by David Waid
Slumped and sobbing, she finished. Thoughts came slow now and her eyes blurred. Blood was on her, around her, confusing. Hers or Branagh’s? Both, she remembered.
Focus.
The tendons in her arm had been severed, no longer working. She peered at the wound but could make out nothing definite in the wash of blood.
Concentrate.
Holding her arm over the chalice, Sairshee let the blood patter and run. Ropes of blood seemed to fall in coils or fling out in spattering lines. She slumped forward, almost tipping onto the floor. Yet she held on, reclaimed what she could of her concentration, a thin, fraying thread. With the slippery fingers of her good hand, she managed to grip the chalice, tipping its contents on the line of the pentacle’s outer circle.
Spinning darkness threatened to claim her, but she clung to consciousness, panting, laying down on her back. Her mind had begun to follow a tumbling stream of exhaustion. With the last of her resolve, she concentrated on recalling the most painful experiences of her past, the poison emotions from her dark, fallen angels of memory. Her most bitter hatreds and hurts. Every horror, every secret bile of her life: the swimming, leering face of her father in this chamber, the cold clasp of shackles. When the torments of those memories grew large, she gathered and sent them toward the empty vessel that was Branagh’s psyche.
The spirit sensed the darkness before being consumed, and Sairshee felt the lost girl’s terror like a piercing scream. The shade flailed ineffectually at the invisible walls of its prison. Violent, thrashing turbulence roiled and churned. When she felt the stir and agitation change to deceptive quiescence, she knew she had succeeded.
Immediately, her thoughts seemed less elusive. She was weak, certainly, but already her heart beat more steadily. Examining her arm, she found the blood flow had stopped and it no longer hurt. It itched. She sat up — quick enough to send the room spinning — yet she was stronger, definitely stronger. Her nails scrabbled at where the cuts should be. She spit on her palm and rubbed. Where there had been deep cuts and ribbons of flesh, her skin now held an intricate sigil in lines of hard, raised scar tissue. The mark of the Maleficarum, identifying the Harenin she’d performed.
She felt the spirit’s presence inside the pentacle, but any relation to Branagh was gone. It was the essence of unreasoning hatred, expanding and contracting like a panting animal. Struggling to her feet, Sairshee leaned against the wall. Her legs shook, but she was able to walk. Using the wall for a crutch, she circled the room, watching the empty space that held Branagh’s spirit. As she moved, Sairshee felt the shade’s murderous intent fastened on her until, once again, she stood by the door which yawned on the labyrinth.
“You are a frightening creation,” she said. “But you are mine.” She hefted the ritual knife in her hand and considered the pentacle’s boundary. There were the last words of the scrolls to consider. It would be dangerous to let the girl’s revenant loose without a focus for that rage.
Touching the thing with her mind, she almost recoiled, in spite of the fact that it was a collection of her own furies. Or perhaps because of it. Yet she had come too far to turn aside. She reached out again, laying compulsion on the spirit to seek out the boy, kill anyone nearby, then possess and bring his shell to her here, at the heart of the labyrinth.
Holding her breath, Sairshee tossed the ivory handled knife toward the outer circle. It flipped, end over end, blade flashing. At the very moment it broke the circle’s invisible plane, the binding shattered. A lunatic shriek of triumph sounded inside her head. The cry was so loud, it caused Sairshee to double over in pain. Her hair whipped violently to the side and she stumbled, almost falling sideways to the floor as the force of a strong wind howled past her and out into the twisted tunnels. Soon came the crack of the distant doorway by the stairs. She imagined the litter of debris in her creation’s wake: shattered doors, twisted locks and hinges. Outside, birds would go silent, she thought. Dogs would howl, people would straighten, wondering at the shiver in their spines. Sairshee thought of what she’d done, what she had let loose, and exhausted — sitting on the floor in filthy, blood-stiffened clothes — she smiled.
32. Hekat
The Inn of the Three Shrikes
“We have to go.”
Nairne sat unmoving on the floor beside Caitlin while Eamon’s every instinct screamed danger. The old woman did not look up, nor did she respond. She just sat, sucking in her lips and pushing them out again, brows contracted, deep, crowfoot wrinkles around her sightless eyes.
Caitlin also said nothing. In contrast to Nairne, her face was smooth, untroubled. She seemed content to sit, hands in her lap, staring at the witch.
“I think the innkeeper’s girl ran to fetch someone on us,” Eamon said. “More bandits, maybe.”
It seemed the old woman hadn’t heard, but at last she spoke. “Guide me to the door, boy. An’ you, young Caitlin, will kindly remain as ye are.”
In the hallway, Nairne whispered to Eamon. “I’ve told ye she is Hekat, but not what that truly means. The dead will talk to her, boy. Night and day. There’s never been a one called ‘bone conjurer’ but didn’t end in madness. An’ fer her so young, it can only be worse.”
Over her shoulder, Eamon saw his sister staring at the wall, head tipped to one side and he could imagine her harkening to the murmurs of shadow.
Nairne clutched his wrist in a painful grip. “Yer sister’ll never be the same.”
“She’ll get better.”
“Arra! The greatest kindness might be to put her down.”
“What?”
“Quick and clean with a knife.”
He cried out, tried to pull away, twisting, but she held on. Caitlin seemed not to notice.
“You said you’d protect us,” Eamon hissed.
“An’ who’s to say mercy isn’t protection — fer her an’ fer you?”
“I do.”
Nairne looked as though she might say something hot in reply, but instead she let go.
“No doubt ye’ve the right of it. Don’ listen to me, boy. Curse it, I’ve been tryin’ to save her skin these days a-gone, not tack it to the wall. Yet I think we may have cause to regret the kindness before all is said.”
“Let’s leave. Please. I have a terrible feeling.”
“Fetch some milk an’ bread fer yer sister. Strength first, travel after.”
He didn’t move.
“Tcha! Go on with ye, boy. If I’d wanted to kill yer sister, I’d have done it as I sat beside her.” She held out her hand. In it was the little knife Caitlin had used to kill the rooster.
“Go,” she said. “Caitlin needs food to remind her she’s more alive than dead. Upon the soul of my son, I’ll not harm a hair on her head.” Just a moment more he wavered, then Eamon dashed for the stairs, taking them two at a time.
33. Landfall
The Coast of Leinster
Teresa woke damp but warm among folds of sailcloth in the forecastle. Memories of the storm still shook her. Knowing Mina had tried to subdue her in the midst of that chaos made her arms and legs tremble. Yet the ship had sailed through the worst, and Teresa remained free and unhurt, thanks to the bearded sailor and whatever saints watched over her.
She touched her face. The bandage from her burn had come off in the rain and seawater and her skin was tender to the touch. Gently, she explored the wound and once again wondered how disfigured she would be when it healed.
The shouts of the seamen filtered through the door. The captain called out to his pilot on the sterncastle. “Herr Amsel. Nimm uns näher zum Küste und Verankerung.” Bring us closer to shore and anchorage. The words sent a jolt through Teresa and she sat upright, forgetting all about her burn.
Clambering from the sea chest, she straightened her clothes as best she could and ran a hand through salt-stiff hair. She did not see Lady Tummia or Mina when she opened the door a crack and peered through. Stepping from the forecastle, she had no way of knowing how long she’d slept. The rag
ing sea had settled to a choppy field and black, obscuring clouds still clotted the sky. Yet a sun no larger than a gold florin flared briefly between the two. Its orange light edged the clouds, burnished the water with flashes of copper. Even as she watched, the orb dipped behind a series of rolling mountains.
She almost cried at the sight and whispered a silent prayer of thanks. Ireland at last. Ignacio had wanted Teresa to be here, now she was. She couldn’t make out the land’s details, but an icy wind carried the perfume of evergreens and hearth fires. It cut through her damp tunic as if she stood naked at the ship’s rail.
With difficulty, she tore her gaze away from land to survey the deck. The hatch stood open amidships, the captain beside it. Half the crew pumped bilge water while others worked to repair and put the ship back in order after the storm. As she watched, he set three of those men to reefing the sail. Two others he directed to lower a small shore boat over the ship’s side and tie it off on a cleat.
Teresa almost couldn’t believe her ears. Her hands began to shake, and not from the cold. She wondered for a moment why they would go ashore before reaching Dublin, but with a laugh remembered the scuttlebutt and the ship’s tainted water. Tummia’s attack could end up providing her escape. The chance had come.
When the canvas had been furled, the three seamen assigned the task headed below, slumped with exhaustion, the bearded sailor among them. She almost called out, but the captain was watching. The sailor kept his head down, avoided her eyes, yet she thought his tired grin was for her.
Lady Tummia and her servant remained out of sight, and for that she was grateful, though they were probably in the lady’s cabin hatching some new evil. For a fleeting moment, Teresa thought of confronting the witch, but she couldn’t match Mina’s strength and wouldn’t risk conjuring the only magic she knew would hurt them. The uncontrolled fire she’d summoned in the orchard seemed almost to have a life of its own. It might burn the ship, but her real fear was that it would burn the crew. After the bearded sailor had saved her life, she could no longer consider that. Her best hope was to steal away on the boat that was even now being borne to the rail.
The sailors carrying it fastened the boat with ropes at either end, hoisted it above the rail and lowered it down. She itched to get in as soon as it touched the water, but the light of sunset made sneaking in impossible and two sailors remained by the ladder. She shivered again and chafed her arms. Her cloak was in the cabin below, but she didn’t care. Teresa had no idea how she would get aboard that little boat, but she would. Getting ashore was all that mattered; everything else would take care of itself.
She tried to make herself unobtrusive and stared everywhere but at the skiff. Unable to keep still, Teresa’s fingers touched her neck, twisted a hank of hair, fretted at the stitching in her tunic. And just like that, she froze, transfixed by the realization that she wasn’t wearing Ignacio’s pendant. Blood drained from her face and her stomach clenched in a sick knot. She’d fallen asleep in her cabin with the charm still clutched in her hand. In the danger that followed, she had forgotten to slip it back on.
The ship’s anchor splashed into the sea. The skiff floated beside the Beornsdæd. This was the chance she had been hoping for. She couldn’t miss it. Yet the sailors remained at the ship’s side and made no movement to climb into the boat. She might have a moment to go below. She might. Running for the stairs, Teresa raced below deck.
In the crew’s quarters, some of the men were already abed and snoring. The lamp had been lit again — thank God for that — so Teresa was able to hurry around the base of the stairs to the gangway. Before she could reach her cabin door, however, she stopped and a sudden, crushing weight of fatigue descended on her.
But I’ve just slept. The thought had barely formed before Teresa dropped to her knees. Her eyelids felt puffed, their insides dry like paper. She tried to lift them wide, but they wilted, sagging and impossibly heavy. A thought sprang up that these troubles would soothe into sleep if only she closed her eyes. She had already made it to Ireland; that was the important thing. Rest. Rest would help her face the hardships waiting ashore. Her cabin lay just ahead. She could stumble inside, throw herself into the warm nest of rumpled blankets. Yet she was too tired even for that. Head drooping, she slumped against the bunk beside her.
In it lay one of the sailors, sleeping like the dead. Something about his face — dark circles in the hollows of his eyes, lids pale and slick — beat an alarm in her head. She mustered the strength to mumble, “No.” She couldn’t sleep through this chance. The boat outside was a miracle, the answer to her prayers. Yet the gulf opening to take her away was feathery soft and dark. Teresa pressed fingernails into her palm as hard as she could and pain cleared some of the sleep, enough to know something was desperately, dangerously wrong.
Now more than ever she needed to think clearly. Pulling her hand back, she let it fly, directly to the burn wound on her face. Her palm struck and white-hot pain tore away the last shrouds of fatigue. Savage heat blossomed, the wound pulsed and throbbed.
With sleep no longer clouding her mind, Teresa knew this had been nothing natural. She pictured the witch crouched chanting in her cabin, malignant and focused, ribbons of sweet smoke around her head. Climbing to her feet, Teresa propped herself against the sailor’s bunk, staggered along the gangway toward her cabin door. Prickles rolled across her skin, just like they had in the orchard. If she hadn’t already known it, that would have been enough to tell her sorcery was near. Yet it wasn’t just the lie of fatigue she sensed, because the closer she got to her cabin, the stronger that prickling grew. The muscles in her arms and back were tight, every inch of skin a-tingle.
The door hung open and by the light of the lone, distant lamp, she saw the room was empty. Closing her eyes, Teresa opened her mind, just like in the orchard. An image broke upon her as if her eyes were open, and she fell back a step, stunned, bathed in bright light. Across the door shone what looked like a translucent sheet of scintillating color, a web of glamour. And on some distant level, she knew this second snare was not a trap for the body, but the mind. The lady had taken no chances.
A thought crystallized and Teresa cursed herself for a fool. The shore boat had always been intended for her, but only as Lady Tummia’s pigeon, trussed and pacified.
She opened her eyes and once again stood in the corridor’s gloom, with only the gangway lamp for light. The cabin was dark, the doorway empty. She retreated from the innocent seeming threshold until her back touched the door of the other cabin.
The distant lamp flickered, almost went out. Flickered again. The sailors lay still, eyes closed, mouths open, arms and legs flung in careless sleep. Once more, the light flickered, then it died. The entire space below deck should have been pitch dark, but Teresa could see. Faint blue light shone down the stairs through the open hatch. A lady’s slippered foot stepped on the first tread.
Teresa was cut off from the ship’s stern and the second set of stairs. Her heart beat fast, loud. There had to be something she could do. She opened the door behind her, slipped inside and a whisper followed, faint as the lady’s light.
“Teresa.”
The crack she had left open showed lighter than the walls around it. Teresa knelt, peering around the doorframe. Down the narrow corridor, along the gangway she looked. Tummia stood there with a translucent wide-bottomed bottle held in both hands. From it shone a blue light that made everything seem part of some sunken grotto. The witch’s fingers on the glass sent shafts of shadow to either side. From the bunks around the lady, arms and legs spilled, pallid, like corpse limbs in a sea wreck. Teresa half expected to see crabs scuttling sideways atop a rise of still chest or thigh, scavenging among the dead.
A scream gathered in her chest, threatening to break free and splinter the air. Clapping a hand over her mouth, Teresa slid back from the door on her knees. She stood, easing the door closed to a slender crack, then spun, searching the tiny cabin. The bed platform was stripped bare, the
lockers too small to hold her. Per Dio! There was no place to hide.
The blue light strengthened, grew brighter, whiter. Staring wide-eyed through the crack, a stripe of it ran down Teresa’s front, crown to toe. Lady Tummia’s head peeped along the corridor, leaning into Teresa’s field of vision, facing the other cabin. The hackles on Teresa’s neck lifted. The scream on her lips curdled away to nothing.
“Teresa?”
Taking a step, the witch peered through the other door. In the light of her bottle, the cabin was revealed in full, empty but for the snarl of blankets on the floor. The woman’s breath hissed. She started to turn as Teresa threw open the door of her refuge.
The scream in Teresa’s throat came rushing back up and out as she charged, slamming into Tummia with her shoulder. The lady snapped forward and the moment she tripped through the cabin’s threshold, the invisible trap sprung. The air rippled and a sound pulsed so low, Teresa felt it in her stomach. Prickles flamed across her skin and the witch dropped to the floor as if every bone had been plucked from her body.
The glass bottle fell, but it didn’t break. It rolled, throwing mad, twirling light and shadow. Tummia sat crumpled between bed and wall, half turned, knees to her belly, head tipped back against the bed platform. Her eyes were open, though only white showed. Her chest moved to quick, shallow breaths. Teresa could feel a wash of magic surging around the witch. She waited for Tummia to get up, but the lady just sat, repeating the word “no” again and again.
No crewman had roused to Teresa’s scream or the thump of the witch’s fall. They remained as they were, bound in slumber. Yet where was Mina? The servant, so quick, so silent, was missing.
Closing her eyes, Teresa opened her mind again. The sheet of light had enveloped Tummia, collapsing around her like shimmering silk. Edging past the fallen witch and careful not to touch her, Teresa searched among the blankets and found Ignacio’s charm. She clutched it to her chest, breathing a prayer of thanks and relief.