Tower of Thorns (6 page)

“It is a frail hope,” says Lady Geiléis. “To wait for this druid, while time passes and midsummer draws closer . . . and then, perhaps, to bring him west only to find his blessing no more effective than Father Tomas's well-intentioned prayers . . .”

“Sometimes,” says Blackthorn, “answers take time to find. A long time. Druids know their lore; they spend years and years committing it to memory. Somewhere in that body of learning, there may lie an answer to your difficulty. Meanwhile, consider what we already know. This being has taken up residence in the tower. It is disturbed, distressed, perhaps angry. Since it came, some kind of spell has fallen over the land all around. The question I would be asking, if I were you, the key to the whole dilemma, is
why
?”

Geiléis

T
onight, as on every night, dusk would be heralded with a story. No matter that she was miles from home. She would tell the tale anyway, as she had over and over since she had first found herself trapped in the endless nightmare. She would tell it before her mirror, here in the guest quarters at Cahercorcan, with the door closed against the intrusions of Prince Oran's serving folk. She would tell it in a whisper. Even if she had stood on the high walkway of the king's stronghold and shouted at the top of her voice, he surely could not have heard her. He was too far away; beyond reach. But she would remain faithful. She would keep her promise. So, the nightly ritual.

Onchú stood watch outside her door. He would ensure she was undisturbed. She stood quite still in the center of the chamber. By the light of flickering candles she whispered the story: the old, old story. Each time it was a little different, for she twisted and turned it according to her mood. But no matter what the manner of telling, the tale was cruel as a knife; bitter as gall.

Long ago and far away, across valleys and over mountains, there lived a noble couple. Theirs was a prosperous holding, with many farms and settlements. There was a wide tract of woodland in which
many creatures roamed. There was a broad river brimful with fish. On all sides there were peaceable neighbors.

The couple had but one child: a daughter. When she was a babe, her doting parents had used a pet name for her: Lily. As she'd grown older, the name had stuck. At sixteen, Lily was tall and straight, with long hair the color of ripe corn and wide eyes as blue as the summer sky. Folk thought her beautiful. She was a quiet girl, sweet and biddable, and all in that household loved her.

Now, in those days, the fey walked the land of Erin more openly than they do now. In the forest close by her father's holdings, Lily would sometimes glimpse a cloaked woman moving between the great oaks, or a tall man clad all in green, bending to converse with his own reflection in the water of a woodland pond. She was not sure what it was about such folk that told her they were fey; she simply knew, and knew instantly. Lily was cautious; she had heard tales of men and women wandering into mushroom circles, or venturing into caves at twilight, or taking other risks that led them into a world from which there was no returning. Her mother had warned her that the fey were tricky, dangerous, not to be trusted, and in general Lily did her best to avoid them.

But after her sixteenth birthday, a restless spirit grew in Lily. No longer content with embroidery or spinning or playing with her mother's lapdogs, she snatched the chance, when she was supposed to be resting in her bedchamber, to slip out the window, climb down by means of a conveniently placed oak tree, and head off into the forest alone. This was quite against the rules—her handmaid and a guard were supposed to accompany her anytime she ventured out. That was only common sense. Had her parents known of Lily's solitary expeditions, they would have been deeply disturbed.

A river flowed through these woods. In the river was an island, a lovely place all covered with wildflowers, and on the island stood a tower. That tower drew Lily as a selkie's song draws a lonely fisherman. It fascinated her; it had done since she was a small child and had
been told by her parents that the place was dangerous and that she was never to go there. It had not been explained what the danger was, but as Lily grew older she heard folk talk about rotting wood and crumbling stones, sudden steep drops and hidden wells. She heard hints about magic. And she noticed that nobody, nobody at all, ever seemed to set foot on the island. No wonder birds thronged there, and insects on the blossoms. For them, it was paradise.

Nobody knew who had built the tower; nobody knew how long it had been there. The ford that lay quite close to the island saw daily traffic of many kinds: horsemen, oxcarts, herds of goats, folk on foot with bundles held over their heads. A person could not reach the island from the ford without wading into quite deep water; to do so without being seen was well-nigh impossible. Should a goose girl or swineherd or carter spot Lily attempting it, word would soon get to her father, and her father would make sure that was the last time she visited the tower.

But Lily, that good, obedient girl, had found another way across. It was the day of Beltane when she made her discovery. Folk were sleeping off the effects of a night of revelry, and nobody was about. The road was quiet, the ford deserted. The fair isle called to her, with its greensward and its flowering bushes and its tower rising to the sky in an elegant sweep of moss-softened stone. But the river was flowing high. Trying to wade across would be a foolish risk. Besides, how would she explain her wet clothing when she got home? Maybe there were stones to balance on, or a fallen tree, or some other way to get over. Lily went along the riverbank, picking a path through the dense growth of shade-loving plants. Once, she slipped, and in clutching at the nearest stem to stop herself from falling in, she bloodied her palm on thorns. Muttering an oath, she forced a way through to find herself on a tiny strip of level shore, covered in neat round pebbles, all shades of brown and gray and green. They were remarkably uniform in shape.

Lily found a handkerchief in her pouch and used it to bind up her bleeding hand. Already, her mind was fashioning explanations. She
knew that just a season ago, she would not have dreamed of deceiving her parents thus. But something had got into her; something had changed her. Perhaps it was all part of growing up.

She used her teeth to tighten the knot in the makeshift bandage. It was as she did so that she spotted the boat. Had it been there a moment before? She could not say, but now it bobbed in the shallows as if waiting for Lily to climb aboard. The little craft was shaped like half of a walnut shell, and was just big enough for one young woman to sit in and row herself to the island, had there been oars. Oh, but she wanted to go across. She wanted so much to climb that tower, climb to the very top where she could look out over the dark expanse of the forest and the long, silver winding of the river, and catch a glimpse of the mysterious lands that lay beyond. Although she knew it was foolish, she felt she might give almost anything to do that.

Perhaps there was a stick she could use as a pole, or a piece of bark for a paddle . . . She cast around for something useful.

“What will you give me if I take you over?” spoke up a wee little voice. And there on the sward was a wee little man not much higher than Lily's knee, and clad all in green like the folk in the old tales. The diminutive fellow doffed his hat and gave Lily a bow. “You want to use the ferry, you pay the ferryman.”

“Ferry?” echoed Lily. “It's rather small, isn't it?”

“I think I can count up to one,” said the little man, “and one of you is what I see. Room for you, room for me. What will you pay?”

Now, Lily did not carry silver pieces or coppers or anything of the like when she went walking in the forest; why would she? Besides, she'd been taught not to trust the fey, and though all the fey folk she'd seen before had been tall and stately, who was to say they did not come in all shapes and sizes? Either way, she knew she should be careful. “What is the usual fee?” she asked, thinking of an old and disturbing story in which an unwary passenger found himself obliged to act as ferryman until he could convince someone to take his place. No
matter how badly she wanted to explore the tower, she must not fall victim to a trick of that kind.

“A coin, a kiss, a tale, a promise. A bag of magic beans, a feather from a singing bird, a hair from your head.”

A hair. That should be simple enough. She was already plucking it when doubt came over her. “Why would you want a hair?”

“Pretty,” said the wee man. “Like gold.”

“And that really is all you want? Will one hair get me over to the island and back again?”

“It will, and more besides.”

She plucked the hair, coiled it into the shape of a ring, and gave it to the ferryman, who did not put it on his finger, but slipped it into the leather pouch at his belt. Yes, Lily was foolish. But she was sixteen years old, and the rising, capricious tides of Beltane were flooding through her body and spirit. Such things happen.

She stepped into the little boat, and the ferryman got in after her, with a long pole in his hand, and took her on a bobbing, uneven course out onto the river. The ferry was not the most comfortable of boats, but the wee fellow knew what he was about. In next to no time they reached the island, and Lily disembarked onto another pebbly shore.

“You will wait for me, won't you?” she asked. “I want to have a look at the tower. Climb up, if I can.”

“When you want me, do this.” The wee man stuck his fingers in his mouth and delivered a piercing whistle.

“When I want you, I'll call ‘Ferryman!'” Lily said. “I have never learned to whistle like that.”

“Useful skill,” observed the ferryman. “Off you go, then; take a look around. You never know what you might find in a spot like that.” He jerked his head toward the tower, but did not quite look at it.

So, at last she was here. Such a lovely place, all grown over with a profusion of flowering plants, here and there a small tree—a hawthorn, an elder—and the air filled with a wonderful sweet scent. Patches of soft grass seemed to invite a traveler to lie down and dream
awhile; flat stones provided perfect spots to sit and listen to the singing of birds, the rippling of the river and the sighing of the wind in the trees. But there was the tower, standing at the highest point, and Lily set her steps toward it, not letting herself linger. Who knew how soon her small ferryman might grow tired of waiting and head off on his own business?

The base of the tower was broad; it took some time to walk right around it. Mosses clothed the pale stones in a soft garment; flowers grew everywhere, a bright carpet. The voices of birds made a high music. And ah! here was the door at last, and it stood open. Within, all was shadow.

Lily drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders. She was not afraid; not really. But her heart was beating like a drum, and her palms were suddenly clammy. It was so dark in there. She took a step inside, and another step. There was a spiral stair against the tower wall, stretching up, ladder-steep, into the shadows.

Very well. She tucked her hem into her belt and up she went, treading with care. Spiders had colonized the tower's interior; their webs were everywhere, catching at her hair, tickling her fingers, covering her skirt with filmy white strands. Things scuttled and scurried and whisked out of sight. The darkness was not complete; had it been so, she would indeed have been risking her life on this stair. From somewhere above, a faint light filtered down. There must be a window, an opening up there, Lily thought. She might be able to stand at the top looking out, as she had dreamed.

The stair came to an end, and she stepped forward into a round chamber. There was indeed a window, but its shutters were drawn together; between them a narrow gap admitted a thin bar of light, which fell across the wooden floor. It was cold in the chamber; the chill sent a shiver through Lily, and she hugged her shawl around her. The empty room seemed somehow a disappointment, though she was not sure what else she had expected. Still, there were those shutters, and the view outside. But she hesitated; she did not rush across to
throw them open. Something felt wrong here; what was it that set her on edge? Lily stood quiet a moment or two, and in the quiet she heard something. A sound so faint that it would have been easy to miss. A sound softer than the creak of the floor under her feet, softer than the rustling of mice in the wall, softer than the distant murmur of the river, down below the shuttered window. The sound of breathing.