Tower of Thorns

  “Helpful,” he says, sounding as if he doesn’t understand the word.

  “With the translating. Thought you might have been waiting for expert help.” The man keeps staring at the parchment, almost as if he’s lost his wits. “Getting anxious, down at the house. Blackthorn and Lady Geiléis both. Only five days to go.”

  “Yes.” He slips the parchment into his pouch. “Yes, it will be very helpful. I hope to have the translation finished by tomorrow evening, all being well. Please tell Lady Geiléis that.”

  Am I imagining things? I’m tired, no doubt of that. And strung-up about Blackthorn and the monster, and not knowing what’s coming. Could be it’s all in my head. But Flannan’s not his friendly self. Something odd about him today. Funny look in his eye; can’t read it.

  “And Blackthorn,” I say.

  “What?” He’s been miles away. “What’s that?”

  “I’ll tell Blackthorn too. That you’ll be down with the translation tomorrow.”

  Flannan smiles. He doesn’t look happy, though. He looks like a man who’s standing on the edge of a cliff, deciding whether to jump. “Thank you, Grim,” he says. “I think I owe Blackthorn an apology. It’s been some time . . . lack of news . . .”

  “She’s been worried, yes.” I keep it light. Something’s bothering him; can’t guess what. None of my business anyway. “Good luck.”

  “Luck? With what?”

  “Ah,” I say, can’t help myself. “More a matter of skill, isn’t it? Never mind the luck, then.”

  He opens his mouth to say something, but thinks better of it. He goes off toward the infirmary building, and I finish washing, shake myself dryish and set out back to Geiléis’s, not sure if I’ve got good news or not. News, at least. That should be welcome.

  30

  Blackthorn

  News at last! By evening we would know the contents of Flannan’s mysterious document. I’d been thinking I would have to go up the tower blind, so to speak, trusting in my instincts or in the nature of curses to ensure I would know what to do when I reached the top. That might still happen, of course. But if Flannan’s hunch about the manuscript was right, I would climb the tower armed not only with a weapon but also with knowledge, which I’d long considered the sharpest of knives.

  The house was quiet. Grim was long gone up to St. Olcan’s, ready to tackle the last section of his roofing. Not happy, exactly—he’d been looking gloomy and distant ever since he’d started the work—but pleased the job was nearly finished. Pleased we would soon be going home. Only I wouldn’t be going. The knowledge of that, the immensity of it, was a cold weight in my stomach. I knew I should be honest with him. I should tell him straight-out what I was intending to do. But then he’d insist on coming with me, and something bad would happen to him, and . . . that would be a waste. A waste of a man who, whatever he might think, was good through and through. A man who, someday, might make some woman a fine husband, strong and gentle, faithful and generous, and in his own way wise. A man who would be a loving, patient father. I wasn’t going to let that man fall victim to Mathuin’s thugs again, not when he’d got me out of that foul place and stood by me ever since, even when I’d told him to go away and leave me alone. No, he would go back to court, and then to Winterfalls, and I would go south to face Mathuin. That was how it would be.

  The ritual had made up my mind for me at last. Curious; while it had unfolded I’d almost felt I was outside it, looking down at myself, watching myself go through the invocations, the prayers, the blessings, as if I had the power to make the rite real, potent, full of meaning and power. My own duplicity had sickened me. Who was I to call upon the spirits? Who was I to ask them for help when I didn’t even believe anymore? Who was I to stand in front of a community and pretend I had any kind of spiritual authority? A liar, that was what I was. A liar in every corner of my being, for conducting this ritual when I did not believe for a moment that it would achieve its purpose. A bitter, angry woman with no room in her for the little flame my mentor had spoken of, the flame of spirit we all had within us, the light that never truly went out, even in our times of deepest despair. So I’d been taught. So I’d once believed. But my light had been snuffed out years ago. The last of it had died with Cass and Brennan. All that was left was anger and bitterness. Wise woman? Hah!

  Yet I’d finished the cleansing ritual. I’d spoken nicely to people, and smiled, and thanked them for taking the trouble to be there. I’d held myself together, and all the time a tide of loathing had been rising in me, a wave of disgust at the worthless creature I’d become. So I’d made my decision. I would go to Laois. I would see Mathuin brought to justice or die in the attempt. Because, deep down, I knew that unless I did that, unless I stood up to him, I would stay wretched and furious and bitter for the rest of my life.

  Four days left until I dealt with the thing in the tower. It had been awkward talking to Geiléis about Grim. Of course I’d said nothing to her about what I planned for afterward. I only told her, on the quiet, that it would be better if Grim were not present when I went to the tower on Midsummer Eve, since he would be anxious, maybe angry, and that would be a distraction I’d do better without. She had understood immediately and suggested, with a sympathetic smile, that I should tell Grim I intended to make the attempt in the late afternoon. He should be happy enough to go up to St. Olcan’s as usual, for the morning at least. By the time he got back it would all be over. One way or the other, I thought, but did not say it. I didn’t like the lie, but there seemed no choice about it.

  I couldn’t pack for the journey south, though I planned that Flannan and I would leave that same day, before Grim returned from the monastery. As soon as the creature was gone, or dead, or whatever had to happen, I could gather my belongings and we’d head off. I would tell Flannan tonight, when he came with his translation. He would be pleased with me. Proud of me for being the woman who always spoke out against injustice. The one who always stood up to be counted, even if it got her in trouble. Funny. I didn’t feel proud myself. I felt sad. Sad that I had to do this at the cost of Grim’s friendship. I felt like a traitor. And it didn’t help to repeat the familiar arguments to myself, about how people liked him and he had a house and work and so on. Because I knew, deep inside, that if I asked him to come with me, the big fool would throw all that away in a heartbeat.

  I could not settle to anything. I wanted it to be evening now, and Flannan here telling us what he had discovered. I wanted to run up to St. Olcan’s so I could sit right beside him while he completed the translation. I wanted . . . I wanted to be free of lies. To start telling the truth. Often, since we came to Bann, I had wondered if I was surrounded by lies. The bland-faced servants, so courteous and efficient, so guarded in their responses. Geiléis, with her odd defensiveness and her reluctance to let me investigate properly. The local folk, those few I had managed to meet, with their strangely vague memories. But then, the curse itself might be deadening their minds. Making them forget. It might have been making people forget since the time of Geiléis’s ancestors. The monster could have come back over and over with nobody remembering long enough to pass the tale on. It could have been going on since that document of Flannan’s was set down. Before, even. Which would explain why nobody at court had known anything about Geiléis or her situation, even though Bann was within Dalriada’s borders and right next to St. Olcan’s, which was famous everywhere for its scholarship and had the means to send messages out and in. Even the monks might be caught in a web of forgetting.

  I took this theory to Geiléis, who had arisen late as usual and was talking to Senach in the dining chamber. “It’s possible, don’t you think? Something as big as this doesn’t simply vanish from the tales. Even if it’s a long time since the creature was last in the tower—a hundred years, say, or longer. The tower is right next to what used to be a busy river crossing, only two years ago. It’s not the sort of place you forget seeing. An
d the monks are not so very far away. You’d think every scholar who visited St. Olcan’s would take the story with him when he left. You’d think it would have spread not only throughout Dalriada, but right across the north. Perhaps even more widely. Grim said those pigeons fly as far south as Mide, or even farther. What about those young men you said have moved out of the district because they can’t bear the effects of the curse? Don’t they talk about this once they’re settled somewhere else? It seems not. I thought maybe folk did know the story and for some reason weren’t telling. But maybe they’re silent because they can’t tell. Because something has made them forget.”

  Geiléis and Senach had listened in silence while I expounded this theory. Now Geiléis said, “You seem strung tight today, Blackthorn. Are you having second thoughts?”

  “Of course not!” I snapped. I’d expected an informed opinion on my theory, not a comment on my demeanor, which had nothing to do with the matter in hand. “I said I’d attempt this for you and I will. But it’s stupid to go into it without learning everything I can beforehand. To be quite honest with you, I’ve sometimes felt as if I’m being prevented from doing that, and that this household is part of it. But that’s nonsense. You’re asking me to risk my life on your behalf. Why wouldn’t you do everything in your power to help me succeed?”

  A pause, during which I wondered whether I had gone too far; let my frustration get the better of me. After all, Flannan was coming with his translation today, and that might answer all the questions. I could have waited for that before offending my hostess. Besides, I had hardly been open with information myself; I had not asked her about the small folk. Even now, so close to midsummer, my instincts told me I must keep their secret.

  “Forgive me,” Geiléis said, “but I do not understand how your theory about forgetting relates in any way to my willingness or unwillingness to help you. I have provided shelter, food, all the comforts you need. We have not prevented you from carrying out your investigation; all we have done is insist you do not attempt these activities without suitable protection. We have told you everything we know.” She was a model of calm.

  “So you’ve said, several times. But you can’t tell me what you’ve forgotten.”

  Did I imagine the shadow that crossed her features, a look of terrible pain? For a moment I was at Cahercorcan again, in Prince Oran’s council chamber, and she was telling us the tale for the first time, in such despair that even my hard heart was touched. Then she gathered herself, drawing a deep breath, making her face calm. But when she spoke, her voice cracked with emotion. “I have forgotten nothing!” She rose to her feet, graceful as always. “Excuse me.” And she was gone from the room.

  I looked at Senach; he gazed back at me.

  “I’ve upset her,” I said. “I didn’t intend to.”

  “Lady Geiléis understands that, Mistress Blackthorn. With Midsummer Eve so close, we are all on edge. Hoping that Master Flannan’s document will provide some enlightenment.” He hesitated. “If you still wish to pursue other possibilities, one of the men could ride out with you to a more distant group of farms today. I cannot promise you will have any more luck there, but if you want to try . . .”

  “How distant?” One thing I did know, and that was that I wanted to hear Flannan’s news as soon as he arrived.

  “I understand it’s about an hour’s ride each way. Donncha visits the place from time to time. If you left straight after the midday meal you would be home in plenty of time for supper.”

  He was astute. “It might be better to leave earlier. I don’t want to miss Flannan.”

  “The weather is fair,” Senach said. “Folk will be busy with their work until later in the day. You wouldn’t want to ride all that way and find there was nobody to talk to.”

  It was exactly the kind of response I’d been speaking of when I’d accused Geiléis of obstructing my investigation. I refrained from telling him so. After all, he was only doing his job. “Provided we’re back in time, it sounds a good plan,” I said. It would at least give me something to do other than pacing up and down and wrestling with my troublesome thoughts. “I wonder . . . might I take a gift? Not only headache potions and the like but something more immediate. Fresh-baked bread, maybe?” An offering of some kind, however simple, was a good way of loosening folk’s tongues. “It smells as if Dau has been baking this morning.”

  Senach came as close to a smile as he ever did. “Yes, Dau has been plying his skills, and there are fresh loaves in the house. If you wish, take one or two with you.”

  I trailed after him into the kitchen, where Dau was packing a small bag with various foodstuffs. I could not help noticing a willow basket on the bench, with a pattern of ivy leaves woven into the side. “Do the men ever take food out to folk who need it?” I asked. “Isolated cottages? Sick or old people?”

  Senach tensed beside me; I did not think I imagined it. But Dau went on fitting items neatly into the bag, unruffled. “Not often, Mistress Blackthorn. The brothers go out sometimes. From St. Olcan’s. They’re better placed to offer fresh food than we are here.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I did wonder . . . This will seem an odd question, maybe . . . But what about the creature in the tower? It must eat and drink to survive. Where does it get its food from? How could anything be taken up to that high chamber when the whole tower is surrounded by thorns?”

  Dau looked at me calmly. “Birds?”

  “It would need to be rather a large bird,” I said, eyeing the willow basket. Would Dau be filling that next? “And who would be sending them?”

  “I can’t think, Mistress Blackthorn. If the creature’s fey, maybe it doesn’t need to eat.”

  I had the sense of being toyed with, and I did not like it. “It’s just . . . I thought I saw someone walking in the woods near the river. With a basket. It was very like that one.”

  “When was this?” asked Senach from behind me.

  Curse it, I’d made a trap for myself. “A few days before the ritual. I went out by myself for a little. I’m not accustomed to all these restrictions; they make me restless.”

  “Was this someone a man or a woman? One of the monks? A farmworker?”

  I regretted my half-lie already; nobody here was going to tell me what I needed to know. They were a practiced team of players in a game whose rules I did not understand. “A man. I didn’t see him clearly—he was too far away.”

  “It was probably Cronan,” said Senach. “He sometimes takes supplies to an old fellow who lives over the far side of the river. A hermit, more or less. On baking day we send fresh bread, if the water’s low enough.”

  I tried to remember if that had been a baking day. “An old fellow,” I echoed. “Maybe I should be going to talk to him, not to these folk who live an hour’s ride away.”

  “There would be no point,” Senach said. “The hermit is stone deaf and ill-tempered to boot. He wouldn’t give you the time of day. Besides, with Midsummer Eve so close, I am certain Lady Geiléis would not want you to risk the ford. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and speak to Donncha . . .”

  I returned to my own quarters. No sign of Geiléis; my idea about the curse making folk forget had upset her more than I’d expected, though it had seemed plausible to me. This entire household was deeply strange. Everyone behaved as if they had rehearsed their responses. There were only two exceptions I could think of—that brief episode with Caisín, when I’d caught her off guard, and the times when Geiléis lost control of her feelings, whether in anger, sorrow or frustration. At those times, and they were rare enough, I thought I got a glimpse of the woman she was underneath. A woman of passions and conflicts. A woman I thought I would like better than the Lady of Bann with her cool composure. That other woman felt far more real.

  31

  Grim

  It’s enough to start a man thinking of magic, and not a good kind of magic. Last bundle of
reeds goes up, I knock in the last spar, and the next moment the weather starts playing tricks. Could’ve sworn it would stay dry. Know the signs like I know my right hand. But clouds come over, quick as quick, and rain starts falling, so it’s up with the cover again, and no more work for us today.

  Pretty soon it’s bucketing down, soaking the garden. Paths turn to squelching mud. Still, job’s more or less done. Only the ridge left to finish off, and the animals for on top. Don’t need Tadhg anymore. All he’d be doing is passing things up to me. Those last jobs, they’re fiddly. Take a while to learn.

  One dry day, that’s all I need. Maybe two, to be quite sure of finishing. If the rain stops for a bit I can take a bundle of reeds back down to Geiléis’s now and start on the creatures there. Bring them back up after I do the ridge. Tie them on safe—that’s the last job of all.

  Tadhg goes off to the refectory for a meal. Says why don’t I go too, and I say no thanks. I shelter in a dryish spot, where the new thatch sticks out above the door. Thinking that if it stops I’ll go and get that bundle of reeds right away. If I work tonight too I can maybe get the creatures all done. Be fiddly by lamplight, though. Still, time’s short and even if I never see it again, I want the roof looking the way it should, with a proper finish.

  Rain’s coming sideways now, sharp sort of wind behind it. Winter in summer. I hold an old sack up over my head. Doesn’t keep much off. Think of those little folk in the woods, so finely made, like something in a dream. Sheltering where they can. Wonder where they live. Down under the oak roots? In hollow trees, like squirrels? Or are there wee houses hidden all through the forest? Maybe they can make things invisible to our kind. Themselves, even. Gives me a funny feeling, that. Means they could be watching us anytime they wanted, and we wouldn’t know. Easy enough to believe. That little man knew things about Blackthorn and me that nobody could have told him. The one Blackthorn met, the healer, she knew things too. Something about true love’s tears, that herb with the funny little flowers. The small folk are all tangled up in this, same as Geiléis and her servants. Can’t make sense of it, though. Even Blackthorn can’t.