Tower of Thorns

by Juliet Marillier

  “And?” Know whatever it is can’t be good. “What did I do?”

  “You were talking nonsense. You weren’t really with us. I touched you on the arm and—well, you lashed out and almost hit me.”

  See through that straightaway. I hit her—that’s what she’s saying. I hit Blackthorn.

  “Don’t look like that, Grim. You gave me a fright, that was all. And it was you I was frightened for, not me.”

  When I don’t say anything at all, she starts walking. “We should get back,” she says over her shoulder. “Or Lady Geiléis will have search parties out looking for us. Not the best impression to make on our first day. I haven’t gathered a single herb. Hope I find one or two between here and the house. If ever a day called for a good brew, this one does.”

  “What did I say? In the story, what did I say? Did they hear me?”

  “Who, Flannan and Brother Dufach? They could hardly not hear you—they were right there.” She waits for me to catch up so we can walk together. “You made the clurichaun battle end in bloody slaughter. Warriors who’d forgotten everything but the weapons in their hands and the enemy waiting to be killed—I think those were your words. You tell a good story, I’ll give you that. But this was . . . it was different. Almost uncanny. Brother Dufach suggested it was the curse affecting you. The crying getting into your head and . . . well, taking over.”

  I could tell her different, but I don’t. The monster crying was part of it, that’s most likely true. But the bloody slaughter was in my head already. No shaking it out. No shutting it down. And kindly Brother Dufach’s part of the problem. “Sorry,” I tell her. “Sorry I messed things up.”

  “Forget it,” says Blackthorn. “If we think this through, maybe we can learn something. Where were you, all this time? I went right back to the house, looking for you.”

  Secret. But I can’t keep secrets from her. Be like one half trying to lie to the other half. “Something happened,” I say. “Something strange.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Thing is,” I say, “maybe it wasn’t real. Could have been what that monk said, the crying getting to me. Making me see things that weren’t there.”

  “What things?”

  “One of those little folk. Like the one I told you about before. He talked to me.”

  “Saying what?”

  “Sad old place.” Not going to tell her the wee fellow offered me a drink and I drank it. “There were more of them. In the woods here. Dozens of them.”

  Blackthorn looks around as if she might see little folk popping up everywhere. “Why aren’t I surprised?” she says. “Was that all he said?”

  “They needed something lifted. I helped them. He showed me where you were, more or less. And . . . well, he said it was secret.”

  “But you’ve told me.”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “Could have been your imagination, I suppose, brought on by the monster’s voice. Though you seem all right now. I suggest we don’t go rushing in and telling Geiléis about this. Or anyone. I do plan to ask Geiléis about the fey again, in a general sort of way. This is an odd place, Grim. Even odder than I thought it would be.”

  I mumble some kind of answer. Maybe I did a good deed just now, with the wee folk. Still, I hit her, and I ran away, and that little man found me blubbering like a baby. Balance that up, and the good deed doesn’t count for much. “Sorry I ran off,” I say. “Sorry about before.”

  “Stop saying sorry, will you? Chances are none of it was your fault. Especially if this curse works the way we’ve been told it does. Next time we leave the house, you’re blocking your ears. And don’t argue.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  17

  Geiléis

  “Ah,” she said, opening her door to meet Blackthorn’s steady gaze. “You’re here.”

  “As you see.”

  This healer was the kind of woman who would stick to her plans, Geiléis thought. Even when it came to being here before dawn on the sort of chilly morning when most folk would welcome the chance to stay under the covers a while longer.

  “Come, then.” Geiléis led her visitor up the steps to her high chamber, where the shutters had been thrown open. Below them, the forest lay in shadow still. That was the point, of course; what Blackthorn wanted was to see dawn break over the Tower of Thorns. “Warm enough? I can lend you a shawl.”

  “I’m fine.” A lengthy pause. “But thank you.”

  “Your man is not with you this morning?”

  Blackthorn gave her a sharp look. “I thought you might consider it inappropriate, since these are your private quarters and the rest of the household is still abed. Given the choice, he would have come with me.”

  “He’s loyal.”

  “As you say.”

  “A loyal servant is a fine thing. We forget, sometimes, how much they do for us.”

  A little frown creased the healer’s brow. “I did explain. Grim and I are friends. Traveling companions.”

  Geiléis let it drop. It was of no matter what they were to each other. The plan required only that Grim be absent at the critical time on Midsummer Eve. There were many ways that could be ensured. “You wish to observe the birds,” she said. “There is a good view today. Often, mist obscures the tower almost completely. I do not know what birds can tell you.”

  “Perhaps nothing,” murmured the healer. “But perhaps something. I have wondered if this creature is all alone in the tower, and how it survives. The birds might provide a clue. It’s all part of the pattern.”

  So close to midsummer, the time of true dark was short indeed. Soon enough, a warm gold light washed over the land, and all at once a great cloud of birds arose from the tower, calling and crying, circling and swooping against the lightening sky. As if that were a signal, the shutters covering that other window were opened. Geiléis’s throat tightened. She clenched her hands; felt the nails digging into her palms. It never got better. It never got easier. No matter how many times she saw it. No matter how many times she heard it. Today, she must not shed tears. Not until Blackthorn was gone and the door was closed fast behind her.

  The sun’s edge showed rosy-bright; below them, through the trees, the river glowed in response. As one the birds fell silent, winging their way to the shelter of the forest. She could not breathe. This time, she prayed as she always did, knowing it was useless, knowing she was thinking like a child, oh, please, this time let it not happen; make this be the time when it is different . . .

  Blackthorn stood steady beside her as the wailing began. As the sun rose fully, and the forest awoke, and the last of the mist dispersed. As the lament went on and on, punctuated now and then by brief silences during which Geiléis imagined him sucking in a desperate breath. Where did he find the strength to go on?

  Something made her turn her head. Blackthorn was no longer watching the tower; the healer’s gaze was fixed on her as if she would read Geiléis’s very thoughts. Which was ridiculous. This woman was no seer. Folk who gave themselves the name of wise woman might be skilled in herbal healing and good at birthing babes or setting broken limbs, but those were ordinary human talents, nothing more.

  “This disturbs you very much,” Blackthorn observed.

  “It would disturb anyone. Obviously.”

  “But you choose not to stop your ears. And you said you had become used to it, you and your household.”

  “Believe me, I have no reason to lie to you on such a matter. I have learned to tolerate the sound, yes, as have all of us who live here. That does not mean I am any less troubled by it. It does not mean I would wander unguarded in those woods during the summer. That would be foolish indeed. The crying alone is bad enough. But I believe that even if it were silent, the monster would still affect everything close to the tower: people, livestock, wild animals, the land itself. This place is slowly dying,
Blackthorn.”

  The healer’s gaze, already intense, sharpened further. “What do you mean?”

  Geiléis reached to close the shutters. Today, she could not keep her morning vigil. I’m sorry, she thought, as the Tower of Thorns with its distant window vanished from view. At dusk I will be here. I promise. I will tell the story. “Let us talk further over breakfast. I will join you soon.”

  • • •

  They sat at the table, the healer, her man and Geiléis, with Senach a discreet presence by the door.

  “Ask your questions,” Geiléis said. “This place must seem strange to you. Tell me how I can help.” She hoped she could find answers that would serve.

  “Strange,” echoed Blackthorn. “It is that, certainly. One question immediately springs to mind. You said the place was dying. When you told your story at court, you mentioned failing crops and sick animals. Yet here we are, sitting down to an ample breakfast. Where do your supplies come from?”

  “Much of this comes from St. Olcan’s. The monastery gardens are extensive. The brethren also have grazing fields and their own house cows. And Father Tomas is generous; he does not judge me for the oddity of my situation.”

  “A strange curse indeed,” observed Blackthorn, “that lies over your own land and that of your nearest neighbors, but does not affect these monks at all. Do you believe Christian prayer has the power to protect folk against this creature’s influence?”

  “On that, I can make no comment. It is a matter of belief. I myself put little credence in gods of any persuasion.”

  Blackthorn smiled. “And yet you put your faith in a cleansing ritual, to be performed by a druid. And now, by myself.”

  Ah. She had made an error; for the moment, she had forgotten this. “To be quite truthful, Blackthorn, my faith in the ritual is limited. But I am desperate. Anything that may serve to quiet the creature, or to bring some reassurance to the local people, I am happy to try.” The healing ritual would at least keep the wise woman busy for a while. “You must let us know what we can do to assist with your preparations.”

  Blackthorn crumbled a piece of bread in her fingers. “How far away are your farm communities? Villages or settlements? All the folk that live on your holdings should be invited to attend the ritual. We’ll need to give them time to get here. Maybe you could ride out with the message, Grim. One of Geiléis’s guards could go with you. And I’ll need to walk down through the forest and have a look at the tower.”

  Geiléis’s heart clenched tight. She made herself draw a deep breath before she spoke. “The local people . . . yes, of course they must be invited, but I do not think many will come. The presence of the creature . . . it is like a malady that creeps into the very hearts of folk and robs them of good purpose. It turns hope to despair; it steals away the future. So many of our young men have traveled away, seeking better opportunities, and have chosen not to return . . . Those left behind have become disheartened; they have lost the will to keep trying. It has become harder and harder to keep the animals healthy, the houses watertight, the crops sown and harvested in season. Fences, bridges, pathways are not maintained. One must travel many miles to find a blacksmith or a thatcher. We have no druid or wise woman. That is what I meant by dying. In just such a way may an entire community vanish.”

  They were both staring at her now, Grim with a spoonful of porridge halfway between bowl and lips. He set it down uneaten. “Monster’s only been here a year or two, hasn’t it?” he asked. “Seems a bit soon to be giving up. Though it is hard to take. The creature crying, I mean.”

  “Geiléis did ride all the way to court to ask for help, Grim,” said Blackthorn.

  “Fair enough,” the big man said. “Still, not long, is it? Since the creature came?”

  “Believe me,” Geiléis said, “it feels like an age. But no, it is not so long. I understand you may find it startling that such a blight has been cast so quickly. Only . . .”

  “Only it’s been here before,” said Blackthorn, quick as always. “And some of the effects of the curse might lie over the land even during the times in between this creature’s visits. Might that be so? Were your parents here before you, Geiléis? And their parents before them?”

  Geiléis had been waiting for that question. Answering in a convincing manner would be a test. She’d been relieved that nobody had asked about her family while she was at Cahercorcan, though she’d had the answer ready even then. If King Ruairi had been at court he’d have asked. His father might have told him the story when he was a boy. For once fate had done her a favor. “My parents died when I was quite young,” she said. “I do not recall either of them speaking of the monster. If they had done so, I would have thought it a fanciful tale devised solely for my amusement. Nobody in the neighborhood has any memory of the tower being tenanted before last summer. There are only those half-forgotten stories I spoke of. But . . . you are astute, Blackthorn. When I was a child, this place was my whole world. If there were oddities, I took them as simply the way things were. If an unusual number of young men left the district never to return, if an unusual number of folk chose to end their own lives, if there were some parts of the woods where I was not allowed to go, I accepted it.”

  “Were you allowed to go to the Tower of Thorns?” asked Blackthorn. “Did you explore the island where it stands? Folk must have passed close by it all the time when the ford was still open.”

  “Main road to the north and all,” put in Grim.

  She fought down a sudden wave of impatience. “How can this make any difference?”

  “You’ve asked me to solve your problem.” Blackthorn had a rather blunt way about her. Perhaps she too was impatient. “I can’t do that unless you give me the information I ask for. I won’t know if it makes a difference until I put all the pieces together. If it helps, anything you tell us is confidential.” She glanced at Senach, who had remained at his post, quite silent.

  “My parents did not let me run wild in the forest. But yes, I crossed the ford, both on foot—possible only if the water is unusually low—and on horseback. I walked between this house and the river, though only on those paths I had been told were safe. As a child, I was forbidden to go to the island. The tower was seen as dangerous, though the reasons for that were never clear. You know already that last year I ventured to that place on Midsummer Eve and tried to cut my way through the hedge of thorn. Tried and failed. Woefully.”

  Blackthorn and Grim exchanged a look.

  “These safe paths,” Grim said. “Could you show us? Be good to take a look at the tower soon. A close-up look. We’ll be needing to get across to the island.”

  A shiver ran through Geiléis. If there was one thing she was sure of, it was that she did not want these two to go tramping about on the island. She did not want a living soul to approach the tower. But how could she forbid it? She had invited them to Bann on the strength of the story she had thought most likely to make an impression on Prince Oran. While that story had not exactly been a lie, it had been far from the complete truth. Blackthorn believed she was here to rid the tower of its unwelcome resident by whatever means she could find. She must therefore be permitted to move about and look at things. A refusal would only make her suspicious, and then she might decide to turn tail and flee. That could not be allowed to happen. “The island,” she said. “Yes, if you wish. It is not easy to reach, but my men-at-arms could escort you over.” She took a steadying breath. “You are not planning to conduct your ritual there, I trust? That would present severe difficulties, as you may imagine.”

  “I’ll need to pay the place a visit before I make that decision,” Blackthorn said.

  “Senach,” Geiléis said, not turning her head, “have a word to Onchú about this, will you?” Her folk were well aware of the risks; they would take adequate precautions. They knew what Blackthorn could be allowed to see and what must remain hidden.

 
; “Yes, my lady.”

  “Another thing,” said Blackthorn. “I’ll be wanting to talk to the local folk, find out if anyone remembers more than those snippets you mentioned. About this being a job for a woman, and about Midsummer Eve being the time to drive the monster away, I mean. There has to be a whole story there; I can’t believe it’s completely lost.”

  “I fear you will be disappointed,” Geiléis said.

  “Perhaps we could offer refreshments after the ritual, either here in the house or in the courtyard,” Blackthorn went on, as if Geiléis had not spoken. “That would provide a good opportunity to talk to people. I want to meet the old folk especially.”

  Gods, the woman was brimming with plans. It would be a challenge to keep her under control until it was time to give her the truth. As much of the truth, that was, as she would need to perform the task. “I have asked the local people about this already,” Geiléis said. “You know that. Nobody remembers anything. They are all weighed down by the monster’s presence, its constant crying. To press them further on this matter would be . . . burdensome. And fruitless.”

  Blackthorn subjected her to a level gaze; Geiléis could almost see the wise woman thinking.

  “I know old folk can be forgetful,” Blackthorn said. “And when a person cannot remember, for instance, how to make porridge or tie up their apron strings or play a tune on the whistle, you might assume they will never be able to do those things again. But that is not necessarily so. One day that old man or old woman will hear a lark singing, or smell dried lavender, or see a fair-haired rider on a white horse, and suddenly the old skill is back, for a short while at least. The memory of youth returns. The tale is remembered by the hands, if not fully by the mind.”

  “A pleasing theory,” Geiléis said. “But in this case, not apt. I am quite certain nobody in the district can remember this particular tale.”

  “Thing is,” put in Grim, “tales get old. So old you don’t hear them around the fire anymore. Sad, that is. But even then, there’s always someone who knows parts of the story. A bit here, a bit there. Something about pigs. Something about a ladder or a kerchief. Seems nonsense—then you start putting the bits together and . . .”