Tower of Thorns (32 page)

Blackthorn

T
wo days until the ritual. As midsummer neared, I felt as if time was slipping past ever more quickly. I wished I'd never said I would conduct the cleansing ceremony—it was pointless. A complete waste of time. After my visit to the settlement it was obvious nobody was going to tell me anything about the monster in the tower. They'd been welcoming enough, accepting the potions and salves I had brought with gratitude and seeking my advice on a range of ailments from aching joints to the ever-present headaches. For those, I gave them a tincture of true love's tears, and showed some of the women how to make more. Which had perhaps suggested a lack of confidence in the ritual, since if it worked the creature would leave and the headaches would leave with it, but never mind that. Grim's little man had popped up again, showing himself to both Grim and Flannan, and had mentioned the herb. A pity the wee folk hadn't bothered to explain why it was important and what I was supposed to do with it—use it as a cure, find a message where it grew, something else entirely. Tending to the local people's sore heads was at least a start.

Geiléis still wasn't happy to let me go out alone. My arguments about the proper way to prepare for a ritual had not convinced her. She seemed to think I'd tolerate the presence of a man-at-arms provided he
tailed me at a distance, waiting discreetly just within sight while I gathered herbs or sat in meditation or practiced the words and movements I would need on the day. There was no doubt I needed the practice. It was a long time since I had done this, so long I could hardly remember the last time. If the druid, Master Oisín, had come here, perhaps his ritual would have silenced the creature in the tower. Mine surely would not. Some wise woman I was, when I couldn't even make up my mind about where I was going after midsummer, let alone work out the answer to Geiléis's problem. I was failing in another way too: Grim was still walking about with a dark cloud over him, and making it clear he didn't want to talk about whatever was wrong.

Now Grim was gone up to St. Olcan's for another day's work, and Geiléis was still in her chamber, and if I didn't get out of here, on my own, I was going to start screaming and throwing things. There was no leaving the house without being stopped by Senach or Dau or one of the guards who might happen to be in the courtyard—I was beginning to suspect Geiléis had set a watch on me. But what Geiléis did not know was that I had my own means of evading notice. I'd been a wise woman for quite a while, even if you didn't count the lost years in the middle. I was good at what I did, the healing and herbalism part of it, though being kind to folk had never come easily to me. But there was another part of being a wise woman, and that was hearth magic. I knew a few tricks that went beyond the skills of an ordinary woman, though I seldom used them. The night we'd solved Prince Oran's mystery, I'd managed to make the rain hold off until we had achieved our aim. Not easy.

I wished I could make myself invisible, the way Conmael did when he'd had enough of talking to me. He would simply wink or fade out of sight. That was beyond any human woman's abilities. But I could cloak myself in a lesser form of the fey glamour, making myself blend into my surroundings. I thought—I hoped—I could keep it up for long enough to get me out of the circle of watchful minders. And if I couldn't, I could pretend I was heading to the guards' quarters to find an escort.

I chose a moment when Dau was drawing water from the well, and slipped out behind him, holding the glamour around me. I walked as softly as I could, though the monster's voice would have drowned out all but the heaviest tread. I whisked around a corner and out of Dau's sight only to find that the kitchen door was wide-open, and another of the serving men, Cronan, was standing at the table packing items into a willow basket.
Don't see me
, I willed him, and passed like a shadow, holding my breath. The spell took great concentration; my teeth were gritted so hard my jaws ached, and my skin was all cold sweat. Later there would be a headache of monstrous proportions. Never mind that. I was out the gate; I had reached the trees; I was gone.

What to do first? Simply walk and enjoy the solitude? Rehearse the ritual prayers? Take the path to the log bridge and look for another message?

I found a spot under the oaks, out of sight of the house. There I stood quite still, closed my eyes, shed the glamour, and breathed in slow patterns to clear my mind. Made myself calm. Listened to the screaming, much louder here than in Geiléis's house. Heard the wrenching gasp as the creature sucked in a breath, and the pitiful wail that followed. Remembered the stone with its crude drawing. Thought about Grim's tight mouth and shadowed eyes. Thought about the boiling rage that gripped me sometimes and turned me into a madwoman. Remembered all those poor sods who suffered alongside us in that hellhole of Mathuin's. Angry men. Crazy men. Wounded men. They'd screamed too. We all had. We'd screamed and raged and beaten our heads against the wall, we'd hurt ourselves and each other, we'd acted like wild beasts, because being locked up does strange things to you. Turns you inside out. Puts a mark on you that never goes away, even if you get the chance to be free and move on with your life. You're never quite free. You take the dark and the terror and the pain with you. Inside your head, the screaming keeps on.

Morrigan's curse, I was crying now. I fished out a handkerchief and scrubbed my face. Just as well there was no guard; I'd have yelled at
him to mind his own business and thrown in a few oaths for good measure. And it wasn't Onchú's fault, or Donncha's, or the fault of any of those men that they guarded me so efficiently. They were only doing their job, and doing it well.

I knew now where I would go: the island. Perhaps on the way back I would visit the log bridge. I headed down the path toward the ford, leaving my ears unblocked. As I walked, I imagined Grim on the roof at St. Olcan's, and thought of the work he had done back at Winterfalls: the meticulous thatching, each layer placed just so; the little creatures on top to finish it. I wished he would talk to me. I wished he would let me help him. I thought of Flannan, busy with quill and parchment, another worker who set high standards for himself. I thought of how many different ways there were to tell a story. Even those roof animals were a kind of story, chosen carefully to fit the building's occupants, its purpose or its setting, and to keep all within safe. The monster's story would be a strange one indeed. Interesting how Flannan, a scholar, a doubter, a man who needed things proved, now seemed so excited by this manuscript's possibilities. He'd spotted Grim's little man on the way down from St. Olcan's, of course. Maybe that had been enough to convince him such a tale could be true.

The river was almost in view, a glimmer between the trees. Maybe the creature would throw another stone and kill me this time. Or deliver a new set of drawings, with instructions on what to do once I came face-to-face with it at midsummer. The first stone had been short on detail, and Geiléis clearly didn't know. No wonder Grim wasn't happy about me going ahead with this. A monster was a monster, after all—big, strong, unpredictable. Most likely furious or crazed from being locked up so long. I was quite strong for my size, but I was no fighter. Chances were I'd be dead the moment I stepped over the threshold. A sacrifice. That was how most folk would see it. But a person with an extensive knowledge of lore—I was one such, Flannan another—understood the inevitability of a magical curse, and how it allowed the weak to overcome the strong. In an old tale, the prey could
turn on the predator. The youngest son, the one everyone believed worthless, could win a kingdom. And a woman like me might just possibly battle a monster and prevail.

I stumbled over a tree root and halted abruptly. Something odd had happened. While I was mulling it all over, I had wandered off the path without realizing it, and now here I was in among the oaks, with no sign of any track, only a maze of old roots clawing at the earth and clumps of fungi sprouting here and there. In here, the creature's voice seemed less insistent. I could hear the whirr of dragonflies in the air, the high peeping sound of a bird up in the branches, and from St. Olcan's came the distant sound of bells. And I felt the tingle of magic; there were fey folk nearby, though I could not see them.

“Anyone there?” I called softly. “It's Blackthorn, the healer. May I speak with you?”

No reply. But there was someone close; I was sure of it. “I mean you no harm. And I'm here on my own.”

Nothing. But wait—were those lights, deep in the shadow under the trees? I walked forward, stepping carefully over the tangle of oak roots, making sure I did not crush the tiny mushrooms. Who knew what small creatures might live in such a place? The very air breathed magic.

The lights faded and were gone, leaving me in a darkness too profound to be anything but uncanny. Cold sweat broke out on my body; my heart pounded. I could hear Geiléis's voice saying,
I told you so.
This would be the time I went out too far on my own and ended up drowned or mad or worse. Just like the others, the ones the villagers had told me about—sons, cousins, friends, lost in the forest or dead by their own hands, driven to despair by the screaming. A curse that lay over every last one of them.

Deep breath, Blackthorn. You are a wise woman. If you're going to die, make sure it doesn't happen because of your own miscalculation. That would hardly be better than succumbing to Mathuin's torturers. Use your wits. Use your training.

“I give thanks for this good earth beneath my feet,” I murmured. “I give thanks for the sun that warms it and brings forth the new shoots. I give thanks for the rain that nourishes great oak and creeping moss, filling the flowing river and the tranquil pond. I give thanks for the clear air I breathe. I give thanks for the gift of life.”

A shaft of sunlight pierced the canopy. Not, I was quite sure, in response to my prayer, but remarkably well-timed all the same. It illuminated a patch of open ground. On first glance, what lay there seemed like a jumble of sticks, as if a very small person, gathering firewood, had taken fright and dropped its load. But no; there was a pattern here. A long stick in the center, and beside or across it shorter twigs placed to make ogham letters. I'd been left another message. Let a cloud not obscure the sun before I'd managed to read it. Willow—a strongly feminine tree. Holly—something to do with battle, defending oneself. Elder—the end and the beginning. Birth, death, rebirth. This was full of insight. As I examined the other letters, I saw that there were two layers of meaning. At least two. For there was a simple message too, spelled out by the letters:
Strike hard. Strike true. Free us.

The sunlight stayed just long enough for me to memorize the letters. Then the clouds came in, and there was no reading them. I made my way back to the main track without difficulty—the confusion that had gripped me before was gone—and down to the ford. Odd: the position of the sun told me it was close to midday. How could it be so late already? Had I been taken into some other place, some other time, so I could read and understand that message? Had I stood there for hours in contemplation of its meaning?

Now here I was on the riverbank, with the ford before me. I'd misremembered how far out the island was, and the difficulty of wading in those deeper waters. The fact was, it would be stupid to attempt it on my own. All very well when Grim had been there to carry me over. Today, if I slipped on the way, I might drown. Then the curse would not be broken, and Grim would carry a new weight of guilt to add to those he already had on his shoulders. Not that it was his fault he was
not with me, but he would see it as his failure. That was the way his mind worked.

I'd have to turn and go back. If it really was so late, it was remarkable that Geiléis didn't have a search party out looking for me. “Sorry,” I whispered, looking across to the tower. “Not much closer to finding the answer.” Strike hard, strike true, free us. Strike what? The thorns, to hack a path through? Or was this after all to be some kind of battle? I'd chopped a lot of wood in my time, but using an ax in combat was not quite the same. And free us? Not only the king in the thorn, but all the small folk? Weren't they already free, out in the forest?