“You will despise me,” said Brión.
Lily could think of nothing to say.
“There was a woman,” Brión said in a whisper, glancing this way, that way. A little cold breeze came up out of nowhere, ruffling the grasses. “A beautiful woman. On a white mare, with silver jingling on the harness. We were out hunting, and I saw her, and . . . I followed her. Rode after her. Left my companions behind. I was dazzled, Lily. Out of my wits. I did not consider that she might be fey.”
In Lily’s shocked mind, everything began to make a terrible kind of sense. “Go on,” she said, keeping her voice calm.
“I rode deeper and deeper into the woods. I could see her ahead, the white shadow that was the horse, the tall figure riding, with her fair hair all twisted and twined with jewels and her silken gown in more colors than anyone could find names for, flowing around her with a life of its own. The paths grew narrower; I had to get down and lead my horse. And still she went on, just too far ahead for me to reach her, but close enough for me to catch glimpses of her now and then. I followed her all the way to the Bann, and when she rode into the ford, I did the same.”
“But . . . your horse . . .”
“He shied and threw me into the water. He bolted. I hardly noticed. The woman was on the island, standing motionless by her own horse, waiting for me. The moonlight shone down on her; she looked like a goddess. Lily, I am ashamed to tell you this story. So ashamed of my weakness.”
Lily said nothing, simply waited.
“My thoughts had room for nothing but her. So I waded over to the island. Wet, disheveled, with any dignity I’d had completely gone, I walked up to the lovely woman and stammered a few words. My name. My admiration. Something foolish.”
“She had you under a spell,” Lily breathed. This was like something from an ancient tale, not real life. Innocent though she was, she had no difficulty in imagining the missing part of the tale, from Brión’s first dazzled greeting to the woman to the moment she had found him next day, lying exhausted in the tower, his body all over bruises and scratches. She tried not to judge him; she tried hard. “Tell me the rest, Ash.”
He flushed scarlet. “I . . . She and I . . . It was as if I was in a different world, and the rules of this world were forgotten. I wish I had not done it. I could blame her. I could say she made me do the things I did, lured me, worked her magic on me. But the blame is mine. I should not have followed her. I should have said no to her. I should have been brave enough to refuse. And I should have been brave enough to tell you the truth from the start.” His voice was stronger now, and the blush had faded somewhat. He fixed his eyes on hers, and the look in them was clear and honest. “I’m sorry. From the bottom of my heart, I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me, Lily. What I have to offer you . . . as a husband, I mean . . . is spoiled. Tainted. I should not have let this happen.”
“She ensorcelled you,” Lily said. “That’s why you’re still afraid.”
“If we went away, we could be free of it. Far away, where she could not find us.”
The idea seemed to Lily no more reasonable than it had been before she knew the truth. “No,” she said firmly. “We should stand up to her. We should be brave. Running away never solved anything.” Oh, the naïveté! Oh, the youthful confidence! Oh, the stupidity!
“I can’t go on,” Geiléis whispered. “I can’t go past that moment, I can’t. Not again. Please don’t make me tell it again.” But there was nobody to hear. She clutched her shawl around her, staring out into the gathering dark. She’d been a fool to believe for a moment that he could hear the story as she told it, night after night. The curse was cruel in its every careful particular. There was nothing soft about it. There was nothing in it to her own advantage, no kindness, no concession, no provision to make the long penance easier to endure. Tell it. Tell it until you understand what you have done. Tell it over and over until this all comes to an end.
“All we wanted was to be happy,” she said to the empty air. “That, surely, did not merit such suffering.” The cruelest part was this: she who had worked the curse had not been seen from that day on, but still the spell endured. A powerful magic indeed. That boy who had followed a beautiful woman into the forest could have had no idea what he would unleash.
The quiet of the woodland below her window was broken by the sound of horses’ hooves on paving stones, and of voices. That was Onchú speaking. And now a woman’s voice—Blackthorn. They were back, and if her ears did not deceive her, so was Grim; nobody else had such a deep voice. She would go down soon and greet them; she would express polite interest in what they had been doing. The ritual preparations; the roof of the scriptorium. But her mind would be full of one thing only. She wondered, sometimes, whether she should have told Blackthorn the truth from the start—not the full truth, but almost all. The woman was open to the strange and uncanny. She might have been prepared to accept it, saving Geiléis and her household the need for lies. It was too late now. Once she’d told that story at court, with Blackthorn and Grim present, there’d been no choice but to stick to it. Gods! It was almost midsummer. Let Blackthorn not find out she’d been lied to all along. If she learned of that betrayal—she’d see it as that—she’d surely walk away. Or try to. And Geiléis would have to silence her. The true story, the full story could not be allowed to go beyond these four walls. If it did, there might never be an end to this.
“Stop it!” she muttered. “Get ahold of yourself!” Less than a turning of the moon remained until Midsummer Eve. After so long, she must not stumble at the very end. She must walk on steadily, one step at a time. While her guests were tidying themselves up for supper, she would tell the next part of the tale—the part she feared and loathed, but must revisit over and over because the curse bound her to do so. If she told it now, tomorrow would be easier.
Geiléis drew a deep, steadying breath and took up her story once more.
Not long after this, Muiríol appeared at the gate, making urgent gestures, and Lily and Brión were obliged to return within the walls. He was whisked back off to bed, and she went to her chamber to think in solitude. What he had told her was terrible. To meddle with the fey . . . to lie with one of them . . . that had been beyond foolish. Had he never listened when his mother told him the old tales?
But they could not run away. She hoped that in the morning he would see how ridiculous that idea was. What did he think they would live on? Did he imagine their families would not move heaven and earth to find them? Each was an only child; each was of noble birth. They could not simply turn their backs on one life and start another with no resources save their love for each other. Of course, in the old tales, such things did happen. He might find work as a swineherd or a gardener, and she as a rather inept seamstress or washerwoman. And eventually, years later when they had a child of their own, they might be rediscovered by their families and brought home to a welcome attended by tears and joy. In those tales, anything could happen. And this felt just like such an ancient story, so unlikely it could hardly be believed. But it was real. She had seen the dazed expression in Brión’s eyes when she found him in the tower. She had seen the torn clothing and the injuries to his body. And she had seen, late at night after he had been rescued, a light in that high window, as if someone was walking around the tower room with a candle in her hand. As if someone was sad. Or angry. As if someone did indeed still have her eye on him.
“He’s mine,” she whispered. “You can’t have him. You’re no good for him. You can’t frighten me; I will hold on with everything I have.” Fine words; fine and strong. But she was cold, all the same. She felt the shadow of approaching danger.
That night, Brión had supper alone in his bedchamber, and when Lily asked if she could go in and speak to him before she retired for the night, her mother said no, that would be entirely inappropriate. Besides, Brión had a severe headache and needed to rest.
Later, when
the household was abed, a strange wind blew up. It whispered through the treetops and whined across the garden; it insinuated itself between the shutters, blowing out late candles; it whooshed down chimneys and stirred up the embers of fires. Lily stood by her window looking out over the forest, and the wind wrapped itself around her in an icy embrace, making her heart shrink. Were there words in that stirring of the air, harsh words meant only for her ears? She could not understand them, but she felt the hatred.
“You can’t frighten me,” she said again. But that was a lie. A terror gripped her beyond anything she had felt before. “I will hold on,” she said. “I will. I love him. You can’t have him.” And she thought she heard an answer in the wind: Oh, foolish human girl. If you want him, come and fetch him! He’s of no more use to me. The wind swirled around Lily, teasing at her hair, tugging at her shawl, dancing in and out the open window.
“What do you mean?” Lily fought for composure. Was the fey woman giving up just like that? Passing Brión back to her as if he were of no more consequence than a loaf of bread gone stale or an apple turned too soft for eating? “What do you mean, fetch him?”
From the tower. He’s in the tower. The wind rattled the shutters and was gone, leaving the chamber in stillness. Her heart cold, Lily gazed out toward the tower. The moon was dark; the forest lay hidden. But she could see a light. A faint, faltering light, as of a candle struggling to hold its flame against an eldritch draft. Now her heart was pounding. The fey woman was giving up. She was releasing Brión from the spell. But only if Lily was brave enough to go out in the night and bring him home. A quest. The old tales were full of quests. And she’d have to do it alone. If she woke her father and arranged an expedition with men-at-arms and horses and iron weapons, chances were they’d get to the tower to find it empty.
Lily flung on her warm cloak, searched for her outdoor shoes, tried to calm her racing thoughts. She was about to climb out the window into the dark embrace of the oak tree when common sense prevailed. This could be a trick. The fey loved tricks. What if Brión was tucked up asleep in his quarters, and what the fey woman really wanted was to lure Lily out into the forest so she could work some fell charm on her? It would be foolish indeed to rush out there without at least checking whether Brión was still safe in the house. But she mustn’t be seen by anyone. It wasn’t so much the impropriety of being spotted slipping into a young man’s bedchamber at dead of night; it was that once seen, she would likely be questioned. When folk discovered that Brión was gone, that mounted search party would go out whether she liked it or not.
She carried her candle in one hand and her shoes in the other, making her way as softly as she could to the door of Brión’s quarters. There were no guards in the hallway; she breathed a prayer of thanks and pushed the door ajar. The bedchamber was in darkness. All was silent. Lily lifted the candle, peering in, not quite prepared to walk right up to his bed.
The covers were on the floor. The pillows had been torn open; feathers drifted uneasily in the draft, an eerie summer snow. The chamber was littered with clothing, most of it shredded. It was as if some monster had run riot here. There was no sign of Brión.
“Go,” whispered Lily to herself as her gorge rose and her mind filled with unspeakable images. “Go now and don’t look back.” No creeping out the front door. No slipping out the kitchen door. There would be guards outside; her father was careful. She must go back to her own chamber and out the window, the same as last time. And hope nobody saw her before she reached the little side door. Hope that door was open. She suspected it would be; the uncanny wind would have seen to that. Her adversary had challenged her. Lily had promised herself she would be brave, and she would meet the challenge. Ash, she thought, making his name a talisman to keep her safe. I’m doing it for you, Ash. I’ll fetch you home and make an end to this.
A sudden tap at the door.
Geiléis started, nausea rising in her at the wrenching interruption. She had been deep in the tale. She ran down the steps, strode to the door and flung it open. Senach cringed visibly, as if he expected her to strike him. She had never hit him; he was a good servant. “What?” she demanded.
“I’m sorry for the intrusion, my lady. This is something you will want to hear.”
At her gesture, the steward entered her quarters, closing the door noiselessly behind him.
“Very well. Tell me.”
“The scholar, Master Flannan, has come down from St. Olcan’s, and he has brought some news that may be unwelcome to you.”
“What news? Should I be speaking to Master Flannan in person?”
“You are the best judge of that, my lady. Master Flannan is talking to Mistress Blackthorn. Telling her and Grim of a secret store of manuscripts that was uncovered when the contents of the scriptorium were removed in preparation for the roof repairs. They thought they’d got everything out, but these were cunningly concealed, and were only discovered today. Master Flannan believes one of the documents may concern the . . . the history of the Tower of Thorns.”
She was as cold as ice. It was that night all over again, and the chill embrace of a fey wind. Oh, foolish human girl!
“I suppose it’s too much to hope that Master Flannan has brought this document with him,” she said. She would burn it. Tear it in small pieces and scatter it to the winds. Drown it deep.
“I did ask, my lady. He said it’s locked in a chest at St. Olcan’s, along with all the most precious manuscripts in the collection. This particular document is written in a strange tongue and will be difficult to translate. Master Flannan is not sure of the meaning. But he said it does seem to relate to the tower.”
What could she say? Senach knew her mind. If she ordered Master Flannan’s immediate removal from Bann, he would ensure it happened, one way or another. If she required that the removal be permanent, that too would be attended to without question. She could not ask her folk to steal and destroy the document; it was in the possession of the monastery. Young Lily, Lily-before, might have believed the Christian God stretched a hand over the brethren, shielding them from harm. Geiléis put no credence in gods of any kind. But Father Tomas had been kind to her. He had been generous, and she had come to rely on him, as she had on his predecessors. If not for their protection, she’d likely have been thrown off her land long ago, one way or another. It would make choice pickings for the Tirconnell chieftains.
And it wasn’t only that. Blackthorn was astute. If Blackthorn got suspicious—and what more likely to arouse suspicion than a raid on the monastery and the disappearance of the very document they all wanted to know about?—then Geiléis might lose her chance to break the curse. Likewise, Blackthorn would most certainly ask questions if her friend the scholar suddenly vanished on the brink of sharing his great find.
“I’ll come and speak to them,” she said. “I’ll need you to be present, Senach. Watch them closely. I cannot imagine what this document is. Perhaps it is harmless. Perhaps Master Flannan is wrong about its contents. I do not see how a written record could exist. Nobody knows. Except for us, and the little folk . . . Could they have told? Would they dare?”
“That seems unlikely, my lady. They are bound by the curse, as we are.”
“Even so . . . it may be necessary to remind them. I will speak to Onchú. In the unlikely event that Master Flannan is right about the document, we must keep its contents from Blackthorn. Should she learn the full story before midsummer, our precious chance is lost. That cannot be allowed to happen.”
“I understand, my lady.”
24
Blackthorn
Dusk had fallen before we got back to Geiléis’s house. Overall, the outing had been a success. Onchú and Rian had escorted me to a spot that was just as Geiléis had described it: level, grassy and well sheltered yet allowing a good view of the tower. It might not be perfect for a ritual, but it would serve well enough. The two guards had offered to take
me out to the nearest settlement tomorrow to spread the word, if I was up to another ride. Between the throbbing headache and the aching back I suspected I’d be fit for nothing but lying in bed feeling sorry for myself, but I said yes anyway. If these folk had anything useful to say, I needed to hear it as soon as possible.
We rode into the courtyard just as Grim arrived back from St. Olcan’s in the company of Flannan, with Ripple following like a gray shadow. It was almost dark. Unless Geiléis had invited Flannan to supper, he must have something particular to tell us. Hadn’t I ordered him to stay away until the ritual?
Grim was unusually quiet, even by his standards. He looked wrung out, exhausted. And sick, the same as this morning. Seemed a day of work at the monastery had not settled his stomach.
“You all right?” I asked while Flannan was speaking to Senach, who had come to the door to welcome us.
Grim answered with a grunt that might have meant yes or no. Not sick, I thought; or not in the ordinary meaning of the word. Something different. Something I should have recognized earlier.
“We can talk if you want,” I said under my breath. “When you’re ready.”
“Nothing to tell.” Grim rolled his shoulders, eased his back. “You?”
“Found a spot for the ritual. And . . .” Morrigan save me, had that encounter with the tiny woman been only this morning? “Something else too. I’ll tell you later.” Flannan was coming over. He wore a broad smile. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon,” I said to him.
“I found something.” Flannan’s eyes were alight with excitement. “A document—it could be exactly what you’re looking for. I’m almost sure what’s set down there is the story of this monster and the Tower of Thorns. I found it in the—”
“Supper is almost ready.” Senach was courteous, as always. I was in no doubt, however, that he had interrupted the conversation on purpose. “There’s hot water available in your quarters, Mistress Blackthorn; you might like to refresh yourselves before we gather for the meal. Master Flannan, I’m sure Lady Geiléis will want to be present when you share the news of this discovery. Meanwhile you may also wish to avail yourself of our home comforts. I don’t imagine they provide hot baths at St. Olcan’s.”
Tower of Thorns Page 24
