Tower of Thorns (47 page)

And over the other side of the room, crouching in the shadows, something else. Someone else, crying. Someone with bright red hair and a leather cap, and the face of a monster. Someone in a gown and a breast-piece, with a body all twisted with pain, someone with hands like claws. It's her. It's the worst thing come true.

For a bit I can't move. My heart's all knotted up, so tight I can't breathe. Maybe it's a nightmare and I'll wake up soon. But it's not. I know it's not.

She must see it in my face. What I'm feeling. No hiding it. I walk over, crouch down beside her, and she pushes me away with those ghastly hands, making sounds like a creature in its death throes. Her mouth's got too many teeth, her jaw's all out to the side, there's no way she can speak, but she's trying to tell me something; she's struggling to get the words out. Pointing, gesturing, only the claws won't do what she wants.

“Gently, gently,” I say. I sit on the floor and gather her into my arms. “Take your time. It's all right. I'm here.” As if I could fix her trouble. The old Blackthorn, the one she was before, would be laughing at that.

She tries again. Puts a hand on the pouch at her belt. Says something with
oo
and
ee
in it, but there's no making it out. The wee folk are up out of their circle. They're lifting the bones and laying them down again in some kind of pattern. Dear God . . .

“Oo! Uh! Ee!” growls Blackthorn, hammering a hand against my chest. Only, not a hand; a poor misshapen thing. But Bonehead can't work out what she's saying. The pouch? Something in the pouch?

I spot a scrap of red; reach in and pull out the red kerchief, the one she left for me once as a way of saying good-bye. That's the last straw. I hold her close and cry my heart out. Rock her to and fro. Tell her I'll be here, I won't leave her, I'll look after her even if it takes two hundred years. Got my eyes shut, but I hear the soft sounds of those wee folk doing what they're doing, which I can guess is laying out what's left of Geiléis and her man. Wouldn't be much after two hundred years. Bones and dust. Memories.

Her hands are sharp against me. Shocking, hideous hands. I think of those hands stitching a wound. Laying flat stones on a dead man's eyes. Making a rude sign when Slammer called her names. Gripping an ax like she meant business. Holding a sick babe. Making a brew. Reaching out to pull me back from the brink, the night I lost hope. I sob and sob until it's a wonder there's any more tears in me. Wipe my face with the red kerchief.

She's crying too. Not wailing like she was before, more of a rasping, hurting sound.

“There, now,” I say. “There, now,” and I wipe her tears as well. Kerchief snags on her scaly skin and rips a bit. Across the chamber, the wee folk are in the circle again, standing up, holding hands. One of them steps forward, lays something small and gold on what might be
the chest of the dead man, only there's not enough of him left to be sure. They start a chant, slow and solemn.

“Grim,” someone says.

My heart jolts. I shut my eyes. Don't dare open them.

“Grim.” Her hand moves against me, warm, human, and her body on my knees is a human body again, a woman's body, slight and wiry and struggling hard to get up.

I open my eyes and she's back. She's herself. Or maybe not quite, because when she does get up she's pale and wobbly and I have to catch her before she falls straight back on the floor. A miracle. Don't know what's done it. Don't know how it can be. But it's happened. A warm, good feeling fills me up. Must be what they mean by joy. Maybe I do believe in God after all.

“Morrigan's curse!” Blackthorn mutters. “That was vile! That was disgusting!”

Me, I've got no words at all. I mop my face again. Pass her the kerchief.

“Dagda's bollocks!” she says. “That was . . . Grim, did you break the spell? How? If you did it, I owe you a debt I'll be a lifetime repaying.”

“Didn't do anything,” I mumble. “Wish I could've.”

“Out,” says Blackthorn, sounding more like herself. “Now. You might need to help me. Lot of steps . . .”

I pick her up in my arms.

“You're all wet,” she says, noticing now.

“Happens when you wade across a river.”

“Be careful,” she says. “If you fall, we'll both be dead and that would be a waste.”

“I won't fall. Though if you're worried I can put you over my shoulder. That way, I get an arm free.” Brings back a horrible memory from
that day we got out of Mathuin's lockup. Saved a man, lost him not long after. Strangler. Poor sod. He just wanted the pain to end.

We stop a moment next to the chanting wee folk and the sad remains of Lily and Ash. Geiléis and whatever-his-name-was. Mind's full of questions. How much did Geiléis know? How could she ask Blackthorn to do it, if she knew what was going to happen to her? And what did Blackthorn just see in this chamber?

“Talk later, mm?” I say, and head for the stair. One thing's certain: can't get out of this place soon enough. Thought I'd already had the worst day of my life. Might have been wrong. And there's still Flannan.

Blackthorn

I
was blundering through a fog, arms outstretched, feet stumbling, not knowing left from right or up from down. My head swam. Everything was dark. Where was I? What had happened? Had I gone blind?

“It's all right. You're all right. Take it slowly.” Grim's familiar voice, and now Grim's arm lifting me to sit, and someone putting a cup in my hand. “Take a sip of water, here.”

There was light after all; a lamp in a corner, and the glow of a fire. I was in bed, with Grim sitting on a stool beside me. There was someone else in the room too. A monk.

“Wha . . . ?”

“Drink the water, Blackthorn.”

The water was cold. It brought me out of the fog. I was in our quarters at Lady Geiléis's house, and it was getting dark outside. I started to remember. Oh, gods . . . When Grim had carried me out of the tower, we hadn't found Onchú and Donncha waiting on the island. Only two heaps of ancient bones. Two piles of clothing. Two pairs of boots. A scatter of weapons. Those things were of our own time; there was no magic in them. But the men had been old. Old beyond old.

“They guessed,” I whispered now. “Her men. They had an idea of
what would happen to them when the curse was broken. Donncha . . . There was a woman he was looking after, when he could, on one of the farms. The way he spoke about her, he didn't think he'd be coming back.”

I sipped the water, remembering. We'd arrived at the house, Grim still carrying me, and all the rest of them had been here. One in the kitchen: Dau, I guessed. One at the high window in Geiléis's quarters: Senach, without a doubt. The other household servants in the dining chamber, all together, with one extra: that must have been Caisín's husband, Rian, for the bones of those two lay entwined where they had fallen. A fresh jug of ale and part-full cups on the table. Every person in the house had been not only dead, but reduced to bones and dust. All gone.

What had happened in the tower had left me weak. Not just fuzzy in the head, not just sad and confused and angry, but tired to the bone. So Grim had put me to bed, saying he'd bolt the door from the outside, and that I should yell if I needed him. I'd fallen into a sleep so profound I was still finding it hard to wake up properly.

“The guards?” I asked. “The rest of them?”

“Up in their quarters,” said Grim. “Gone, like the others. Horses were loose in the field. Water trough filled, fodder provided. Fellows from St. Olcan's will look after the animals, see they go somewhere safe.”

“Mistress Blackthorn.” It was the monk, a small man with cropped white hair and a practical manner. “I am Brother Marcán. I look after our sick and injured at St. Olcan's. Sadly, Father Tomas will not allow us to house you in our infirmary, but I'm here to help. To provide any assistance you require. This has been a difficult time. I hardly understand what has occurred, but at the very least, you have suffered a grave shock.”

I passed the cup back to Grim. I tried moving my head from side to
side as an experiment. I flexed my fingers and found myself staring with new fascination at the way they worked.

The others seemed to be waiting. “Oh,” I said. “Thank you.” It was good that this monk was here, even though I could tend to myself perfectly well. Good that someone had been here with Grim; that he hadn't been alone in the middle of all this. “I have a bit of a headache, yes. But as it turns out, I have all the ingredients for a draft to cure it.” Even the true love's tears, which Grim never used because I couldn't get the wretched words out. And yet the curse had still been broken.

I'd frozen up again in the middle of saying something.

“I can make the brew,” Grim said. “Just tell me what to put in it.”

“Let me,” said Brother Marcán quietly. The way he spoke to Grim surprised me. It was like brother to brother. Full of respect and understanding.

“All right. Thanks,” said Grim. “Think you could eat something?” He was talking to me now. “Brother Fergal—he was here before—sent a lad down with some food for us. Not that there's a lack of it here. Couple of the lay brothers are coming down to sleep in the house with us tonight. Just in case.”

“Just in case what?” Grim wasn't making sense. And there was a piece of this puzzle missing. Why wasn't he here? He should have been here. He'd been supposed to wait for me. “Where's Flannan?” I asked.

A terrible look came over Grim's face. A truly frightening look. It was just as well Brother Marcán was putting the kettle on the fire and had his back to us.

“Grim. What? Tell me!” Flannan couldn't be dead too. That wouldn't make sense.

Grim glanced over at Marcán. Looked back at me and shook his head a bit.

I wasn't waiting for this, whatever it was. “I need the privy,” I announced, attempting to get up. It was the same as before, in the tower; I couldn't stand upright. Not even after all that sleep. Spots were dancing before my eyes. “Grim, you'll have to take me.”

“Tell me the ingredients,” said Brother Marcán, not sounding shocked at all, “and I'll get on with making your remedy.”

“A good pinch of woodruff. A generous pinch of lavender. Some peppermint. That's only to make it taste better. Druid's balm. And an herb called true love's tears—there's some in a cloth in that pouch over there. Just a sprinkling of that. Pour over hot water, not boiling, enough to fill one cup, and let it steep a good while. And I'd better be the one to test it out.”

“Impressive, Mistress Blackthorn,” the monk said. “You look ready to swoon, but you can still give me precise instructions in a flash.”

“You'd be the same, I expect.”

“Well, yes, but . . .” He shrugged and turned away. “I'll go ahead, shall I?”

I wondered whether he'd meant
but men don't swoon
or
but women are fuzzy-headed at the best of times.
Provided the good brother had learned some kind of lesson, it didn't matter greatly which one it was.

Outside, I said to Grim, “I really do need the privy. And you'd better stand right by the door in case I faint. But when I'm done, you're going to tell me what's going on with Flannan.” The plan to flee south in secret lay like a stone in my belly, along with the way I'd lied to Grim. I knew, suddenly and surely, that I couldn't go. Knew I'd been a deluded fool ever to consider Flannan's scheme. I had a place at Winterfalls; I had work; I had a purpose. And I had Grim. The truth had been creeping up on me for some time, not altogether welcome: I needed him as much as he needed me. Now I would have to confess everything, and that would hurt both of us. But there could be no more lies.

Grim supported me as I hobbled to the privy. Sitting inside with the
door ajar, I realized it wasn't as late as I'd thought; only dusk. The forest was all lavender and purple and gray, and birds were still awake, exchanging occasional remarks as they found their roosting places. Behind those cheeps and chirrups lay a deep and blissful quiet. Lighted torches had been placed by the house doors. And I could hear someone moving around inside, perhaps in the kitchen. “Who's that?”

“Nothing to worry about,” says Grim from outside the privy. “There's a few of the monks here. Didn't want us to be on our own. Not after everything.”

“When did you organize all that? You went up there while I was asleep?”

“Didn't need to. They came down. Knew we were in trouble, after this morning. And they heard the creature go quiet. Felt that—whatever it was.”

“The start of the end. When I cut into the hedge. Only I didn't need to cut; it just opened up. And closed behind me, so Geiléis and the men couldn't come through.” Tidy again, I came out and pointed to a bench in the yard, by the well. “I'm going to sit down there. And you're going to tell me where Flannan is.”

He told me. Not where Flannan was, since he didn't know. But a story that suggested a depth of treachery I found hard to comprehend. When he was done, Grim said, “You don't believe me.”

“But he told me . . .” Oh, gods. The whole thing, the whole story of a plot, the intricate web of informants who were ready to step forward and raise their voices, the safe places where I could lodge with Christian sisters, the folk who would protect me until it was time . . . If what Grim said was true, then all of that must have been lies. An elaborate web of lies carefully woven to trap me. Why go to so much trouble making it all up? Why not kill me when he had the chance? Wasn't that what Mathuin wanted?

There was a look on Grim's face that told me he was edging toward
a clifftop. “That message,” he said. “The one the pigeon had. There was a part about taking the bait. What was the bait?”

Shame filled my heart. Not something I was used to. Not a good feeling at all. “Promise you'll listen and not interrupt until I'm finished.”

“All right.”

At this point the door to our quarters opened, light spilled out and Brother Marcán called, “Is all well?”

“We're fine, just talking. Be in soon.”

The door closed gently.

I told him. How Flannan had offered me the chance, the rare and precious chance to do the thing properly, not on my own this time, but backed up by all those other folk who wanted Mathuin brought to justice for his crimes and his cruelty. How it had all seemed to fall into place so neatly, the trip west to help Geiléis, the quick flight south on Midsummer Eve—today, still today—to reach Mide and then Laois by a route Flannan said Mathuin would not be watching. The allies, the plan, the witnesses. Foolproof, almost. How, when later on I had begun to doubt, he'd used all the weapons he had at his disposal, suggesting that I would be betraying Cass if I did not agree; that I would be confirming I was not the brave woman I had once been; that the longer I stayed away from Laois, the more new victims Mathuin would find to prey on. I told Grim how I'd got sick of the pressure and ordered Flannan to stay away while I made up my mind. And how, after the ritual, I had been so disgusted by the bitter, useless person I had become that I'd decided the best thing was to do what Flannan wanted. To turn my back and go south. At least then there would be some point in my existence.

Grim spoke not a word. He didn't need to.

“And yes, I didn't tell you. I knew if I did you would come with me, or come after me, and I wanted you to be safe. I didn't want you drawn into it all and hurt or killed because of my wretched cause. You have a
good life at Winterfalls. Work. Friends. Perhaps a family at some time in the future. Folk trust you. They like you. You would be so much better off without me. That was my reasoning.”

He looked at me. Sad eyes in the torchlight. “Don't know me as well as you think you do, mm?”

I thought of him charging up the tower to find me. Holding me in his arms, a monstrous thing all teeth and scales and claws, and telling me he'd stay by me two hundred years if that was what it took. As steadfast as Geiléis had been for her young man, Ash. Though it was not like that with him and me. Of course it wasn't. “Only,” I said, “after what happened in the tower, I realized I couldn't do it. I just want to go back to Winterfalls. I was going to tell Flannan tonight. I hope you believe that, Grim. You'd have every reason not to. But it's the truth.”

“You know I'd have come after you anyway,” Grim said. “I'd have found you. Even in the middle of a war. Even if you were back in Mathuin's lockup. If you ever decide to get rid of me again, you'll need to try harder. I know you're telling the truth. And so am I, about Flannan. You want to check, there's two monks can back me up. Fellow that looks after the birds, Eoan. He knows how many messages Flannan sent to Mathuin and how many came back. Head archivist, Ríordán. He's seen that translation, with the second page and all. In Flannan's own hand. And there's the message the bird never delivered.
It appears the target will be eliminated by midsummer
. And the bit about the bait. He was planning to take you to Laois, all right. Take you there and hand you straight over. But when he found the document, he got a better idea. Way of getting rid of you with a lot less trouble.”