Tower of Thorns (21 page)

Geiléis was on the steps to see us off. “Do not be tempted to remove the earplugs,” she warned. “Onchú will tell you when to put them in; you will not need them for the first part of the walk. Once your ears are blocked, you must keep the others in sight at all times. The monster's call is far more powerful at close quarters. Do not linger on the island long. Do not allow the thorns to pierce your flesh.”

“Why not, apart from the fact that it would hurt?”

“Last midsummer, I managed to avoid scratches. My men-at-arms were not so fortunate. Show them, Onchú.”

The guard rolled up his sleeve to reveal a network of lumpy, raised welts, stark red against his pale skin.

“Ill humors were quick to enter the wounds,” Geiléis said. “He
suffered from a fever for many days; we thought he would die of it. Another of my men sustained similar injuries. I think it possible that these thorns contain a poison. Take the utmost care, all of you.”

I was still staring at those scars. Had Onchú attempted to fight his way bodily through the thorny hedge? It seemed that he had taken very little care for his own welfare. In my opinion he was extremely fortunate to have survived. Indeed, though they were terrible to see, the wounds had healed remarkably well.

“How was your illness treated, Onchú?” I asked. “Poultices? Lotions? Leeches?”

“The fever abated with time, Mistress Blackthorn. The swelling went down of its own accord, about ten days after midsummer.”

“You were badly scarred.”

“Every warrior carries scars.”

“What Onchú will not tell you,” said Geiléis, “is that he incurred these injuries in an attempt to free me from the branches that were whipping back and threatening to encage me. He was a true warrior that day, as was Mechar.”

Something in her tone alerted me. “Is Mechar still here?” I asked.

“He died. The fever burned him up. That was almost merciful, as he would have lost his hands.”

The two men-at-arms made a gesture, both at the same time; a clenched fist laid over the heart.

“Sad loss,” said Grim.

“It was indeed a grievous loss,” Geiléis said, “and serves as a warning to all of us. Be cautious. Keep your ears blocked at all times, unless Onchú tells you it is safe. And do not touch the thorns.”

I was the one she was looking at; I was the one she thought most likely to disregard sensible advice. I could hardly blame her for that. “We understand,” I said.

“Go safely.”

It was interesting, how being told to stick to a single path made a person long to explore all the others. But we had no real choice. As
Geiléis's guests, we could hardly disregard her precise instructions. So we followed Onchú along what appeared to be the main way through the woods, a track broad enough to accommodate a cart and a pair of horses, though its state of repair suggested it seldom had to carry anything but foot traffic. In days past, when the ford was still in use, this path would have allowed people and supplies to be conveyed to and from the north; it must have formed part of a whole network of tracks between the various settlements on Geiléis's holdings. I did not ask our guards who was responsible for maintaining the area. I would save my questions for the time when I most needed the answers. Thus far, Onchú had not told us to block our ears, so we walked with the monster's cries ringing in our heads. I tried to make words from them—
I'll kill you! Get off my land! Help! Let me out!—
but could not. The creature's voice was odd indeed, like that of someone calling through a strange horn or a restricting mask. What shape was its head? What of its mouth and nose? The cry was not that of a wolf or a horse or a stag. It was not the bellow of a bull or the screech of a bird or the grunting of a wild pig. It was most surely not the voice of a man.

There were many side tracks, most of them half-hidden, for where human foot no longer trod, a small army of shade-loving plants had made itself at home beneath the shelter of ancient oak, venerable ash and guardian holly. The place must be rich with healing herbs and fungi. I longed to explore those byways, to forage and to learn. The forest called me. But no voice was louder than the monster's. My own inner voice suggested I might slip out again later, on my own. If I kept my ears blocked I should not be led astray. And who could object to a wise woman gathering herbs?

The stands of oak and ash gave way to willow, elder and alder. Sunshine streamed down between the leaves, brightening the path. Although the monster's voice was loud, I could also hear running water.

“This river,” said Grim. “Deep, is it? How do we get across?”

“We wade,” said Onchú. “At this time of year the water is
relatively shallow. There's a boat, but it fell out of use long ago. We should block our ears now. If you need to draw my attention or Donncha's, make a gesture or tap us on the shoulder. Your earplugs won't keep out the monster's voice entirely, but they'll mute it so it's bearable.”

I could imagine what kind of response there'd be to the sudden hand on the shoulder, when a man could hear nothing and was traversing an island that held some kind of unspeakable creature. I knew enough about fighting men to be fairly sure the first reaction wouldn't be a polite query as to whether anything was wrong.

“Stay well away from the thorns. And keep in sight of us at all times. We won't be on the island for long.”

“All right?” asked Grim as we took our supplies of woolen wadding from our pouches.

“Fine.” I was sorely tempted to disobey Onchú's instructions; how could we investigate properly if we couldn't hear? But I'd given Geiléis my word, so I blocked my ears. I saw on Grim's face, as he stuffed the wadding in his own ears, that his thoughts were running on the same path. If the tower had nothing to tell us this morning, we might need to come back another time. An unofficial visit, without the escort.

Our track through the woods had taken us down a gentle slope; at no point during our walk had the tower been visible. Now, as we came out from the cover of the trees, the ford lay before us, a broad expanse of rippling water, with the track reappearing on the far side, climbing before it vanished into another tract of woodland. To our right, downstream, was the island, and on it stood the Tower of Thorns.

“Morrigan's curse,” I muttered. If you wanted to keep the most savage of enemies, the most cunning and troublesome of adversaries in custody, this would be the place to do it. The circular tower was higher than I had thought when I'd seen it from a distance; it seemed to reach for the sky. It was all of shaped stones, laid cunningly to create the curved walls. Inside, I assumed, there must be a spiral stair leading to the high chamber from which the monster wailed. From this spot by the ford, I could see neither door nor windows. The tangle of
thornbushes wreathing the tower must conceal an entry; how else had the creature got in? If it could fly, it would surely have snatched the opportunity to escape, whether to wreak further havoc in the district or to wing its way to freedom.

Onchú was gesturing us down to the water's edge. I began to tuck my skirts into my girdle. I wasn't keen to walk all the way back in a sodden gown. The shore was pebbly; the sunlight made the wet stones shine. Black, white, every shade of gray and green and brown. Some speckled like eggs, some bearing a stripe, some covered with markings resembling spidery writing. If a person could read them, those would be old and strange tales indeed.

Grim was beside me, gesturing in his turn.
Carry you over. If you wa
nt.

Weighing a little awkwardness against the prospect of wet shoes took only a moment. This would be an easy task for Grim, who stood head and shoulders over the tallest of Geiléis's tall retainers, and whose strength I had seen demonstrated over and over since we were first incarcerated together. The exercises he'd performed nightly to keep him from going mad in Mathuin's hellhole had been rigorous almost beyond belief. I'd wondered, often, where the man had acquired such self-discipline. I'd never asked.

He scooped me up in his arms, carrying me like a child, and followed Onchú into the river. Donncha came behind us. Gods, it was frustrating not to be able to hear properly! The monster's voice was still there, muffled but insistent; if I took out the wadding, I imagined it would be deafening. Which meant that even if I did unstop my ears, most likely I would not be able to detect the softer sounds that might tell me something. Were creatures about their daily business in this part of the woods? Squirrels, voles, foxes? Did animals venture to the island, or were those birds that roosted on—or in—the tower by night the only ones bold enough to visit the place? What about the small fey folk Grim might or might not have encountered? Perhaps they too were
affected by the curse. Or they might be the ones responsible for the whole thing. Who knew?

Grim moved steadily on the shifting stones; in the ford, the water was quite shallow. But the island did not stand in the ford itself. At a certain point the three men had to turn and wade into deeper water, knee-deep for Grim, deeper for the others, and the current was strong. I'd have had difficulty staying upright here. Onchú gestured to Grim to keep directly behind him; I guessed that the riverbed was uneven. My mind filled with unsettling possibilities. A sudden arrow from the cover of those trees, an eldritch surge of floodwater . . . The creature driving Grim mad, so the two of us were swept away and drowned . . .

Grim was setting me down, and we were on the island. Onchú had his knife ready in his hand; Donncha had taken his bow from his back and an arrow from his quiver. Their bearing suggested high alert. It seemed I was not the only one thinking this was an ideal spot for an attack. But save for the rippling water the place was still. The tower stood at the highest point, in the center of the island. Around it the thornbushes rose tall and dense. The wild hedge stood far above my own height, and was so thick it would surely be impossible to get anywhere near the tower's entry. If there was an entry.

I showed Grim in gestures what I wanted to do.
Walk right around. Him, me, you, and him at the end. Look for a door.
He understood me straightaway, and managed to convey my meaning to the other men. Onchú and Donncha might have argued the point with me; they were less ready to do so with Grim. His very size earned him respect from a certain kind of man.

We circled the Tower of Thorns. Where was the door? The fearsome hedge stretched all the way to the base and enclosed the tower completely. If any entry existed, it was masked by the tangle of branches. What was the point of hacking a way through only to emerge
face-to-face with an impenetrable stretch of wall? Maybe Geiléis's theory about Midsummer Eve had some substance to it, but even if the thorns could be cut on that day, how would a person know where to start?

We went around again. The men-at-arms were getting restless. Onchú kept looking over his shoulder, and once or twice I saw Donncha lift his bow, arrow on string, and sight across the ford, back toward the woods we'd come from. Geiléis's house could not be seen from here, but the creature up in the tower must be able to see her at her window, as she could see it at its own. What must be in its mind as it stood there day by day, screaming and screaming and never getting an answer?

At the point directly below the tower window, I halted. I could see the underside of a ledge and a hint of shutters to either side, but I could catch no glimpse of the being within. I wondered if it might be visible from the riverbank, a little farther downstream. What would it do if it spotted a watcher? Shrink back into the darkness within the tower, or only scream the louder?

Onchú had turned, alerted by Grim. I used my hands to convey,
Just a moment. Just let me think for a bit.

Onchú frowned, pointing toward the ford.
We must go.

Grim raised a hand, palm out. Then a placatory movement with both hands.
Not long.
He pointed to something on the far bank, diverting Onchú's attention, and engaged him in a conversation made up entirely of gestures.

I didn't have long; these men were highly trained and wouldn't miss much. No time to find the door, but I might snatch a better look at the thorns themselves. I edged a step nearer, and another step. Almost close enough to touch. I had a little knife in my belt, but the memory of those welts on Onchú's arm quashed any desire to experiment. So I only looked. It was not a plant I recognized. Not blackthorn—hah! That would have been almost amusing—not bramble, not briar rose. The stems looked woody and resilient; the snapping branches were studded with barbs. The thorns were monstrous, each as long as my index
finger and wickedly curved. Even without the poison, they would inflict bloody damage. The leaves were small, holly-dark and set in pairs. No flowers . . . ah! Wrong. Flowers there were, but small and few. Tight-furled as if in self-protection. White as new-fallen snow. Red as heart's blood. Twined together so close, they might have been growing from the same stem. I felt tears sting my eyes and ordered myself not to be so foolish.

Screaming and screaming and never getting an answer . . . But how could anyone answer? The monster cried so loudly it must drown out the puny sound of a human voice. Meaning the only time to talk to it, to get through to it if such a thing were possible, would be between dusk and dawn. Though it seemed likely its silence at that time meant it was asleep, and would not hear anyway. And what about the ritual? If I performed it at a time when the folk who came could participate without screams deafening them, most likely the monster would not be aware that it was happening. Unless I held it here on the island, and I agreed with Geiléis on the impracticality of that. It would be too hard to bring folk across with any safety, even supposing they were willing to come. So, if the creature could neither hear nor see the ritual, did that mean it would be a waste of time? Or could I, full of anger and bitterness and doubt as I was, still tap into the old magic of this place and make something good happen? Right now, the tower, the island, the woodland felt empty of hope. Surely the sorrow here was so deep my efforts could achieve nothing at all. Why was I wasting my time in this godforsaken corner of Dalriada?