Tower of Thorns (22 page)

Conmael, I thought, I never imagined I'd ask for your help, but I could do with some advice now.

My fey mentor did not appear in a magical shower of colored sparks; indeed, he did not appear at all, and I had not for a moment expected that he would, since he was very much his own master. “You're an apology for a wise woman, Blackthorn,” I muttered. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself and concentrate.” And out of the blue a useful
thought came to me: when one was dealing with the uncanny, the rules of the human world did not necessarily apply.

I waited until the monster paused in its lament to snatch a wheezing breath, and in that moment of quiet, with my ears still blocked, I whispered, “Tell me what you need. Tell me how I can help.”

Did I imagine that the silence stretched just a little longer this time, while the monster filled its lungs? No time to consider, for as the screaming began again something came hurtling past my head, making me duck. The missile landed in front of me with a crash that was clearly audible, blocked ears or no. Then Grim was beside me, grabbing my arms and hauling me away from the tower.

“No!” I protested. “Wait!”

He couldn't hear me, of course. I struggled in his grip, trying to point to the object that had been thrown from the high window.
Just that. Get that, and I'll go.

Grim kept hold of me with one hand, as if he feared I might rush toward the thornbushes and impale myself or fling myself bodily into the river. He bent down and stretched out to take hold of the object. It was a stone the size of a man's fist. Had it hit me on the head, it might well have been the end of me. Especially as I was the only healer in the district. I'd hoped for a signal, some indication the creature had heard my whispered message and answered. Perhaps it had. Perhaps its answer was,
Get off my island or I'll kill you.

Grim had the stone on his palm; he was squinting at it the way a scholar might look at a manuscript in an unknown language. Before I could take a closer look, our two minders came up beside us. Onchú had turned pale; I realized, belatedly, that his memory of what had happened to him here must still haunt him, and that setting foot on the island must have required a great deal of courage. Didn't Grim and I dream of Mathuin's lockup every single night?

I motioned to Grim to put the stone in his pouch. As we made our way down to the river, I listened to the rhythm of the creature's voice,
and when it paused for breath, I whispered, “I mean you no harm. I'm here to help.”

It was only when we had waded back across the river, and walked up through the forest to Geiléis's house, and retreated to our quarters so Grim could change his wet clothing, that he took the stone from his pouch, and we saw that the markings traced on the gray were not the random patterns found on some of the river pebbles, but drawings scratched there with a sharp implement. I sucked in my breath, turning the thing over. Nausea welled in me. In my hand was the rusty nail; in front of me was the filthy wall of my cell, and the rows of lines I'd made there, one for each day, each endless, vile day of my incarceration. A sound burst from me, half sob, half oath.

Then, Grim's hand gentle on my shoulder. “It's all right,” he said. “It'll be all right. Deep breath, now.”

For once, I did as I was told. “Flea-ridden cesspit,” I muttered. “Will it never go away?”

“Can't answer that.” Grim was pouring water into a cup. “Drink this. I'll get a brew on.” He busied himself while I sat down on the bench and wrestled with my troublesome thoughts. Mathuin. The truth was, that man and what he stood for would not go away until I found the courage to do something about him. And I had the opportunity now. I could head south with Flannan on Midsummer Day. I could make sure the chieftain of Laois got his just deserts at last. I could have vengeance. Then, surely, the evils of the past would start to fade.

Grim went out with a bucket in hand, heading for the pump. He'd left the stone on the table beside me. I could not bring myself to pick it up again, but I looked at it; studied the markings, swallowing bile, forcing my unruly mind to settle to the task in hand. And I realized that this had been no missile intended to kill me, or to force me off the island. It was the answer to my whispered question. The drawings were crude, as if executed by a clumsy child. A circle with lines coming out from it: the sun. A stick figure with something in its hand—was that an ax? Another figure, crouched with its head against a bench or box.

I couldn't make my fingers reach out and touch the thing. Coward. Useless apology for a woman. I got up and paced, arms folded tightly. Four strides across the room one way; four strides back. Ground my teeth until my jaw hurt. Resisted the urge to pick something up and throw it, just to hear it smash. Ordered myself to breathe. I would be calm before Grim got back. I would.

“All right?” He was at the door, full bucket in hand. “What do you think? Like writing, isn't it? A message.” He set down the bucket and reached into his pouch again. “Funny. When I got that out, I found this. Under that stuff they gave us to block our ears. Not from Geiléis, though, or anyone here. Can't be. Look at it.”

He laid the tiny item on the table beside the stone. It was a whistle like the ones the traveling folk played, only in miniature. The instrument was carved from oak and elaborately decorated with a design of leaves and tendrils and tight-furled, delicate flowers.

“You mean you don't know where this came from?” I asked.

“No idea. But I can guess. Did those wee folk a favor, didn't I? Thought they'd paid me back by finding my way for me. Thought our exchange was all done. But it looks as if they left me a gift.”

I wasn't going to argue with that. The whistle was so small and so finely made that the most doubting of folk would surely have conceded it must be fey. “Be careful,” I said. “Blow a tune on that and you might summon something you don't want hanging about.”

Grim stowed the whistle back in his pouch. “Or find myself in some other land, where monsters are as common as squirrels, and all the folk walk on their hands.”

“You'd do all right there,” I said. The urge to hurl heavy objects around was abating. “Listen, don't blow the whistle. I mean it. If the old stories are right, you should use it only as a last resort. And . . .”

“Maybe you should take it.” Grim had his back to me; he was ladling water from his bucket to the kettle.

“Me? Hardly.” If I obeyed my heart and went south with Flannan,
Grim was going to need whatever help came his way. “If they gave it to you, you're the one who's meant to use it.”

“It's just, I wouldn't know what was the right time. Might make a mess of things.”

“You'll know. When everything else fails. When you have no other solution.”

“Like when you ran away and I had to shout for Conmael.” He set the kettle on the fire, then began to look for herbs.

There was nothing I could say. I imagined myself leaving with Flannan, fleeing into the night while this household slept. I imagined Grim waking in the dark, finding me gone, blowing his magic whistle to summon fey help. My mind refused to go any further. For the life of me, I could not conjure an image of Flannan and myself apprehended by an army of clurichauns. “The thing to remember,” I said, working hard on a calm tone, “is not to use it unless you really have to. These things always come with a catch. If the fey help you, they always want something in return.” Like Conmael, who had saved my life only after I'd promised to abide by his ridiculous conditions for a whole seven years. It had never been realistic. That I'd even tried had been stupid. I simply wasn't cut out to do good in the world, no matter what Conmael believed.

“Mm-hm,” Grim said. “Don't much care for Conmael. But he did me a favor, that day. And he's never asked me for a thing.”

“Maybe he just hasn't got around to it yet. The fey live long lives. They have long memories.” Something was teasing at me, something I'd seen or heard long ago. The harder I tried to capture it, the more it eluded me. That trip to the tower, the stone hurled down, the wall of thorns . . . Why had it disturbed me so badly? My hands were shaking. I wrapped my arms around myself so Grim would not see it. What was wrong with me?

“Shawl,” Grim said. “Put it on till you've warmed up a bit more. Brew should help.”

My anger boiled up again. “What, have you got eyes in the back of your head now?” I snarled. “Stop being so understanding!”

Grim set two cups on the table. Put the honey jar beside them, with a spoon. Went back to the fire to see if the water was hot enough. “Back home,” he said in his own time, “I'd say busy yourself with something: cutting herbs, making a potion, scrubbing the floor. Stops your mind turning in circles. Works the anger out of you. Can't do that here.” He fetched the meager supply of herbs I had brought home on our first day. He shredded peppermint and chamomile leaves into the cups. “You did good,” he said. “Even if you did nearly get yourself killed. That stone, it's a clue. If we can work out what it means.”

“The person with the ax is a woman—see, a skirt? It fits with what Geiléis has already told us. The sun might mean midsummer. Or midday. The part I don't understand is this other figure. Is it the monster? What is it doing?”

“Could be two folk up there.”

“Who'd want to be shut in with that screaming? But yes, I suppose there could be. If there isn't, the monster must have made this picture and thrown the stone. That doesn't tell me what I'm meant to do when I reach the top of the tower.” I pictured myself with ax in hand, hacking a way through the thorns. Climbing the tower. Facing this creature with no idea of what to do next. If I was looking for a good reason to abandon Geiléis's quest before midsummer and slip away south with Flannan, this most certainly was it.

“Creature's fey, isn't it? The fey are full of tricks. Could be this is another one. That picture on the stone might not mean what you think at all.” Grim looked at me sideways. “You going to show Lady Geiléis?”

“Not before I have another good look at it. But yes, I suppose I must show her. I expect she'll want a full report.” I got up, fetched my shawl from the peg and wrapped it around me. He was right; the simple warmth of it made me feel better. “Grim?”

“Mm?”

“You realize that every time we get angry or muddled or frustrated while we're here, we'll be wondering if it's the monster messing with our thoughts. It's a cruel and devious kind of curse. We won't be able to trust any decision we make. We won't even be able to trust each other.” But then, I'd been withholding the truth from him since before we left Cahercorcan. I'd been as good as lying since the day Flannan told me about the plot.

“Rubbish.” Grim carried the kettle over and poured hot water into my cup, then his. “Team, aren't we? That means we trust each other, no matter what. Watch each other's back. Keep an eye out for trouble.”

A pox on it, I was on the verge of tears again. What in the name of the gods was this? I busied myself with adding honey and stirring it in, hoping he would not notice.

“That's right, isn't it?” A note of uncertainty had crept into Grim's voice.

“That's right.” I had never hated myself quite as much as I did in that moment.

Grim

L
ate in the afternoon Flannan turns up, looking serious. Here to check on Blackthorn after what happened yesterday. Keeps looking at me, waiting for me to do something crazy. See it all over his face. Senach brings everyone ale and cakes.

Lady Geiléis comes and keeps us company for a bit, and Blackthorn tells her about the trip to the tower, leaving some parts out. Shows her the stone with the drawings scratched on it. Expected the lady to be interested. Thought she might be angry we went close enough for Blackthorn to nearly get herself killed. What she does is cup the stone in her hands. Holds it as if it was some sort of rare treasure, or a baby just born. Tears rolling down her face. Three of us, that's including Flannan, are staring at her. Lady Geiléis is off in her own little world for a bit. I fish out a handkerchief and pass it to her. She takes it without seeing me, dabs her eyes.

“I'll be wanting to keep that for now,” says Blackthorn, breaking the spell. “Part of the investigation.”

“Yes,” says the lady, coming back from wherever she's been. “Yes, of course.” But she doesn't hand over the stone.

“What do you think it means?” Blackthorn asks her, not saying what
we
think.

Geiléis clears her throat, wipes her eyes again. Giving herself time before she answers. “It is what I suspected. A woman must cut through the thorns, using an ax. If . . . if it was indeed the creature that threw this down, I believe . . . I believe that may be what is required. On Midsummer Eve. The drawing of a sun . . .” Still struggling to be calm. Haven't seen her so upset since the day she came to court and threw herself at Oran's feet. “This other part, the crouching figure, I cannot interpret. It could be good news—that is, if this is a deliberate attempt to tell us something, and not just . . . accident. There is no sign of a—a confrontation here. No indication that you might need to . . .”

“Fight? You think when I get up there the creature's going to say, ‘Thank you very much, I'll be off now'?”

“Believe me,” says Geiléis, “if I knew, I would have told you straightaway. It seems unlikely this could be so simple.”

“Why would it throw the stone down?” Hoping Geiléis won't object if I say my bit. “Why would it give Blackthorn a clue? Whole thing could be a trick.”

“I cannot answer that,” Geiléis says. “It is possible that all the creature wants is to be released from the tower. Perhaps Blackthorn need only cut a path through the thorns, at the right time on the right day. But it would be foolish to assume that. The prolonged screaming suggests a certain violence of feeling; that could quickly turn to acts of aggression. We must tread with care.”

“Time's a bit short for being careful,” says Blackthorn.

Everyone thinks about this for a bit. Then Flannan speaks up. “The situation is more perilous than I'd realized. Blackthorn could get herself killed. How can you expect that of her, Lady Geiléis?” Which is the same thing I'm thinking, more or less. I wait for Blackthorn to tell him to mind his own business, but it's the lady who puts him in his place. She stares at him like a queen telling an underling he's brought her the wrong breakfast.

“Mistress Blackthorn is her own woman and has come here of her
own choosing. As for what may lie ahead, we have time to make a plan. To provide whatever protection is necessary.”

“What about today?” asks Flannan, sounding angry. “Where was that protection when Blackthorn nearly got hit on the head by this rock?”

That's a bit rough. Onchú and Donncha did their best. Not their fault if Blackthorn doesn't obey orders if they don't happen to suit her.

“Flannan,” says Blackthorn in that special soft voice, “this is not your concern.”

“It is if—”

“Flannan.”

He shuts up after that. If Blackthorn tells you to stop talking, you stop. End of story.

“Will you go ahead with the cleansing ritual, Blackthorn?” Geiléis asks.

“Most certainly,” says Blackthorn, “since if it's effective, I may not be required to enter the tower at all. I'll go looking for a suitable spot tomorrow. I need to gather herbs as well.”

“Onchú will arrange—” Geiléis starts, but Blackthorn cuts her off.

“The correct practice of a cleansing ritual requires the wise woman to perform various stages of preparation alone. Fail to observe that rule and you risk rendering the ritual completely ineffective. I will take precautions.”

Can't say I like the idea of her going off alone any more than Geiléis does, but she's the wise woman and I'm just the hanger-on, so I keep quiet. If I say what I think, she'll only bite my head off.

Senach speaks up. “Rain is expected, Mistress Blackthorn. You may have noticed the clouds building. When wet weather comes to Bann, it tends to linger. The next few days may not be ideal for walking in the forest.”

“I'm used to getting wet,” says Blackthorn. “But thank you for the warning. We'll need to wait for fair weather before we hold the ritual. The local folk won't want to stand about getting soaked.”

“You'd best be on your way soon, Master Flannan,” says Geiléis, “if you want to stay dry. I hope Father Tomas and the brethren are treating you well. They must be pleased to have a scholarly guest at last. It's been some time.”

“I've been well received, yes. And comfortably accommodated, by monastic standards. The place is at sixes and sevens right now. They know rain's coming, and there's a problem with leaking roofs. Damp weather and precious manuscripts are not a good combination.”

“What sort of roofs?” asks Blackthorn, though why she'd want to know this I can't think.

“Thatch,” says Geiléis. “Reed thatch. There's nobody in the district who can repair it properly. Folk fiddle about with it themselves, patch it up as best they can. But St. Olcan's needs the thatching done again, on the scriptorium in particular. Father Tomas says the roof needs to be completely replaced.”

My belly churns; I feel sick again, like this morning. No prizes for guessing what Blackthorn'll say now. She looks at me. I look down at my hands. Can't warn her not to say it. Never did tell her my story, never told anyone, and now it's too late.

“Grim is a thatcher.”

“This requires an expert,” Geiléis says. “Perhaps more than one.”

She doubts I'm good enough. No surprise there. Doesn't bother me. I'm feeling too sick to care.

“Grim is an expert,” says Blackthorn. “If the monks have the materials, he can mend the roof. He'll do a good job.”

That's it. No room for argument. No room for much at all. Never mind that Midsummer Eve's just around the corner. Never mind that I'm supposed to be helping Blackthorn deal with the monster and keeping her safe. Just got myself a job that's going to mean I hardly see her from now till midsummer. It'll mean I have to walk up to St. Olcan's. All the way there. Go in the gate, talk to the monks, hear the singing . . .

“Grim?” Blackthorn's just asked me something, could have been anything.

“Sorry, what?”

“You'll do it, won't you?”

Looking at her, looking at Flannan, it comes to me all of a sudden. Why she'd want me to go, I mean. She wants me away so she can spend time with
him
. She likes him. Likes him more than anyone. He makes her happy. Angry too, sometimes. But they've got that closeness, like Prince Oran and Lady Flidais. Always know what the other one's thinking. Understand each other without needing to talk.

“Grim?”

“Can't thatch in the wet.” Comes out as a grumble. Can't help that. “Rain could last for days. Whole roof—that sounds like a big job. Take a while.”

“But afterward, when the weather clears. Considering everything that has happened here, these folk deserve some help.”

Can't speak. Help? From me? If this Father Tomas and the rest of them knew my story, I'd be the last person they'd want inside their walls. Not to mention that I can't get anywhere near the place without going half-crazy. I manage a sort of grunt. Which Lady Geiléis takes as a yes.

“Thank you,” she says, talking to Blackthorn, as if I was too much of a bonehead to understand anything. “Grim's help would be most welcome, I'm sure. I believe the brothers have the necessary materials in storage—there was a thatcher here some time ago, but he left the district. Of course we would wait for fair weather.” She gives me a glance that says,
That numbskull, an expert?
“Master Flannan, you might let Father Tomas know about Grim. Best head off now or you'll surely be caught in the rain.”

“A little rain won't do me any harm,” Flannan says, but he gets up all the same. “Private word with you?” Meaning Blackthorn.

The two of them go off outside. I'm not keen to sit here on my own with Lady Geiléis, so I make my excuses and go to our quarters. Tidy the place up, not that there's much to tidy. Bring in some water, boil the kettle, wash out the cups. Sweep the floor. Doesn't take long. Hands are itching for work to do, anything to slow down the rushing things in my head. Can't do what I'd do at home, chop wood, bake bread, dig the garden, fix something that needs fixing. I sit down on my bed and think how funny it is—the thing I could be doing, and doing well, is rethatching that roof up at St. Olcan's, making it nice and watertight, like new, finishing it off with the creatures on top and all. Making, not breaking. Making folk glad, not sad. And that's the thing I can't do, because just thinking about it turns my insides to water, brings out a cold sweat, fills me up with black terror. Funny, hah! Funny what's just under the surface, bubbling up when you don't want it. Coward. Failure. Not strong enough. Not brave enough. Not man enough. That's what the voices say, over and over in my head. Not enough. You were not enough. Another thing that's funny. All those voices are my voice, all of them. I know that. But it doesn't make me feel any better.

She doesn't come back. Still talking to Flannan. Master Flannan. He's right for her. Well made, even handsome, not that she'd care about that. Makes me wonder if Cass was a good-looking fellow too or a weedy scholarly kind. Not something I can ask. Flannan's clever. Book-learned. Could find work anywhere. Could make a good home for her. Would she want that, if he offered? Does she like him enough? Can't see it really, him and her in a cozy little house, perhaps with a child or two. But that might be because I don't
want
to see it.

I stand on my hands, count up to fifty. Come down, take a breath, do it again. Sixty. Jump up and catch onto a roof beam, pull myself up a few times. Twenty. Thirty. Heart's not in it. What I want to do is run. Run away quick, hide down deep.

She still doesn't come. I chop herbs for a brew, leave them tidy on
the board, wash the knife, dry it, put it away. Say the words under my breath. How long before I forget? How long before I jumble them up and don't even know?
Scuto circo . . . circum . . . circumdabit te . . . veritas eius non timebis a timore nocturne.
Scuto, that's a shield. Something about truth making a shield all around a man. A shield against the dark things that creep into his head in the night. It's a lie. Truth can be the worst thing of all. Dark enough to blot out everything good. Funny, though; the words do help, a bit. It's like if I pretend to believe, pretend hard enough, I can almost think that shield might be a real thing.