Tower of Thorns (48 page)

“He could have just killed me.”

“Nah. Hasn't got the guts for that. Childhood friend and all. I bet he caved in early after that first challenge failed, the one your man was part of. Found a soft spot betraying his comrades, nice little purse of silver in exchange.”

“Now you're making things up.”

“Could be true, though.”

“I think I'm going to be sick.”

“Here—” He was beside me in a moment, supporting me as I leaned over and retched helplessly. There wasn't a lot to bring up. I was done soon enough. Now we were both quiet. I leaned on Grim, despising my weakness.

“He's still out there somewhere,” I said, wishing my voice was steadier. “On the way south, maybe. He'll tell Mathuin everything. What we're doing, where we're living . . .” I felt a pang of longing for our little house, our garden, our daily existence at Dreamer's Wood. I even missed wretched interfering Conmael. We wouldn't be able to go back there. If Mathuin feared my influence enough to send Flannan out to hunt me down, he wasn't going to let this go.

“Not if we find him first,” said Grim in a voice no less deadly for being soft. “Flannan, I mean. But now's not the time to talk about that. Something you might think about, though. How much of that, after the ritual, was the curse playing with your head. Making you sad, stopping you from seeing the good things. The good in yourself. Easy enough to lose sight of it, sometimes.”

He helped me indoors, where I got back into bed. I sat there sipping Brother Marcán's brew and wishing the monk would go away so I could have a bath and change my clothes.

The brew was all right. True love's tears had a bitter aftertaste—appropriate, when you thought about it—but Marcán had countered that with a few drops of honey. Not bad. For a monk.

I rested my head against the piled-up pillows. My heart felt bruised. My mind felt hollow. A blow from an enemy was something you could deal with. It was what you expected. But being betrayed by someone who had once been a trusted friend . . . That was hard to bear. Almost as hard to bear as the knowledge that I had let myself be duped. I should have known. I should have worked it out. I'd had my suspicions about Flannan. The man he'd once been, my friend and Cass's, would
not have used those cruel arguments to persuade me. But folk do change over the years. Perhaps I hadn't put it all together because I didn't want to. Friends were few and far between. Most of Cass's and mine were dead. That made anyone who was left doubly precious.

I considered Grim's theory about the curse turning my thoughts upside down. I hoped it was true; I thought it might be. Right now, tired as I was, I felt more clear-headed than I had been for a long time. I still felt bitter, but only toward Flannan, and through him Mathuin. Not toward the whole world. Not toward myself.

Enough thinking about that; I'd soon be tying my own head in knots with no need for the curse's help. I thought instead how soothing the smell of peppermint was, and how comforting the feeling of a warm cup between chilled hands. How pleasing the dance of the flames on the hearth. Peace, I thought. For now, peace.

I had not expected to sleep again so soon, but I did, to be woken much later by Grim saying there was warm water ready for bathing and all monks were forbidden entry until I was finished. He had put up the screen and readied soft soap, a brush, a cloth for drying and a change of clothing for me.

“Be careful,” I said. “You'll be turning into Senach soon.” But neither of us laughed. What an existence for those men, condemned to live on with Geiléis until the spell was broken, steadfast in their loyalty to the very end. I wondered if they had feared that end at first, and then, as chance after chance passed them by, had begun to long for it? Some, maybe. But I thought Donncha, at least, had caught sight of the life he might have had. I could not imagine him going willingly into death.

The bath was bliss. I soaked and scrubbed, trying to erase the sensation of being scaly and scabby and wretched all over.

“Saved those battle garments for you,” said Grim from the other side of the screen. “The ax too. Might come in useful sometime.”

“For what?”

“You never know.”

“If nothing else, they'd remind me of the peril of trying to be
something I'm clearly not cut out to be,” I said. “When I got up there, he just knelt down and let me do it. Pushed his hair out of the way and offered his neck. He was desperate for it to be over, poor man.”

“Blackthorn?”

“Mm?” He'd put a scattering of dried lavender in the water; the smell was sweet.

“What did you see, after that? Before I got there?”

I swallowed, remembering. “When I'd done it, he was himself again straightaway, head and all. A man of around Geiléis's age with long dark hair, wearing a white shirt. He looked at me and said,
I'm sorry
, and, more fool me, I had no idea what he was talking about. Then Geiléis was there—the thorns must have opened up again as soon as I'd struck off his head—and she ran into his arms and they clung to each other. They didn't speak much, only
I love you
, and
Oh gods, at last
, and each other's names:
Lily
,
Ash
. He stroked her hair. She laid her head against his chest. Smiling and weeping, the two of them. It was like the happy ending of a tale, only . . . only then I started to change, and so did they.”

I stared up at the rafters, wondering if the memory would ever go away, or if it would add itself to the nightly parade that visited my sleep.

“Might help to get it out,” came Grim's deep voice. “But only if you want to.”

“The gray began to show in his hair, then hers. Their faces got wrinkled and wizened, and their bodies bent and shriveled, and still they held on to each other. Near the end, Geiléis's hair was as white as snow. Still beautiful, a shining cape over her shoulders. Then . . . he fell, and she couldn't hold on anymore. She got onto her knees beside him—oh, Grim, she was so, so old—and lay down with her head against his heart, and died. And they . . . they crumpled and dried out and fell to bones and dust. It was so quick. So quick. By then I was . . . not myself. Only I saw. I couldn't drag my eyes away.”

A pause. Then, “You all right?”

“I will be. Only I don't think I'll be up to a long ride tomorrow. There's nothing I want more than to get out of this place. But I'm weak. Weak beyond what a day or two's battle training and a climb up a tower could do. I'm sorry.” Telling the story had brought everything back, stark and clear. I felt a sudden need to be dry, clothed and able to see my companion when I talked to him. “Getting out now. Thank you for the bath. I feel much better.”

“Mm-hm.” Another silence, in which it was quite plain he did not believe I was better any more than I did. “No need to be sorry. Suits me to take a day or two. Roof's not done yet. Got to put the creatures on. I was going to leave it, but Father Tomas wants me to go up and finish off. Think it might be better for the ones who've helped us, Ríordán and Fergal and Marcán, if I do that. Sounds like Father Tomas isn't well pleased with everything that's been going on. Though if you ask me, he should be happy the curse is broken.
Ah, the blessed quiet
, that's what Brother Marcán said.”

Ríordán—was that the archivist Flannan had spoken of? I didn't ask who Fergal was. I didn't question how oddly Grim's ease of talk about them sat with his earlier reluctance to visit St. Olcan's at all. There was a tale there. I hoped he'd tell me sometime. “They're being remarkably helpful, aren't they? Christian monks generally have a low opinion of my kind.”

“They've been living next to Geiléis and her household,” Grim said. “And the monster in the tower. Not to speak of those little folk in the woods. They've had time to get used to the strange and troubling.”

“The little folk—I hope their king is safe. I hope this did free him from the hedge.”

“There was a wee fellow in there. Might've been him. Might've been a minder. I was in too much of a rush to ask.”

Dry now, I got into the fresh shift and gown he had laid on my bed.

“You dressed?” asked Grim after a while.

“Fully enough for even a monk not to be shocked. You can take away the screen.” Something occurred to me. “Grim.”

“What?” He folded the screen and set it against the wall.

“The little folk should all be free now. Not bound to serve the requirements of the curse anymore. Free to talk.”

“That's the way it was in the tale. Not that he told us the whole tale, the lying bastard.”

“So if we asked them for a favor, they might say yes?”

“Don't know about that. You know that whistle they gave me? That was a favor. And I used it. Used it to get through the thorns. When I blew it, the little prickly fellow popped out and made a path for me. Strangest thing I ever saw. One of the strangest. Wonder if he was the king.” He gives me a crooked smile. “Why? What were you thinking?”

“I have to ask you something first. If we found Flannan, what would you want to do?”

“What do you think?”

“Kill him, no questions asked. Right?”

“Why would you bother with questions? He's only going to give you more lies. Don't tell me you think he's a fine man underneath and we should say,
Just be good from now on and all's forgiven
. I know the fellow's your old friend, but—”

“I'm not stupid! Right now there's nothing I'd like to do more than pick up that ax and bring it down on his poxy lying head. But . . . in the morning I might think differently. And so might you.”

He stares at me. “You mean you think this could have a happy ending, like in a tale?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You and him. Your childhood friend. Always off having your private chats. Thought you might have . . . well, feelings for each other.” Grim was blushing; it was a strange sight.

I was glad I couldn't see my own expression; it must have been
laughable. “Me and Flannan? Settling down in domestic bliss? You must be crazy.” How could he ever have imagined such a thing? “I'm never going to settle, Grim. Not like that, with a family. Losing Cass and Brennan . . . Once was enough for a lifetime.” I sat down by the fire, suddenly cold despite the bath. “How soon is supper?”

“Whenever you want.” He sat down opposite, elbows on knees, very serious. “So what
do
we do when we find Flannan, if we're not stringing him up from the nearest tree? And how do we find him, seeing it's just you and me going back?”

“What do we do? I don't know. But he should be given a chance to explain himself. He should face up to us. We could make him tell us how much Mathuin knows. As for how we find him, I thought we could ask the little folk to look out for him.”

“As a plan, it's not the best you've ever thought up.”

“I know that! I know he's probably on the way back to Laois and out of our reach already!” I hammered my clenched fist on the table for emphasis. It hurt. Gods, I hated being weak.

“Supper,” said Grim. “Now.”

Grim

M
idsummer Day and no proper plan worked out yet. Only me doing the roof this morning, and her coming with me and talking nicely to Father Tomas while I'm working. Means I'll know she's safe. Won't hurt to sweeten Father Tomas a bit either. The lay brothers stay at Geiléis's house, in case Flannan comes back, though what I've told them is, in case anyone calls by and needs telling what's happened. And that if he makes an appearance one of them should come straight up and fetch me.

Blackthorn's a lot better today. Not herself yet, but stronger. Manages the walk pretty well. Brother Fergal comes to the gate and lets her into the guest area, which is the only spot where women are allowed. I fetch my bits and pieces and go off to finish the roof.

Thought I'd have to make cat and fox all over again, but no. When I go for my things, there's not just the one bag, there's two. First one, raven and dove. Second one, not a mess of broken reed but cat and fox, perfect. Know I fell over them running down to warn Blackthorn. Felt them break. Someone's fetched them back and fixed them. Fixed them with little weavings and knots and twisty bits. Other things too, row of white stones threaded in, and hairs, long ones, white, gray, golden, black. Scraps of green ribbon. Work's too fine for human hands. What
I'm thinking is, better get these up quick before the good brothers know they're getting fey work on their roof.

I don't say anything to Tadhg or Fergal or Ríordán, though they're all there when I get the creatures out of the bags. Don't feel like saying much at all, just doing the job the best I can.

Fergal holds the ladder steady. Tadhg is at the top handing things up to me. I'm on the ridge tying the creatures down, doing the knots right, making sure they'll hold fast in winter gales. Look down once or twice and see a lot of monks out in the garden, or on the paths, watching me. Part of me wishes I could stay here. Another part can't wait to go home. Funny old time it's been.

Midmorning and we're done. Climb down, thank the fellows for helping, pack everything away. No sign of Blackthorn. She can't still be talking to Father Tomas. But she promised not to go back without me. Maybe she's tearing strips off him for not doing more to help.

Brother Ríordán says to wash my hands and come with him. And here we are at the scriptorium door again. Like yesterday when I came barging in not even thinking about being scared. Only not like that, because now I tell them I'm sorry I did that, and then I say maybe I should be making sure Blackthorn's all right.

Ríordán gives a funny sort of smile and says Brother Marcán's just been over to check. Things were a bit frosty to start with. Then Father Tomas found out she knew about mead. So they're sampling his brews and exchanging secrets. There's also been some discussion of other matters. “We knew you'd be worried,” Ríordán says. “But we didn't want you to leave without seeing the book.”

They've got it ready for me. Brother Galen's little book, laid out on a lectern. Open at a page with an owl. There's an ache in my belly, and that ache is me wanting to understand not just the pictures but the words too. To be able to read. Magic, that'd be, to know just what his hand set down there. Sometime. Maybe. Never been much good at that sort of thing.

I know how to turn the pages without hurting them. Brother Galen
showed me, at St. Erc's. There's hare and salmon and prickly hedgehog. There's sleek otter and secret badger and a moth all swirly patterns, flying across the full moon. A long-tailed mouse. A shrew, a salamander, a dragonfly. Pretty colors. Little touches of gold. Like an old tale with a surprise at every turn.

Thought I might be crying by the time I got to the last picture, but no. I'm smiling, not on my face, but deep down. Learned something this summer. When I leave here, when I give back the book and Ríordán locks it away for safekeeping, I'll still have those pictures. I'll still have Brother Galen with his fluffy white hair and his gentle eyes and his scholar's cat. Just like I'll always have what these fellows have given me. Kindness. Forgiveness. The hand of friendship. Faith in God, not so much. A bit more faith in myself, though.

I close the covers and get to my feet. I want to say thank you. I want to say I'm different because of them. But the words won't come out. I dip my head a bit, that's all. Sometimes what a man's thinking is too big to put in words.

•   •   •

Blackthorn's quiet on the way down to Geiléis's. So quiet I ask her if she's all right.

“Mm,” she says, not hearing me. Something's got her thinking. After a while she asks, “Who's Brother Conall?”

Shocks me a bit. “Why do you ask?” Didn't think they'd tell her. Didn't think they'd tell anyone.

“Just once, Father Tomas used that name, and it sounded as if he meant you. Marcán corrected him. Hard to believe there's any monk who looks like you.”

“Long story. Some other time.”

“Mm-hm.”

She won't ask again. She'll wait till I'm ready to tell. That's the way
we do it, her and me. “Did he say anything about Flannan? Where they think he might have gone?”

“Not much. They were surprised he left his documents behind. I think they were taken aback that he left so abruptly, without thanks or explanation. He's not on horseback, unless he got a mount from somewhere else. Either he was so sure of himself that he saw no reason to wait out Midsummer Eve, or something bothered him and he bolted.”

“Attack of guilt, maybe.”

“Grim.”

“Mm?”

“I'll be able to ride by tomorrow. We should just go. There's nothing more to do here. And the longer we leave it, the farther ahead he'll be. Especially if he's riding. He could have got a horse from one of the farms.”

“Might be waiting to ambush us along the way.”

“Ambush? Flannan? He's not exactly a fighter.”

“All the same. Be happier if we had a couple of guards with us. Even a couple of monks would be better than nothing.”

“Well, we don't,” she says. “It's just you and me and whatever tricks we can put together between us. Always seemed to be enough in the past.”

•   •   •

Couple of last things to do before we leave. We bury Geiléis's guards up near the stables. I do most of the digging. One of the lay brothers says a prayer. Pretty sure Onchú and the others weren't Christians, but never mind. Blackthorn and me say some words too, how loyal the fellows were to Geiléis and how they did their job well right to the end. Then we do it all over again in the kitchen garden, for Senach and Dau and the others.

We don't go back to the Tower of Thorns. Seems right to leave Lily and Ash up there, where the little folk laid them out. Brother Galen would have made a lovely picture of that. The two of them lying there
side by side, just bones, watching the sun and the moon go past that high window.

We get the horses ready. There's the three we brought from court, and we take a fourth, a big bay. Ride one, lead one. Next day, switch them over. That way they get a rest from carrying a rider.

We pack up. The monks give us a lot of food. Should last the whole way. Saves us needing to fish and forage, though we still will, most likely. Spare horses can carry the supplies. Bags of fodder for them too. Blackthorn's got a flask of special mead, gift from Father Tomas. Bit of a surprise. She says it's because she gave him some sort of brewers' secret. Passed down through her family. That's what she told him, anyway.

We sleep one more night in Lady Geiléis's house. Don't know what'll happen to the place now. She was the last one in her family. That's if the old tale's all true. Who'd want to live there? House full of sad ghosts.

It's morning again, the day after Midsummer Day. Lovely weather, fine and sunny. And quiet. Hard to get used to the quiet. I saddle the horses and load the baggage on the two we're not riding. We thank the fellows who've been helping us. I bet they'll be glad to get back to St. Olcan's. Then the two of us ride for home.