“Mm-hm,” Grim said. “Don’t much care for Conmael. But he did me a favor, that day. And he’s never asked me for a thing.”
“Maybe he just hasn’t got around to it yet. The fey live long lives. They have long memories.” Something was teasing at me, something I’d seen or heard long ago. The harder I tried to capture it, the more it eluded me. That trip to the tower, the stone hurled down, the wall of thorns . . . Why had it disturbed me so badly? My hands were shaking. I wrapped my arms around myself so Grim would not see it. What was wrong with me?
“Shawl,” Grim said. “Put it on till you’ve warmed up a bit more. Brew should help.”
My anger boiled up again. “What, have you got eyes in the back of your head now?” I snarled. “Stop being so understanding!”
Grim set two cups on the table. Put the honey jar beside them, with a spoon. Went back to the fire to see if the water was hot enough. “Back home,” he said in his own time, “I’d say busy yourself with something: cutting herbs, making a potion, scrubbing the floor. Stops your mind turning in circles. Works the anger out of you. Can’t do that here.” He fetched the meager supply of herbs I had brought home on our first day. He shredded peppermint and chamomile leaves into the cups. “You did good,” he said. “Even if you did nearly get yourself killed. That stone, it’s a clue. If we can work out what it means.”
“The person with the ax is a woman—see, a skirt? It fits with what Geiléis has already told us. The sun might mean midsummer. Or midday. The part I don’t understand is this other figure. Is it the monster? What is it doing?”
“Could be two folk up there.”
“Who’d want to be shut in with that screaming? But yes, I suppose there could be. If there isn’t, the monster must have made this picture and thrown the stone. That doesn’t tell me what I’m meant to do when I reach the top of the tower.” I pictured myself with ax in hand, hacking a way through the thorns. Climbing the tower. Facing this creature with no idea of what to do next. If I was looking for a good reason to abandon Geiléis’s quest before midsummer and slip away south with Flannan, this most certainly was it.
“Creature’s fey, isn’t it? The fey are full of tricks. Could be this is another one. That picture on the stone might not mean what you think at all.” Grim looked at me sideways. “You going to show Lady Geiléis?”
“Not before I have another good look at it. But yes, I suppose I must show her. I expect she’ll want a full report.” I got up, fetched my shawl from the peg and wrapped it around me. He was right; the simple warmth of it made me feel better. “Grim?”
“Mm?”
“You realize that every time we get angry or muddled or frustrated while we’re here, we’ll be wondering if it’s the monster messing with our thoughts. It’s a cruel and devious kind of curse. We won’t be able to trust any decision we make. We won’t even be able to trust each other.” But then, I’d been withholding the truth from him since before we left Cahercorcan. I’d been as good as lying since the day Flannan told me about the plot.
“Rubbish.” Grim carried the kettle over and poured hot water into my cup, then his. “Team, aren’t we? That means we trust each other, no matter what. Watch each other’s back. Keep an eye out for trouble.”
A pox on it, I was on the verge of tears again. What in the name of the gods was this? I busied myself with adding honey and stirring it in, hoping he would not notice.
“That’s right, isn’t it?” A note of uncertainty had crept into Grim’s voice.
“That’s right.” I had never hated myself quite as much as I did in that moment.
19
Grim
Late in the afternoon Flannan turns up, looking serious. Here to check on Blackthorn after what happened yesterday. Keeps looking at me, waiting for me to do something crazy. See it all over his face. Senach brings everyone ale and cakes.
Lady Geiléis comes and keeps us company for a bit, and Blackthorn tells her about the trip to the tower, leaving some parts out. Shows her the stone with the drawings scratched on it. Expected the lady to be interested. Thought she might be angry we went close enough for Blackthorn to nearly get herself killed. What she does is cup the stone in her hands. Holds it as if it was some sort of rare treasure, or a baby just born. Tears rolling down her face. Three of us, that’s including Flannan, are staring at her. Lady Geiléis is off in her own little world for a bit. I fish out a handkerchief and pass it to her. She takes it without seeing me, dabs her eyes.
“I’ll be wanting to keep that for now,” says Blackthorn, breaking the spell. “Part of the investigation.”
“Yes,” says the lady, coming back from wherever she’s been. “Yes, of course.” But she doesn’t hand over the stone.
“What do you think it means?” Blackthorn asks her, not saying what we think.
Geiléis clears her throat, wipes her eyes again. Giving herself time before she answers. “It is what I suspected. A woman must cut through the thorns, using an ax. If . . . if it was indeed the creature that threw this down, I believe . . . I believe that may be what is required. On Midsummer Eve. The drawing of a sun . . .” Still struggling to be calm. Haven’t seen her so upset since the day she came to court and threw herself at Oran’s feet. “This other part, the crouching figure, I cannot interpret. It could be good news—that is, if this is a deliberate attempt to tell us something, and not just . . . accident. There is no sign of a—a confrontation here. No indication that you might need to . . .”
“Fight? You think when I get up there the creature’s going to say, ‘Thank you very much, I’ll be off now’?”
“Believe me,” says Geiléis, “if I knew, I would have told you straightaway. It seems unlikely this could be so simple.”
“Why would it throw the stone down?” Hoping Geiléis won’t object if I say my bit. “Why would it give Blackthorn a clue? Whole thing could be a trick.”
“I cannot answer that,” Geiléis says. “It is possible that all the creature wants is to be released from the tower. Perhaps Blackthorn need only cut a path through the thorns, at the right time on the right day. But it would be foolish to assume that. The prolonged screaming suggests a certain violence of feeling; that could quickly turn to acts of aggression. We must tread with care.”
“Time’s a bit short for being careful,” says Blackthorn.
Everyone thinks about this for a bit. Then Flannan speaks up. “The situation is more perilous than I’d realized. Blackthorn could get herself killed. How can you expect that of her, Lady Geiléis?” Which is the same thing I’m thinking, more or less. I wait for Blackthorn to tell him to mind his own business, but it’s the lady who puts him in his place. She stares at him like a queen telling an underling he’s brought her the wrong breakfast.
“Mistress Blackthorn is her own woman and has come here of her own choosing. As for what may lie ahead, we have time to make a plan. To provide whatever protection is necessary.”
“What about today?” asks Flannan, sounding angry. “Where was that protection when Blackthorn nearly got hit on the head by this rock?”
That’s a bit rough. Onchú and Donncha did their best. Not their fault if Blackthorn doesn’t obey orders if they don’t happen to suit her.
“Flannan,” says Blackthorn in that special soft voice, “this is not your concern.”
“It is if—”
“Flannan.”
He shuts up after that. If Blackthorn tells you to stop talking, you stop. End of story.
“Will you go ahead with the cleansing ritual, Blackthorn?” Geiléis asks.
“Most certainly,” says Blackthorn, “since if it’s effective, I may not be required to enter the tower at all. I’ll go looking for a suitable spot tomorrow. I need to gather herbs as well.”
“Onchú will arrange—” Geiléis starts, but Blackthorn cuts her off.
“The correct pra
ctice of a cleansing ritual requires the wise woman to perform various stages of preparation alone. Fail to observe that rule and you risk rendering the ritual completely ineffective. I will take precautions.”
Can’t say I like the idea of her going off alone any more than Geiléis does, but she’s the wise woman and I’m just the hanger-on, so I keep quiet. If I say what I think, she’ll only bite my head off.
Senach speaks up. “Rain is expected, Mistress Blackthorn. You may have noticed the clouds building. When wet weather comes to Bann, it tends to linger. The next few days may not be ideal for walking in the forest.”
“I’m used to getting wet,” says Blackthorn. “But thank you for the warning. We’ll need to wait for fair weather before we hold the ritual. The local folk won’t want to stand about getting soaked.”
“You’d best be on your way soon, Master Flannan,” says Geiléis, “if you want to stay dry. I hope Father Tomas and the brethren are treating you well. They must be pleased to have a scholarly guest at last. It’s been some time.”
“I’ve been well received, yes. And comfortably accommodated, by monastic standards. The place is at sixes and sevens right now. They know rain’s coming, and there’s a problem with leaking roofs. Damp weather and precious manuscripts are not a good combination.”
“What sort of roofs?” asks Blackthorn, though why she’d want to know this I can’t think.
“Thatch,” says Geiléis. “Reed thatch. There’s nobody in the district who can repair it properly. Folk fiddle about with it themselves, patch it up as best they can. But St. Olcan’s needs the thatching done again, on the scriptorium in particular. Father Tomas says the roof needs to be completely replaced.”
My belly churns; I feel sick again, like this morning. No prizes for guessing what Blackthorn’ll say now. She looks at me. I look down at my hands. Can’t warn her not to say it. Never did tell her my story, never told anyone, and now it’s too late.
“Grim is a thatcher.”
“This requires an expert,” Geiléis says. “Perhaps more than one.”
She doubts I’m good enough. No surprise there. Doesn’t bother me. I’m feeling too sick to care.
“Grim is an expert,” says Blackthorn. “If the monks have the materials, he can mend the roof. He’ll do a good job.”
That’s it. No room for argument. No room for much at all. Never mind that Midsummer Eve’s just around the corner. Never mind that I’m supposed to be helping Blackthorn deal with the monster and keeping her safe. Just got myself a job that’s going to mean I hardly see her from now till midsummer. It’ll mean I have to walk up to St. Olcan’s. All the way there. Go in the gate, talk to the monks, hear the singing . . .
“Grim?” Blackthorn’s just asked me something, could have been anything.
“Sorry, what?”
“You’ll do it, won’t you?”
Looking at her, looking at Flannan, it comes to me all of a sudden. Why she’d want me to go, I mean. She wants me away so she can spend time with him. She likes him. Likes him more than anyone. He makes her happy. Angry too, sometimes. But they’ve got that closeness, like Prince Oran and Lady Flidais. Always know what the other one’s thinking. Understand each other without needing to talk.
“Grim?”
“Can’t thatch in the wet.” Comes out as a grumble. Can’t help that. “Rain could last for days. Whole roof—that sounds like a big job. Take a while.”
“But afterward, when the weather clears. Considering everything that has happened here, these folk deserve some help.”
Can’t speak. Help? From me? If this Father Tomas and the rest of them knew my story, I’d be the last person they’d want inside their walls. Not to mention that I can’t get anywhere near the place without going half-crazy. I manage a sort of grunt. Which Lady Geiléis takes as a yes.
“Thank you,” she says, talking to Blackthorn, as if I was too much of a bonehead to understand anything. “Grim’s help would be most welcome, I’m sure. I believe the brothers have the necessary materials in storage—there was a thatcher here some time ago, but he left the district. Of course we would wait for fair weather.” She gives me a glance that says, That numbskull, an expert? “Master Flannan, you might let Father Tomas know about Grim. Best head off now or you’ll surely be caught in the rain.”
“A little rain won’t do me any harm,” Flannan says, but he gets up all the same. “Private word with you?” Meaning Blackthorn.
The two of them go off outside. I’m not keen to sit here on my own with Lady Geiléis, so I make my excuses and go to our quarters. Tidy the place up, not that there’s much to tidy. Bring in some water, boil the kettle, wash out the cups. Sweep the floor. Doesn’t take long. Hands are itching for work to do, anything to slow down the rushing things in my head. Can’t do what I’d do at home, chop wood, bake bread, dig the garden, fix something that needs fixing. I sit down on my bed and think how funny it is—the thing I could be doing, and doing well, is rethatching that roof up at St. Olcan’s, making it nice and watertight, like new, finishing it off with the creatures on top and all. Making, not breaking. Making folk glad, not sad. And that’s the thing I can’t do, because just thinking about it turns my insides to water, brings out a cold sweat, fills me up with black terror. Funny, hah! Funny what’s just under the surface, bubbling up when you don’t want it. Coward. Failure. Not strong enough. Not brave enough. Not man enough. That’s what the voices say, over and over in my head. Not enough. You were not enough. Another thing that’s funny. All those voices are my voice, all of them. I know that. But it doesn’t make me feel any better.
She doesn’t come back. Still talking to Flannan. Master Flannan. He’s right for her. Well made, even handsome, not that she’d care about that. Makes me wonder if Cass was a good-looking fellow too or a weedy scholarly kind. Not something I can ask. Flannan’s clever. Book-learned. Could find work anywhere. Could make a good home for her. Would she want that, if he offered? Does she like him enough? Can’t see it really, him and her in a cozy little house, perhaps with a child or two. But that might be because I don’t want to see it.
I stand on my hands, count up to fifty. Come down, take a breath, do it again. Sixty. Jump up and catch onto a roof beam, pull myself up a few times. Twenty. Thirty. Heart’s not in it. What I want to do is run. Run away quick, hide down deep.
She still doesn’t come. I chop herbs for a brew, leave them tidy on the board, wash the knife, dry it, put it away. Say the words under my breath. How long before I forget? How long before I jumble them up and don’t even know? Scuto circo . . . circum . . . circumdabit te . . . veritas eius non timebis a timore nocturne. Scuto, that’s a shield. Something about truth making a shield all around a man. A shield against the dark things that creep into his head in the night. It’s a lie. Truth can be the worst thing of all. Dark enough to blot out everything good. Funny, though; the words do help, a bit. It’s like if I pretend to believe, pretend hard enough, I can almost think that shield might be a real thing.
20
Geiléis
Dusk was near. Rain was falling steadily now, a soft blanket over the darkening forest. Not like that day of long ago, when it had come down as harsh as a flail. Nearly time to begin. The voice from the tower was cracked and broken, worn-out by exhaustion and despair. She wondered, often, if he knew how faithful she was; how hard she worked to keep her promise, to hold firm. “Not long until Midsummer Eve,” Geiléis whispered. “This time . . . oh, this time . . .”
It might fall into place. It might just work. If his skills as a thatcher were as good as Blackthorn seemed to believe, the man, Grim, would be easily got out of the way. Fixing the roof at St. Olcan’s would keep him busy until midsummer. Beyond midsummer, in fact, though he’d likely need silencing once the thing was done. Fortunate indeed that Blackthorn had failed to interpret fully the scratchings on the stone. She pictured him hurling it down.
How desperate he must be growing, to try that! He could have killed Blackthorn, and with her another precious chance.
Gods, could she let herself believe this might at last be possible? Blackthorn was a strong individual. Clever. Sure of herself. Prepared to take risks. A better candidate than any who had come before. “Hope,” murmured Geiléis. “You must hold on to hope, or this cannot happen. Let hope go, and your battle is lost.”
She had thought Grim would be the problem when the day came. But the other fellow, the scholar, seemed altogether too interested in Blackthorn’s welfare. The two of them had spent a long time in intense conversation earlier, standing in the hallway together with heads bowed and voices lowered. Between the drumming rain and the monster’s cries, nobody would have heard a word. Still, she did not want the scholar interfering. With luck he would become absorbed in his studies and lose interest. If not, she would have to take steps.
It was time for the story. And, as if someone out there knew it, the rain slowed and ceased, and behind it came a chill breeze from the north. Geiléis drew a deep breath. Hope, she thought. How fragile hope can be. Short-lived as a March fly . . .
• • •
Despondent, soaked through and trembling with cold, Lily arrived home just as her father was riding out of the courtyard with an escort of men-at-arms. Between her stumbling explanations and the summoning of serving folk to prepare a hot bath, dry clothing and nourishing food, Lily learned that her father was not looking for her, but heading out to help search for a missing man. A young man. And as she stripped off her wet clothing, then lowered her shivering body into the bath, she discovered from Muiríol that the young man was named Brión, that he was the son of a chieftain from the south who had been visiting a neighboring holding to hunt, and that he had been gone two days and two nights. The dogs had picked up his scent once or twice but kept losing it. Brión, thought Lily, trying it out. Brión. Fate must surely be on her side, to deliver this answer without her needing to ask a single question.
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