, Fianchu, lie down, good boy.”
The dog ignored me, scrambling up to stand alert, the warning growls becoming barks of challenge. Alerted by the sound, Gearróg came along the path towards us. “What is it—aaaghh!” His words were lost in a groan of pain as he crumpled to his knees, his spear falling with a metallic clang to the stones of the path. He doubled up, shielding his head with his hands. His chest heaved; a powerful shaking possessed his body.
I jumped to my feet, mending forgotten. “Gearróg, what’s the matter, what’s wrong?” He was in terrible pain, hunched over and moaning. Fianchu began to whine, as if he, too, was in agony. A moment later, as I was crouched beside Gearróg, trying to get him to kneel up, the big dog bolted out through the archway and off into the forest. “Muirne, help me!” My guard’s body was seized by retching spasms; he fought for breath. “Fetch someone, quickly! We need help!”
No answer. I glanced frantically over towards the seat, but nobody was there. During the commotion, it seemed Muirne had slipped away from the garden.
“Gearróg, I’ll get help.Try to lift your head, here . . .”
Gearróg swung out suddenly, catching me across the arm and chest. I went sprawling backwards onto the flagstones, jarring hip and elbow.“Stop, make it stop!” he yelled. “Keep away! No! No!” The arm swung again. I ducked my head to avoid it. His eyes were wild. Whatever he was seeing, it surely wasn’t me.
My heart hammering, I got onto one knee.Try to help him or run away as fast as I could? He swiped the air, then clapped his hands over his ears. His features were twisted in a grimace of agony.“Make it stop!” he screamed.
Somewhere out in the forest Fianchu was barking. I crouched just out of Gearróg’s reach.
“Gearróg, it’s Caitrin.” I hardly knew my own voice, it was shaking so much.“Caitrin, you remember? I’m trying to help you. Just hold on a little longer. I’m going to fetch someone—”
Shouts broke out on the walkway, not warnings of coming danger but cries of pain. I looked up. Men were staggering, falling, clutching onto whatever they could find to stop themselves from a long drop to the courtyard. Weapons clattered down as hands lost their grip. Two men were at each other’s throats, fingers squeezing, legs braced, eyes bulging. Another snatched up a fallen knife and charged along the narrow way, screaming.
“Muirne!” I yelled. “Muirne, where are you? I need help!” A warrior leaped up onto the parapet, spreading his arms as if to launch himself into flight, and there was Cathaír, seizing the man’s leg, shouting, “No, you fool! Hold fast! Hold fast, all of you!” One of the monks was cowering in a corner, trying to fend off a big fellow with an axe. Dear God, what was this?
A sudden chill by my right side. The ghost child was there, Róise clutched in one hand, the other slipping into mine.“Catty,” she whispered, “my head hurts.” And then, sharp and distinct, there came to my nostrils the smell of smoke. I whipped around, the child’s hand still in mine, Gearróg huddled on the pathway in front of me, and saw it seeping out under the library door, an insidious gray blanket. Through the glazed window something flickered, golden, deadly. The library was on fire. The manuscripts. The books. The grimoires—the ancient pages would go up like a torch. A burst of light, a flare of heat and the history of Whistling Tor would be gone.With it would go any chance of finding the counterspell.
“No!” shrieked Gearróg, rolling over, booted feet kicking, arms threshing. “Make it stop! Leave me be!”
Cold sweat broke out on my skin. From behind the library door I thought I could hear the crackling of hungry flames. I stood frozen as the child clutched at my skirt and began a piercing wail, “No fire! No fire!” Gearróg had come up onto his knees and was groping for his spear, which had rolled out of reach. His arm was twitching so violently that for now he had little chance of grasping the weapon.The smoke thickened around us. Blind panic was only a breath away.
“I need you to help me,” I said, squatting down beside the ghost child. “Take
Róise up to my bedchamber right now. Run as fast as you can.You can get into my bed if you want. Stay there until I come, however long it takes.”
She obeyed, silent now, running across Irial’s garden through the drifting smoke and out through the archway. I turned back to find Gearróg on his feet with the spear in his hand, four paces away and facing me. His eyes were desperate. He would kill me without hesitation if he believed that would silence the voice in his head. Behind him the library burned.
“Gearróg,” I said shakily, “you’re a good man.You’re a warrior. Anluan needs you. He needs you to stand guard until he comes back up the hill. It won’t be long.”
The warrior shifted from foot to foot, his fingers clenching and unclenching on the spear shaft. His eyes darted from me to the walkway, where men still fought and yelled and fell.“Anluan doesn’t want me hurt,” I said.“I’m his friend. I’m your friend. Gearróg, the library is on fire. Please let me pass so I can save the books.” I edged forward; he stood immobile, blocking the way. God help me, if I didn’t get in there soon it would all be gone. “Gearróg, let me pass! Please!”
Gearróg lurched to one side, striking his temple with a clenched fist. “Stop your wretched ravings,” he muttered.This time he wasn’t talking to me. “Hush your poisonous prattling! Let a man do his work!”
Up on the walkway, someone started to sing. It was a ragged, desperate sort of song, dredged from old memory, the kind of tune a man reaches for when there is nothing else to keep the mind from tumbling right over into madness. Stand up and fight, men of the hill . . . A creaky old voice, not quite in tune, but raised high enough to cut through the mayhem of shouts and screams, scuffling and cursing:“Stand up and fight, men of the hill
Dauntless in courage, united in will
Swing your swords proudly, hold your heads high . . .
Gearróg was staring up towards the walkway as new voices joined in, first one, then another, then more and more in an uncertain chorus.“Brothers together,” he muttered, “we live and we die . . .”
I dashed past him, along the path, up the steps, pausing for a moment to snatch my handkerchief from my belt and press it over my nose and mouth before I pushed open the library door. In my mind a desperate list of priorities was forming itself: Irial’s notebooks, which were nearest to the door and might not yet be damaged. The grimoires, left in a stack beside my work table. Nechtan’s documents and the transcriptions I had already completed.The box with the obsidian mirror . . .
The place was thick with smoke. I couldn’t see an arm’s length before my eyes. Choking, coughing, I groped my way over to the shelves where Irial’s notebooks were stored, ready to grab an armful and flee out into the garden with them. I had no chance of putting out the fire. By the time I fetched even one bucket of water, everything could be gone, and Gearróg was in no fit state to help. My arm swept along the shelf, but Irial’s records were not there—someone had moved them. Or was I in the wrong place? The smoke was stinging my eyes, making my nose run, creeping into my throat. My breath rasping, I screamed, “Muirne! Anyone! Help!”
No books on the floor beneath the shelf; nothing at all of Irial’s. Smoke wrapped me in a clinging shawl; I could no longer see the open doorway. I fumbled blindly towards the place where I had piled up the grimoires. My head felt odd. I could see patterns in the smoke, faces with gaping mouths, hands with rending claws . . .“Muirne,” I whispered, or maybe I only spoke in my mind. Someone come . . .
I fell to my knees and crept forwards. Every instinct told me not to breathe, but I had to, and with every breath my chest hurt more. Keep going, Caitrin. The grimoires . . . I couldn’t let the counterspell be burned to nothing . . . You can do it, Caitrin.This way . . . this way . . .
I reached the stack of books and collapsed beside it, eyes stinging, chest heaving. Dimly, I registered surprise that I could see no flames in the library, only the dense, choking cloud of smoke. My hands fastened around a book; one seemed to be all I had the strength to lift. Now out, out into the garden and fresh air . . . Which way? I turned my head, but the place was full of the suffocating blanket. Where was the door? My head reeled; the smoke swirled around me. I couldn’t seem to catch my breath. You’re going to die, Caitrin.You’re going to die for a book full of ridiculous love potions and improbable straw-to-gold charms.
I dropped the grimoire and began to crawl, trying to feel my way out. The leg of a table. A box—the chest holding Nechtan’s wretched mirror. My head struck something hard: the bench. A chair. A smaller table. Not far now.
The door slammed shut. The air seemed to tremble around me. The smoke thickened. I covered the last distance on my belly, retching, feeling the poison seep into my lungs. I clawed my way up the wall, clutching for the iron bar that held the door closed. I wrenched at it. Why wouldn’t it move? Why were my hands so weak? Around me everything dimmed, as if the day was already over. My fingers could not hold on to the latch. Help, I mouthed. Someone help me. But all that came was the dark.
chapter ten
Orifting. Dizzy. Sounds coming and going, lancing through my head. Voices, muffled. A clanking of metal. Trying to swim up . . . A heaviness holding me down.
“Don’t move, Caitrin.You’re safe. Lie still.”
His voice.Tears running down my face. Every breath a little mountain to be climbed, a new test of courage.
“You’re safe, Caitrin. Don’t try to move.”
No breath to speak.There was something I had to say, but all that came out was a croak. “Books . . .”
His hand against my cheek, warm, strong. “As if the books mattered,” he said.
“Tell . . .”
“The books are safe. Don’t try to talk. If you can, take a sip of water. Here.”
A cup at my lips. Sip, swallow. Fire. Pain. Something wrong with me.
“Lie back, Caitrin. I’m here, and so is Magnus. Rest now.”
“. . . hold . . .”
His fingers laced themselves through mine. I turned my head against the pillow and fell back into the dark.
Swimming up again, not so slow this time. Eyes open. Beams, stones, spider webs. A man in a blue cloak riding into battle; a hound at the horse’s heels. A little draft stirred the embroidered panel. Dust danced in lantern light. My own chamber, and late in the day. Nobody holding my hand, but someone in the room with me. I turned my head. Magnus was sitting on a stool a few paces away, a big sword across his knees. He had a cloth in his hand, and was polishing the blade. A blood-red glint in the shining metal. Signs of war.
“Magnus.” My voice crackled like an old woman’s. “Can I have some water?” It still hurt to breathe, but maybe not so much as before.
His hand lightly against my back, steadying me as he reorganized the pillows.The cup at my lips again. I drank deep, relishing the coolness. My throat felt as rough as dry leather.
“It’ll hurt for a while.”The big man’s tone was matter-of-fact.“Smoke does that.You’ve been lucky, Caitrin. Seems you somehow locked yourself in. Gearróg broke the door down.We got back just as he was carrying you out.” It was clear to me that Magnus did not believe this fairly simple account of what had happened.
“Anluan?”Why wasn’t he here? Had I imagined those soft words, that gentle touch?
“You’ve had quite a few folk anxious over your state of health, and him more than anyone. I packed him off to rest. He didn’t go willingly.”
“Magnus, what . . .” It seemed an immense effort to ask; there was so much I needed to know.
“All in good time.” His gaze was the calmly assessing one of a person who has cared for more than his share of the sick and wounded. “Drink some more of that water first, and we’ll get you a bowl of broth.” He went to the door, stuck his head out and said, “Caitrin’s awake. Send someone down to the kitchen for supplies, will you, lad? Broth is all she can take right now.There’s a pot beside the fire.”
“Who’s out there?” I asked. In my head was the image of men
from the host up on the walkway, striking out at random as if the whole world was their enemy. I saw Gearróg writhing, his eyes full of demons. My arm was sore.When I rolled back the sleeve of my gown, it was to reveal a deep purple bruise.
“The first thing he’s going to ask you is who gave you that.” Magnus pulled the stool up beside my bed and sat down. He had placed the sword atop a chest, his hands careful.
“It was an accident. Magnus, are they all safe? The men of the host, I mean? There was a . . . they seemed to . . .”
His mouth formed a grim smile. “We’ve had an account of it; there’s been no reason to doubt that story. Safe? If you mean, has anyone died twice over, I don’t think that’s possible. As for the fire, that was an odd thing, very odd. Some of your documents sustained a bit of damage from the smoke, but nothing was burned.The whole thing seemed . . . conjured; not quite real.”
“The smoke was perfectly real,” I said, my skin prickling with unease. “What are you suggesting, Magnus? That it was all just . . .” I couldn’t bring myself to say it. It was devised with the sole purpose of getting rid of me. I remembered Róise swinging, swinging from the wire.
“I’m not suggesting anything,” he said, but he was avoiding my eye. “Caitrin, this has shocked Anluan badly. Both of us, to tell the truth.When Olcan called out to us from the barrier, and we came out and saw the smoke, it was . . . It brought back some very unwelcome memories. I’ve never run so fast.”
I scrutinized my companion more closely, seeing what I had not taken in before: the pallor of his strong features, the frown between the bushy gray brows, the set of his shoulders, not as square as was customary. “Fianchu raised the alarm?”
“He raced down to where Olcan was on guard, and Olcan came to fetch us. We ran back up the hill. Anluan couldn’t keep up; he made me go on ahead. God, Caitrin, I expected to find the same thing as last time, the very same, the house half burned away and you lying dead in the embers.”