ALSO BY JULIET MARILLIER
THE BLACKTHORN & GRIM NOVELS
Dreamer’s Pool
THE SEVENWATERS NOVELS
Daughter of the Forest
Son of the Shadows
Child of the Prophecy
Heir to Sevenwaters
Seer of Sevenwaters
Flame of Sevenwaters
THE LIGHT ISLES
Wolfskin
Foxmask
THE BRIDEI CHRONICLES
The Dark Mirror
Blade of Fortriu
The Well of Shades
Heart’s Blood
Prickle Moon
FOR YOUNG ADULTS
Wildwood Dancing
Cybele’s Secret
Shadowfell
Raven Flight
The Caller
ROC
Published by New American Library,
an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
This book is an original publication of New American Library.
Copyright © Juliet Marillier, 2015
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Marillier, Juliet.
Tower of thorns: a Blackthorn & Grim novel / Juliet Marillier.
pages cm.—(Blackthorn & Grim; book 2)
“A ROC BOOK.”
ISBN 978-0-698-13923-7
I. Title.
PR9619.3.M26755T69 2015
823’.914—dc23 2015019510
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
Contents
Also by Juliet Marillier
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Character List
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
For my granddaughter Jamaica
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My heartfelt thanks to the team at Pan Macmillan: Claire Craig, Libby Turner and Brianne Collins; and to Anne Sowards and her team at Penguin U.S. I have found their support invaluable. A very special thank-you to Arantza Sestayo for capturing the spirit of the book so wonderfully in her cover painting. My agent, Russ Galen, has believed in this project from the first, and that is more valuable than I can put into words.
My daughter Elly has been a valuable brainstorming partner and beta reader, creative, honest and patient. The wise and serene Tamara Lampard was my sounding board for matters magical and uncanny.
The central characters in this book have been seriously damaged by past trauma. In preparation for writing the novel, and the series, I read a lot about the effects of PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) and strategies for coping with the condition. I should mention two brilliantly written books by Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist David Finkel: The Good Soldiers, about the experience of a U.S. infantry battalion in Iraq during the so-called “surge” of 2007, and Thank You for Your Service, Finkel’s follow-up volume dealing with the fallout for those servicemen and their families after their return home.
CHARACTER LIST
This list includes some characters who are mentioned by name but don’t appear in the story.
At Winterfalls
Oran: prince of Dalriada
Flidais: Oran’s wife
Donagan: Oran’s companion
Deirdre: Flidais’s chief handmaid
Nuala: maidservant
Mhairi: maidservant
Seanan: man-at-arms
Blackthorn: wisewoman, formerly known as Saorla (seer-la)
Grim: her companion
Emer: (eh-ver) Blackthorn’s young assistant
At Cahercorcan (The Court of Dalriada)
Ruairi: king of Dalriada; Oran’s father
Eabha: queen of Dalriada; Oran’s mother
Sochla: Eabha’s sister
Master Caillín: court physician
Rodan: man-at-arms
Domnall: senior man-at-arms
Eoin: man-at-arms
Lochlan: man-at-arms
At Bann
Geiléis: (ge-lace, hard g) the Lady of Bann
Senach: steward
Dau: (rhymes with now) manservant
Cronan: manservant
Caisín: (ka-sheen) seamstress, married to Rian
Onchú: senior man-at-arms
Donncha: man-at-arms
Rian: man-at-arms, married to Caisín
Mechar: man-at-arms (deceased)
Ana: a cottager
Fursa: her baby son
At St. Olcan’s
Father Tomas: head of the monastic foundation
Brother Dufach: one of the monks
Brother Fergal: gardener
Brother Ríordán: (reer-dawn) head archivist
Brother Dathal: (do-hal) assistant archivist
Brother Marcán: infirmarian
Brother Tadhg: (t¯ıg) a tall novice
Brother Eoan: (ohn) keeper of pigeons
At St. Erc’s
Brother Galen: scribe and scholar (deceased)
Bathsheba: his cat (deceased)
Brother Conall: a novice
In Geiléis’s Tale
Lily: a young noblewoman
Ash (Brión): a young nobleman
Muiríol: (mi-reel) Lily’s maidservant
Others
Mathuin: c
hieftain of Laois
Lorcan: king of Mide
Flannan: a traveling scholar
Ripple: Flannan’s dog
Conmael: a fey nobleman
Master Oisín: (a-sheen) a druid
Cass: Blackthorn’s husband (deceased)
Brennan: Blackthorn’s son (deceased)
Brother Gwenneg: an acquaintance from Geiléis’s past
Cú Chulainn: (koo hull-en) a legendary Irish hero
PROLOGUE
Geiléis
Rain had swollen the river to a churning mass of gray. The tower wore a soft shroud of mist; though it was past dawn, no cries broke the silence. Perhaps he slept, curled tight on himself, dreaming of a time when he was whole and hale and handsome. Perhaps he knew even in his sleep that she still kept watch, her shawl clutched around her against the cold, her gaze fixed on his shuttered window.
But he might have forgotten who she was, who he was, what had befallen them. It had been a long time ago. So long that she had no more tears to shed. So long that one summer blurred into another as the years passed in an endless wait for the next chance, and the next, to put it right. She did not know if he could see her. There were the trees, and the water, and on mornings like this, the mist lying thick between them. Only the top of the tower was visible, with its shuttered window.
Another day. The sun was fighting to break through; here and there the clouds of vapor showed a sickly yellow tinge. Gods, she loathed this place! And yet she loved it. How could she not? How could she want to be anywhere but here?
Downstairs, her household was stirring now. Someone was clanking pots, raking out the hearth, starting to make breakfast. A part of her considered that a warm meal on a chilly morning would be welcome—her people sought to please her. To make her, if not happy, then at least moderately content. It was no fault of theirs that she could not enjoy such simple pleasures as a full belly, the sun on her face, or a good night’s sleep. Her body was strung tight with waiting. Her heart was a constant, aching hurt in her chest. What if there was no ending this? What if it went on and on forever?
“Lady Geiléis?”
Senach tapped on the door, then entered. Her steward was a good servant, discreet and loyal. “Breakfast is ready, my lady,” he said. “I would not have disturbed you, but the fellow we sent to the Dalriadan court has returned, and he has some news.”
She left her solitary watch, following her man out of the chamber. As Senach closed the door behind them, the monster in the tower awoke and began to scream.
• • •
“Going away,” she said. “For how long?”
“King Ruairi will be attending the High King’s midsummer council, my lady.” Her messenger was gray-faced with exhaustion; had he traveled all night? His mead cup shook in his hands. “The queen will go south with him. They will be gone for at least two turnings of the moon, and maybe closer to three.”
“Who will accompany them? Councilors? Advisers? Friends and relations?”
“All the king’s senior councilors. Queen Eabha’s attendants. A substantial body of men-at-arms. But Cahercorcan is a grand establishment; the place will still be full of folk.”
“This son of King Ruairi’s,” she said. “The one you say will be looking after his father’s affairs while they’re gone—what manner of man is he? Of what age? Has he a wife?”
“Prince Oran is young, my lady. Three-and-twenty and newly married. There’s a child on the way. The prince does not live at Cahercorcan usually, as he has his own holding farther south. He is more a man of scholarship than a man of action.”
“Respected by his father’s advisers, those of them who remained behind?” A scholar. That might be helpful. “Is he a clever man?”
“I could not say, my lady. He’s well enough respected. They say he’s a little unusual.”
“Unusual?”
“They say he likes to involve all his folk in the running of household and farm. And I mean all, from the lowliest groom to the most distinguished of nobles. Consults the community, lets everyone have a say. There’s some at court think that odd; they’d sooner he just told folk what to do, as his father would.”
“I see.” Barely two turnings of the moon remained until midsummer. After the long, wearying search, the hopes dashed, the possibilities all come to nothing, she had been almost desperate enough to head south and throw herself at King Ruairi’s feet, foolish as that would have been. Common sense had made her send the messenger first, with orders to bring back a report on the situation at court. She had not expected anything to come of it; most certainly not this. Her heart beat faster; her mind raced ahead. The king gone, along with his senior advisers. The queen absent too. The prince in charge, a young man who would know nothing of her story . . . Could this be a real opportunity at last? Dared she believe it? Perhaps Prince Oran really was the key. Perhaps he could find her the kind of woman she had so long sought without success.
She’d have to ride for Cahercorcan soon—but not too soon, or she risked arriving before the king and his entourage had departed. It was the prince she needed to speak to, not his father. How might she best present her case? Perhaps this scholarly prince loved tales of magic and mystery. She must tell it in a way that would capture his imagination. And his sympathy.
She rose to her feet. “Thank you,” she said to the messenger. “Go to the kitchen; Dau will give you some breakfast. Then sleep. I’ll send for you later if I have further questions.” Though likely he had told all he knew. She’d sent him to the royal household in the guise of a traveler passing through and seeking a few nights’ shelter. There’d be limits to what a lad like him could learn in such a place. “Senach,” she said after the messenger was gone, “it seems that this time we have a real opportunity.” At last. Oh, at last! She had hardly dared to dream this might be possible. “You understand what this means?”
“Yes, my lady. You’ll be wanting to travel south.”
“I will, and soon. Speak to Onchú about an escort, will you? In my absence, you will be in charge of the household.”
“Of course, my lady.” A pause, then Senach added, “When do you plan to depart?”
“Not for a few days.” Every instinct pulled her to leave now, straightaway, without delay; any wait would be hard to bear. But they must be sure the royal party had left court. “Let’s say seven days. That should be long enough.”
“When might I expect you to return, my lady?”
Her lips made the shape of a smile, but there was no joy in her. She had forgotten how it felt to be happy. “Before midsummer. That goes without saying. Prepare the guest quarters, Senach. We must hold on to hope.” Hope, she thought, was as easily extinguished as a guttering candle on a day of spring storm. Over and over she had seen it tremble and die. Yet even now she was making plans again, looking ahead, seeing the way things might unfold. Her capacity to endure astonished her.
“Leave it to me, my lady. All will be ready for you.”
• • •
Later still, as her household busied itself with the arrangements—horses, supplies, weaponry—she climbed back up to the high chamber and looked out once more on the Tower of Thorns. All day its tenant had shouted, wailed, howled like an abandoned dog. Now his voice had dwindled to a hoarse, gasping sob, as if he had little breath left to draw.
“This time I’ll make it happen,” she murmured. “I swear. By every god there ever was, by the stars in the sky and the waves on the shore, by memory and loss and heartbreak, I swear.”
The sun was low; it touched the tower with a soft, rosy light that made a mockery of his pain. It would soon be dusk. There was just enough time.
With her gaze on that distant window, she began the nightly ritual. “Let me tell you a story.”
1
Blackthorn
I sat on the cottage steps, shelling peas and w
atching as Grim forked fresh straw onto the vegetable patch. Here at the edge of Dreamer’s Wood, dappled shade lay over us; the air held a warm promise of the summer to come. In the near distance green fields spread out, dotted with grazing sheep, and beyond them I glimpsed the long wall that guarded Prince Oran’s holdings at Winterfalls. A perfect day. The kind of day that made a person feel almost . . . settled. Which was not good. If there was anything I couldn’t afford, it was to get content.
“Lovely morning,” observed Grim, pausing to wipe the sweat off his brow and to survey his work.
“Mm.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “Something wrong?”
A pox on the man; he knew me far too well. “What would be wrong?”
“You tell me.”
“Seven years of this and I’ll have lost whatever edge I once had,” I said. “I’ll have turned into one of those well-fed countrywomen who pride themselves on making better preserves than their neighbors, and give all their chickens names.”
“Can’t see that,” said Grim, casting a glance at the little dog as she hunted for something in the pile of straw. The dog’s name was Bramble, but we didn’t call her that anymore, only Dog. There were reasons for that, complicated ones that only a handful of people knew. She was living a lifelong penance, that creature. I had my own penance. My fey benefactor, Conmael, had bound me to obey his rules for seven years. I was compelled to say yes to every request for help, to use my craft only for good, and to stay within the borders of Dalriada. In particular, Conmael had made me promise I would not go back to Laois to seek vengeance against my old enemy. I’d known from the first how hard those requirements would be to live by. But my burden was nothing against that borne by Ciar, who had once been maidservant to a lady. For her misdeeds, she had been turned into a dog. Magic being what it was—devious and tricky—she had no way back.
“Anyway,” Grim went on, “it’s closer to six years now.”
“Why doesn’t that make me feel any better? It doesn’t seem to matter how busy I am, how worn-out I am after a day of applying salves and dispensing drafts and giving advice to every fool who thinks he wants it. Every night I dream about the same thing: what Mathuin of Laois did to me, and what I’ll do to him. And the fact that Conmael’s stupid rules are stopping me from getting on with it.”