Tower of Thorns (23 page)

Geiléis

D
usk was near. Rain was falling steadily now, a soft blanket over the darkening forest. Not like that day of long ago, when it had come down as harsh as a flail. Nearly time to begin. The voice from the tower was cracked and broken, worn-out by exhaustion and despair. She wondered, often, if he knew how faithful she was; how hard she worked to keep her promise, to hold firm. “Not long until Midsummer Eve,” Geiléis whispered. “This time . . . oh, this time . . .”

It might fall into place. It might just work. If his skills as a thatcher were as good as Blackthorn seemed to believe, the man, Grim, would be easily got out of the way. Fixing the roof at St. Olcan's would keep him busy until midsummer. Beyond midsummer, in fact, though he'd likely need silencing once the thing was done. Fortunate indeed that Blackthorn had failed to interpret fully the scratchings on the stone. She pictured him hurling it down. How desperate he must be growing, to try that! He could have killed Blackthorn, and with her another precious chance.

Gods, could she let herself believe this might at last be possible? Blackthorn was a strong individual. Clever. Sure of herself. Prepared to take risks. A better candidate than any who had come before. “Hope,”
murmured Geiléis. “You must hold on to hope, or this cannot happen. Let hope go, and your battle is lost.”

She had thought Grim would be the problem when the day came. But the other fellow, the scholar, seemed altogether too interested in Blackthorn's welfare. The two of them had spent a long time in intense conversation earlier, standing in the hallway together with heads bowed and voices lowered. Between the drumming rain and the monster's cries, nobody would have heard a word. Still, she did not want the scholar interfering. With luck he would become absorbed in his studies and lose interest. If not, she would have to take steps.

It was time for the story. And, as if someone out there knew it, the rain slowed and ceased, and behind it came a chill breeze from the north. Geiléis drew a deep breath.
Hope
, she thought.
How fragile hope can be. Short-lived as a March fly . . .

•   •   •

Despondent, soaked through and trembling with cold, Lily arrived home just as her father was riding out of the courtyard with an escort of men-at-arms. Between her stumbling explanations and the summoning of serving folk to prepare a hot bath, dry clothing and nourishing food, Lily learned that her father was not looking for her, but heading out to help search for a missing man. A young man. And as she stripped off her wet clothing, then lowered her shivering body into the bath, she discovered from Muiríol that the young man was named Brión, that he was the son of a chieftain from the south who had been visiting a neighboring holding to hunt, and that he had been gone two days and two nights. The dogs had picked up his scent once or twice but kept losing it. Brión, thought Lily, trying it out. Brión. Fate must surely be on her side, to deliver this answer without her needing to ask a single question.

An inquisition followed the bath, though at least her mother waited until Lily was dry, dressed and seated in comfort in her bedchamber eating her meal—broth, fresh-baked bannocks, soft cheese—
from a tray. By then Lily had her story all ready. She had been at her window, watching the storm approach. She'd spotted a light in the old tower; at least, that was where she'd guessed it was. But nobody ever went to the island; the old tower was empty. She'd been about to call Muiríol when she'd seen something else, something small and pale running off under the trees. She knew now that she'd been foolish, she told her mother, but she'd thought it might be one of the lapdogs, Pearl, known to have a great terror of thunderstorms. No time to tell anyone where she was going; no time to fetch help. If Pearl ran off into the forest she would be lost forever. That was what Lily had thought. She'd slipped out the little side door.

Her mother was not entirely satisfied with this neat explanation. How was it that Lily had run all the way from her bedchamber to the little door in the wall without anyone seeing her? How was it that the shutters of her chamber had been left open?

“I was watching the storm,” said Lily sweetly, hoping the trembling of her hands was not too visible. Hoping her desperate need to hear more about the missing man was not too obvious on her face. “I did tell you.”

“Hmmm,” said her mother, but asked no more. Lily had always been a good girl, a biddable girl, and her mother had no wish to punish her if that could be avoided. She decided to overlook the small inconsistencies in the story. “If it ever happens again, don't give in to your instincts. Come straight to me and ask for help. Or to anyone close at hand. This was ill-considered behavior, Lily. As it happens, Pearl is with Poppy in my quarters. They're both tucked up safely in their basket.”

“Oh, good,” said Lily, feeling herself blush. “I'm so relieved.”

“Just as well you are home safely, since your father has had to ride out into the storm in search of this boy,” her mother said, unwittingly helpful.

“I'm sorry to have caused any worry, Mother. How long has this boy been missing? Not a child, but a young man, Muiríol said?”

“Eighteen. Old enough to know better,” said Lily's mother. “His friends' behavior also leaves a great deal to be desired. The lad might have encountered a wild boar and been terribly injured. He might have fallen and broken his neck. Yet they waited days before telling the truth about where they had been and how they lost sight of him. His father is almost out of his wits with worry, so I hear.”

“Oh, but—” Lily stopped herself. Not yet; best if her mother made the connection herself. Provided she did not take too long. “Who is the young man? You know the family?”

“From Ulaid. A good family. I believe we met them once at court.” Her mother's tone dismissed any place beyond Dalriada as unworthy of interest. “A pigeon came in, carrying an urgent message. One might think a personal visit would be more appropriate, especially since the offense seems to have occurred on our land. Apparently these lads took it upon themselves to venture farther north than they had authority to do. Your father decided to be magnanimous about the hunting—he doubts they had much success—and to offer his assistance with the search. If the boy has survived he'll be wet and cold. Your father hopes to find him before nightfall.”

“My lady?” Muiríol spoke up from the corner where she was folding garments into a chest. “Might not that light in the tower have been the young man signaling for help? I mean, nobody else goes there. Nobody would dare. But, being a southerner, he might not know the tales folk tell about that place.”

Lily resolved to give her maid a very special gift of some kind in the near future.

“You're sure you did see a light, Lily?” her mother asked, frowning. “The old tower is nothing but a ruin. Who would be there? And if it was the young man, why would he be on the island in the first place? Why not take the obvious path up to the house?”

“I can't answer all those questions,” Lily said. “I don't know about any of it. Only that I saw a light, and I can't think what else it would be. Someone should go and look. Think how we would feel if
we sent nobody tonight, and tomorrow we found the young man in the tower, dead of cold.”

“Very well,” her mother said. “I will arrange for someone to search, though I doubt there will be much enthusiasm for the task. If you are wrong about this, Lily, your father will be somewhat displeased; as it is, we have half the menfolk of the household gone.”

“I'm sorry, Mother. And grateful. I have a feeling I'm right.”

•   •   •

A small contingent of men-at-arms had been left behind to keep the household safe while Lily's father was away searching. Three of these men now headed out toward the tower, accompanied by the household steward and a couple of brawny grooms. Lily watched without comment as they assembled. What did they think Ash—Brión, she had to start calling him Brión—was, some kind of fearsome monster? Or maybe they were afraid of the uncanny creatures some folk thought lived in and around the old tower, those mysterious beings that had kept the island untrodden by human foot for years and years. Until Brión dared venture there, and after him Lily herself. Chances were that cold and hunger and exhaustion had driven the young man temporarily out of his wits. Perhaps he had endured disturbing dreams in the tower, dreams so real-seeming that he had come to believe he was beset by danger. Now they would bring him out, and he could get warm and dry and receive the services of healers. He could be reunited with his family, and all would be well. And if he was the son of a chieftain, he would be an entirely suitable candidate for her hand. Even if he had gone hunting where he should not. No need to tell anyone that they had already met, and under the oddest of circumstances. They could let their friendship develop quite naturally.

•   •   •

After that, everything started to move quickly; almost too quickly for Lily. She had longed for Ash—Brión—to be found and freed. She had
wished for him to come home with her, to find his people, to be rid of whatever burden he was carrying. Most of all, she'd wanted a future in which they could be together. Where they could in time become husband and wife. But even with the youthful hope of her sixteen years, she had not expected so much so soon.

Brión came back from the tower. The four men carried him on a board, covered by a cloak. He was so white he looked dead. Lily exercised all her will not to shriek and run to him; her whole body was filled with terror. “Still breathing,” said the head man-at-arms. “But only just, my lady.”

Lily's mother bustled about, commanding her serving people as a leader might order an army. A warm bath, a warm bed, a quiet chamber, gentle hands. One message to be sent urgently to Lily's father, and another dispatched to the distant home of the young man's family, though birds could not be sent out with that before morning. Brión's father was close at hand, conducting his own search; a runner would be sent to find him at first light.

There was nothing at all for Lily to do. She had no reason to be in the chamber where Brión was being nursed, and if she hung about the doorway, her mother might get suspicious. He was alive; that must be enough, for now. So she went to her own chamber and opened the shutters a chink, wondering if she might catch a glimpse of her father's party riding back in.

That was odd. Even now the men had brought Brión back, there was a light in the old tower. It glowed and moved as if someone was walking about in that high chamber with a candle or lamp in their hand. The view was impeded by the branches of the great oak. She could climb out, go higher, see more clearly. But after what had occurred earlier, she'd better not try that particular trick for a while. Might the ferryman or others of his folk have gone up there for some reason? Lily thought of the stairs winding around the tower's interior; remembered how climbing had hurt her legs and made it hard to breathe. Such small folk surely could not manage that. Unless they
could fly. She had seen no hint of wings. Could the search party have left a lamp or candle behind? It was possible. But not likely.

Should she alert someone? Her mother? The steward? As Lily stood there hesitating, the light blinked out, and the old tower fell back into darkness.

She did not see the light again that night. In the morning Brión was awake and talking sense, though much weakened by his ordeal. Or so Lily's mother told her; their unexpected guest needed nursing back to health, and a young man's bedchamber was no place for a well-brought-up young lady.

But then, Lily was not entirely what she seemed. Beneath the good manners and ladylike presence was a person of strength, a person who knew her own mind and was prepared to fight for what she believed in. She did not understand, then, how monstrous a fight it would prove to be.