Tower of Thorns (50 page)

“There is no way. It's too late. Mathuin's got eyes and ears everywhere. How can you ask me to stand up against him when it means my little girls will suffer?”

“How can I ask? Because that's just what Cass did. Remember him? Cass, your dearest friend. Cass who died with our son in his arms.” I met his gaze steadily, my head held high. And if my voice was like iron, my heart was full of tears.

“That's not fair!” Flannan said on a furious sob. “Don't make me do this, Saorla! Give yourself up. Come on, now—” He made a sudden lunge, shot out his free hand and grabbed my wrist. I saw him draw in a deep breath, as if to steady himself for what must be done. His eyes like death. The knife in his other hand, ready to strike.
Cass. Brennan. Grim.

Something huge and dark loomed behind him. A pair of large hands closed around his neck. There was an unpleasant crunching sound, the grip on my wrist was released, and Flannan fell limp to the ground, leaving me staring into the eyes of a very unwell-looking Grim.

“You're alive,” I said, stupidly.
Don't burst into tears, Blackthorn. Keep control of yourself.
A pox on it, I was trembling as if I had a palsy.

“Seems that way.” Grim crumpled suddenly to his knees, his hand against his left shoulder. “Think I might be bleeding a bit.”

I stepped over the lifeless body of my childhood friend. The man who would have killed me. Suddenly I was not weak and shaky, but so angry I wanted to scream. The bastard! The godforsaken poxy apology for a man! I should have sunk the ax in his head when I had the chance.

“Let me look,” I said to Grim. “What happened? He said you attacked him.”

“Hah! If I'd attacked him, he'd be dead. I woke up sudden. Head foggy
after the mead. He was right there, leaning over me, knife in his hand. Didn't know if you were dead or alive. I rolled out of the way just as he struck. He got me in the shoulder, just here.”

I knelt beside him. “Take off your shirt,” I said.

He winced as he did so; the garment was sticky with blood. “Just a flesh wound,” he said. “Messy, though.”

From what I could see, he was right; he'd been lucky. “Looks as if you'll survive,” I said, feeling sick at the thought of what might have been. “For now I'll just clean this up and put on a bandage. I can have a better look by daylight.” He looked as sick as I felt. But I had to ask. “What happened then? When I woke up I thought he'd killed you.”

“Stupid. Got on my feet, charged toward the bastard, tripped on something and over I went like a felled tree. Hit my head, hard. Knocked myself out cold.”

“Dagda's bollocks! I woke up just as he was about to finish you off. Yelled at the top of my voice. Used the ax. Only not the blade, the haft. A big mistake.”

“Saved my life,” Grim said.

“You saved mine.”

“Good team, then.”

I nodded, momentarily lost for words.

“You must've done all right for yourself,” he said, “or he'd have killed you before I came to.”

“I managed to drop the ax. But I did keep him talking. The bastard tried to make out we were still friends. Seemed to think I'd understand why he did what he did, because of . . . Enough of this for now; let's get this wound cleaned up.”

“Going to have to make him disappear,” Grim said, glancing at Flannan.

“Forget that until daylight.” Suddenly I didn't want to think about any of it. I wanted to be back at Winterfalls with the sun shining and the kettle boiling on the hearth fire.

“Got a lump on my head the size of a goose egg,” muttered Grim. “Frigging mead. Should've known better.”

“Ah—mead. Good idea.”

He must have come down hard; there was indeed a huge lump on his head. With luck that blow had not done any serious damage. His eyes looked all right, and he was talking sense. I fetched my healer's supplies. Used the pot of cooling water from our brew to wash the shoulder wound. Dried it with a kerchief.

“I'm going to splash on some mead before I bandage this. It helps keep out ill humors. It'll sting.”

Grim attempted a laugh and winced with pain. “Father Tomas's special brew,” he said. “Love to see the look on his face.”

“I'll write and tell him all about it.” I began to bandage the wound.

“Him. Flannan. Need . . . dig a grave.”

“Forget him. You won't be digging anything. And you'd be better not riding tomorrow.”

“I can ride, Lady. Be fine in the morning. Listen. Should say I'm sorry. Killed your friend. But I'd be lying, and that's the truth.”

“Hush, now.” He sounded like a shadow of his real self; I suspected a monster headache, not to speak of shock. I was not exactly at my best either.

When the bandage was done to my satisfaction I draped my blanket around his shoulders. Used the rest of the hot water to make a brew. Splashed a generous amount of mead into his cup and handed it to him. “Now Father Tomas would really be offended,” I said, sitting down beside him and realizing, now that I had done what had to be done, that the night was still freezing cold. The fire's warmth was a blessing; its light in the darkness was indeed good.

“Nah,” Grim said. “He'd understand.” There was a pause; then he said, “Thanks for the brew.”

“You lie down. I'll keep watch. I know I won't be able to sleep. In the morning we can work out what to do next.”

“If you say so.” He lay down, failing to conceal how painful the process was. “Still got your blanket.” It was wrapped around him. “You'll be needing it.”

“Keep it. If I get cold I'll put your cloak on.”

“It's wet.”

“Stop talking, shut your eyes and go to sleep, big man.”

“If you say so . . .” He was dropping off even as he spoke.

For a long while I simply sat there with my empty cup in my hands, listening to the sounds of the woodland at night and looking at the flames. What had happened felt too big to take in. It was a tale of cowardice and courage, intrigue and simple goodness, choices that were complicated mixtures of right and wrong. It wasn't just us—Grim and me and Flannan. We were small parts in the terrible story of Mathuin of Laois; we were parts of the tragic tale of Lily and Ash and the household that had clung on for two hundred years, waiting for us. And when we went back to Cahercorcan, we'd once again be part of the tale of Oran and Flidais and the baby yet to be born, a child who could be king one day.

There was another, older tale. It belonged in these woods, and in the forest all around the Tower of Thorns, and in our own woodland back at Winterfalls. The tale of the small folk, as stoic as Senach and the others. The curse had compelled them to stay and to help. Despite that compulsion, they had tended to Ash with kindness. They had handled his remains, and Geiléis's, with tender respect. Perhaps, over the long trial they had endured together, the wee folk had grown to love Ash, and he them. I found myself wishing I had known him.

The first traces of dawn light were visible in the sky when there was a rustling close by. My fingers fastened around the ax. I rose silently to my feet.

A polite little cough to one side. A clearing of the throat to the other. I lowered my weapon as a group of small cloaked personages emerged from under the trees to come up to the fire. Grim slept on; Father Tomas's mead was potent.

“Don't wake him,” I whispered, indicating Grim. “He's hurt.”

“We will mend him,” said one of the little ones.

“We will dig,” said another, who had a tiny spade over his shoulder.

I eyed the lifeless form of Flannan. He had been a tallish man. I looked at the crowd of very small folk.

“We are many,” pointed out one of them.

“You rest one day. Rest your horses. Rest the big man. One day, then go on.”

Their kindness was overwhelming. Once again I had to order myself not to shed tears. “We owe your folk many favors already,” I said. “This is . . .”

“Common sense,” put in someone briskly. I guessed her identity before she pushed back her hood, revealing her shock of curls. It was the little woman of the ogham message, the fey healer. “Now don't be stubborn,” she said. “Say yes and let's get on with things. Our clan owes you and your man a big, big debt.”

“Consider the debt acquitted,” I said, failing to stem the tears. “But yes, some help at this point would be welcome. Maybe I can cook you breakfast.”

For some reason they thought this hilarious. The gusts of laughter continued as they busied themselves around the place. While Grim slept on, oblivious, the firewood was replenished, the horses were fed and watered, the wet clothing was dried with a speed no ordinary fire could possibly have achieved, and Flannan was covered up with a blanket that had not been among our possessions earlier. Most surprising of all, four of the small men appeared leading a familiar creature on a rope. The dog dwarfed them.

“Ripple,” I breathed. “Where was she?” I hastened to fill a bowl with water, to find something she could eat.

“Tied up in the woods, not far off. Not making a sound. Sitting quiet, waiting.”

I would not cry again. Grim had commented more than once on what a perfectly obedient creature Ripple was. Through all of it, and she must surely have heard, or sensed, something of that struggle, she had done exactly what Flannan had bid her do:
Sit. Wait.
He could never have caught us by surprise if she'd been free to run about. “Good girl,” I told her. “Eat now. Drink. Rest.” Did she know he lay dead under that blanket over there? Had she sensed that he was not coming back for her? “Thank you,” I said to the little men. “I'll take care of her now.”

A group of little folk was working at a discreet distance, digging away with miniature spades. A big group; the hole was growing quickly deeper.

As the sun climbed higher Grim stirred. It was obvious that his head was
hurting him, but once he saw the small folk he sat up, entranced, and watched them with evident wonder. Ripple went over to him, shoulders hunched, tail down, hesitant now. He fondled her ears, murmuring, and she settled by his side. I could see where that was headed.

I'd been wondering how we were going to shift Flannan's body to the grave. That, I was sure these folk could not manage, and I didn't want Grim trying to do it. But he was quick with a solution.

“Got a rope, haven't we?” he said, eyeing the shrouded body. “And horses? Just tie the right knots and it's easy. Undignified, yes. But easy. Not planning to damage myself anymore. Not for a man who tried to kill you.”

“And you.”

“That too. I'll show you the knots now if you want.”

•   •   •

One day of rest. After breakfast the fey healer inspected Grim's shoulder wound and then the swelling on his head. He responded to her questions with a series of expressive grunts, since her presence seemed to render him mute. She told me I'd done good work, then opened her own healer's bag and constructed her own dressing, complete with a mash of various powdered herbs.

While she was applying this I went off, at her suggestion, to gather herbs useful for controlling pain and banishing ill humors. Grim would need a headache draft. By the time I got back the little woman was in animated conversation with Grim. When I came close she waved me away. I was fairly sure they were talking about me.

The small folk finished digging the grave, and with the assistance of the rope, two horses and a lot of conflicting suggestions, we got Flannan into it. The fey ones formed a circle all around. Grim leaned against one of the horses, his arm across its back. Everyone seemed to be waiting.

I was the wise woman. This was my job. But I couldn't find the right words, not this time. I'd lost my belief in gods long ago. And right now, I couldn't think of one good thing to say about the dead man. The silence drew out.

“We give this man back to the earth.” It was Grim's deep voice, steady and sure. “He did some bad things in his life. Some good too, maybe. But he lost his way. Could be he'll just rot down and help something grow. Not such a bad end, that. Could be he'll walk down a new path and find a better way.”

•   •   •

The wee folk stayed close for most of the day. Whatever the small healer had done to Grim's injuries—I was sure that had been no ordinary dressing—he returned to something like his old self with truly astonishing speed. I made up enough of the headache draft to see us back to Cahercorcan and its well-stocked stillroom.

I snatched an opportunity, later, to speak with the fey healer on her own. Grim was at the center of a group of very small men. They were engrossed in some activity that involved tying knots in stalks of grass.

We were by the fire, she and I. I thanked her for her care of Grim. She observed that he seemed worth saving. I thanked her for the ogham messages and apologized for being so slow to understand. I asked if the king had survived his ordeal in the thorn hedge.

“He did. He's being tended to, back home. Not quite himself yet, but he will be.”

“I'm not sure if I should ask this,” I said, “but I will. There was a man, one of your kind, who spoke to Grim, soon after we came to Bann. Grim helped lift something. The man gave him a warning. We heard later that there was a penalty if your kind spoke out about the one in the tower.”

“That is true. Our king suffered for every word.”

“Then we're deeply sorry,” I said. “And I hope the one who did speak out, to Grim I mean, was not punished for it.”

“The king bore the punishment for us. A long curse, and a cruel one.”

“I have another question for you.”

“Ask away.”

“True love's tears. The herb. You kept reminding me of it. I thought I needed it to break the curse that lay over the Tower of Thorns. So I gathered some and took it with me, but when I got there I didn't use it, because . . .”