The small fey person, whose hood had come off to reveal a head of raven-dark curls, was doing something with its end of the rope. Ah. It was tying on a basket. Not a tiny basket like the one the small healer had carried, but a basket the size of mine. Supplies. But how could it be pulled up? It would be quickly snagged on the impenetrable barrier of thorns.
The small one was ready, the basket in its hands, the rope stretched taut all the way to the window. There was a creaking, a groaning, a shifting sound that rattled my bones, a sound that was nothing but magical. I did not see the thorns part; I was too far away, and the gap they made too narrow. But the small one seemed to step within the hedge, basket and all, and the rope became a near-vertical line up to the window. Someone hauled; the basket rose; at the window, someone took hold of it and lifted it in. A moment later the rope was released at the top and came falling down. The fey personage stepped out from the hedge, coiling up the rope as it came. There was that eldritch sound again—the hedge was mending itself. Startled as I was, I made sure I noted where the gap had been. In that precise spot I would make my own attempt to cut through the thorns. Despite the message to strike hard and strike true, I suspected my ax would play very little part in doing that job. If the conditions for breaking the curse were met, the hedge would open up and let me in.
Beneath my wonder at what I had seen, something was nagging at me, some detail. I pondered this while I watched the small person walk to the shore of the island, step into a tiny boat and pole the craft back to the riverbank. It climbed out and stood a moment on the shore, turning its head to look directly at me. I’d thought I was well concealed, but the fey have their own ways of seeing. Secret, someone whispered in my ear, but when I started and turned, nobody was there. And when I turned back, the figure on the bank was gone. Keep the secret.
Only it wasn’t so very secret, I thought, as I remembered myself slipping past the kitchen door earlier, using a glamour so that Cronan would not see me—Cronan who had been packing a willow basket just like the one the monster had hauled up into the tower. Exactly like, down to the pattern of ivy woven along the side.
It might have been coincidence. Baskets did have a certain similarity. This one had been big enough to hold a flask of mead and sufficient food for a long day and night. Big enough to take a warm blanket, folded tightly, or a change of clothing and a full water skin. Could Geiléis’s retainers be feeding the monster without her knowledge? Why in the name of all the gods would they do that? To keep the thing alive was to let the curse drag on and on. If there was one thing I knew about Senach and the rest of them, it was that they loved Geiléis and wanted to serve her well. But the alternative was even odder: that Geiléis knew what they were doing; that she had sanctioned it. If that was true, she had been lying to us from the start.
The wailing had started again. The fey folk’s gift had not kept the creature quiet for long. A pox on this! Wretched secrets! I needed to ask Geiléis straight-out about this. Tell her what I’d seen, what Grim had seen, demand a full explanation. But I couldn’t. Wouldn’t. At every point the small folk had asked us to keep our conversations secret. They had trusted us. Gods help me, what a tangle! I could only hope Flannan’s manuscript was exactly what he hoped it was: a clear and complete account of the whole story, monster, curse, tower, fey helpers and all. Then Geiléis would have no choice but to tell the truth.
As I walked into the courtyard I clothed myself in the glamour again. I’d planned to use the door that led from the yard to my quarters. But there in the yard was Caisín, filling a bucket at the well. Her hair was caught back in a scarf; her sleeves were rolled up. I froze. On the seamstress’s bare arms were scars twin to Onchú’s, raised, livid. This young woman, too, had been marked by the thorns.
I made the decision almost without thinking. I dropped the glamour, then cleared my throat. “Good morning, Caisín.”
She spun around, tugging down her sleeves. “Oh! Mistress Blackthorn, you startled me! Have you been out walking?” Her voice was shaking.
“Down to the river and back. Caisín, may I ask you a personal question?”
It felt cruel; the look in her eyes was that of a rabbit facing a hunting dog. She made a little sound, neither yes nor no.
“I couldn’t help noticing the marks on your arms,” I said. “Might I have a closer look? I can see they distress you, but I am a healer, and such things interest me.”
“They’re nothing,” she said in a mumble. “They’re healed now. I need to get on with my work, Mistress Blackthorn.”
“Caisín, were you there last Midsummer Eve when Lady Geiléis tried to cut a way through the thorns? Is that how you hurt your arms?”
“I . . .”
“Tell me.” I moved closer, speaking as I would to someone sick and frightened, though the brief glimpse I’d got of her scars had suggested that, like Onchú’s, they were well healed. “Did you help Lady Geiléis that day? Or . . .” Gods, I hoped I was wrong. “Did she ask you to do it? To cut a path and go up the tower at midsummer?” The only woman in the household, apart from Geiléis herself. And loyal, like the rest of them.
“I did try.” Caisín’s voice was a whisper. I imagined her up in the tower, confronting the monster. She was even less of a warrior than I was. How could Geiléis have asked that of her? “But I couldn’t cut the thorns. My arms weren’t strong enough.” She sucked in a breath. “It’s best that you ask Lady Geiléis. I don’t like talking about it.”
“You’re alive,” I said. “Your wounds have healed. That is something to be grateful for, under the circumstances. I think you should be glad you failed to get through the hedge, Caisín.”
She gave a curt nod, then went back to drawing water as if our conversation had not happened.
• • •
Behind the closed door of our quarters, I made a brew and drank it. Plain peppermint, without any sweetening; I felt the opposite of sweet today. My mind was full of questions. The ogham message: Strike hard, strike true, free us. There was most certainly a task ahead of me, and it would involve some work with an ax. The fey folk providing the tower’s inmate with supplies, possibly helped by Geiléis’s own household with or without her approval. And now this: a young woman disfigured by those thorns in an attempt to break the curse. Why had Geiléis not mentioned Caisín when she told us of the terrible toll taken by last midsummer’s attempt: one man dead, another gravely wounded? Did she think it would frighten me off? I shivered, wrapping my fingers more tightly around the warm cup. I’d be stupid if I wasn’t scared: scared of the thorns, scared of the monster, scared of failing. Scared, above all, of my own indecision. “Hurry up, Flannan,” I muttered to myself. “Get that thing translated, and let it have all the answers in it.” And I felt, for the first time, a longing to be back at Winterfalls, in the cottage, just Grim and me with the woods close by and the settlement a safe distance away across the fields—close enough so folk could reach us if they needed to, far enough so they did not often disturb our peace. “A pox on it, Grim,” I said to my absent friend. “I’m turning soft. I’m becoming an old woman.”
28
Geiléis
The mirror taunted her. She despised the woman there, a youthful vision in gold and white, staring back at her with defeated eyes. The look in those eyes said, You can’t do it. This will be just like the other times: first plans, then that terrified mixture of hope and dread, and then, once again, bitter defeat. She never intended you to break the curse. She meant it to go on forever. You will be older than the most ancient of tales, and I will still be in this mirror every time you look: the foolish young girl who ran through the woods at midnight to save her sweetheart. The girl who was stupid enough to think she could challenge the fey.
“It’s not true.” She turned her back on the mirror. “This time will be different.” Because Blackthorn was not Caisín, who had attempted the task the very first time and faile
d to make the slightest impression on the thorns, seeming to prove the curse a lie. It had been after that vain effort that Geiléis herself had tried, thinking that if one part of the curse was wrong, perhaps another part, the part that said she could not complete the task, might also be incorrect. She’d wondered, afterward, if Caisín had been less willing in her heart than in her words, and if the thorns had sensed that. But she’d kept the girl on. She could hardly ask Caisín’s husband and his fellow guards to make her disappear, and she knew Caisín would keep her mouth shut.
Blackthorn was not the village woman who had tried the second time, at fifty years; tried and balked at the threshold of the tower room, running back down the stair and out the door only to be caught up on the thorns, which had closed behind her after she cut her way through. As she’d screamed, they had shouted instructions from beyond the hedge: Use the knife to cut your clothing away from the thorns! Go back up! Finish the job! But the woman had been out of her mind with terror; she’d been beyond understanding the simplest command. Unable to get through the hedge themselves, unable to make her listen, they had left her there. By Midsummer Day she was dead, hanging limp and bloody among the thorns.
By the next opportunity, at a hundred years, that woman’s bones lay deep in the earth below the tower, entwined with the strong roots of the hedge. The Lady of Bann had paid a visit to the king of Tirconnell, begging for help, telling the tale of a monster come to terrorize the district and turn folk half-crazy with its wailing. The king had laughed at her. Mocked her. Humiliated her. She had wished, then, that she had the power to pronounce a curse. That summer she had used a young girl, a simpleton who did not fully understand the task. They promised her a new gown, a puppy and a bag of sweetmeats. She cut through the thorns and went up the tower. Not long after, they heard her falling down the stair. Perhaps she broke her neck and died straightaway; perhaps not. There was no way to tell.
Another followed, fifty years later. This woman woke on the morning of Midsummer Eve and decided she would not, after all, go through with it. There could be no forcing a person to act; the terms of the curse required that the task be undertaken willingly. Geiléis had wondered whether, if she let this woman go home after her failure, the magic would conveniently erase the memory from her mind, the way it made the local folk forget that the wailing monster came regularly every fifty years to bring two summers of sick animals, poor crops and deep, debilitating sadness. The way it caused them to forget that, while the rest of them aged and died, making way for their children and their children’s children, the Lady of Bann and her household grew only a little older year by year. Fear that it might not be so, that the woman who had failed the task might go home and spread the word of what had occurred, meant Geiléis did not put this to the test. One still lived in her own household, loyal and discreet. One lay in the tower, broken. One lay in the ground beneath the hedge. The last was buried in the woods; buried deep. Geiléis’s folk were thorough.
If Blackthorn failed, both she and Grim would have to disappear. Perhaps Master Flannan as well—he seemed fond of Blackthorn, though she hardly saw it. What was it about the healer? She was hardly the most comely of women, and her manner was the opposite of tender. Yet there she was with the two of them hovering around her. And she was completely blind to it. Not that it mattered. Whatever happened, Blackthorn would be out of the way by Midsummer Day. If she failed, Onchú and the others would ensure neither she nor her companions lived to tell the tale. If she succeeded, this would all be over. Then Grim and Flannan could take whatever action they pleased; tell the tale to the whole world if they wanted to. Chances were nobody would believe them anyway.
There was a flaw, of course. This was the first time she’d used a woman from beyond the district. The curse had seen to it that those others were soon forgotten; that their kinsfolk did not come asking awkward questions. It would not be like that with Blackthorn. She’d been resident at the Dalriadan court; the prince and his lady were expecting her back. They wouldn’t let her and her companions simply vanish without explanation. And hadn’t someone said she had a whole community depending on her back home? It would be necessary to invent a story, a convincing one. The three of them might have headed off somewhere together, somewhere as far away from Dalriada as possible. No need to say why; only that they had packed up and left suddenly. Prince Oran would not send folk out searching for a village healer. And Flannan was a traveler anyway, not the prince’s concern.
But she would not need the story, because this time would be different. It had to be. Another failure simply could not be endured. What had they done to deserve this wretched penance, this endless suffering? Fallen in love, that was all. Young folk did that. It was natural. The one who had cursed them, the fey woman—Geiléis would not use her name, could not bear to speak it—could have had any man she wanted. She was the loveliest creature in all Erin. Even in her terror, even in the dark, even as she knew she had encountered a power so far beyond her own that she could never prevail, Geiléis had recognized the other’s remarkable allure. Why had the fey woman claimed Ash as hers? Why couldn’t she let him go? Why couldn’t she find someone else, someone who did not have a human girl who loved him with all her heart and would do anything, anything to keep him safe?
She lay down on her bed and closed her eyes. That night, the night of the curse, was as clear in her memory as if it had been yesterday. The tower was in darkness, save for that one lonely light flickering in the high chamber. The wind howled; the trees bowed down before its chill breath. It was like winter in summertime. Clouds fled across the moon’s face; lightning split the sky and thunder growled deep. She ran, heedless of peril, ran with her heart leaping about in her chest, ran until her sides ached, ran with tears of hope and terror running down her cheeks. Ash. He’s in the tower. Find Ash. What would happen when she reached the tower, how she would rescue him, she hardly thought; only that he was there, and that if she had got him out once before, she could do it again.
“Gods,” Geiléis muttered, “I was a child. I knew nothing. Nothing.”
And then the river, and the dark swirling water, and the recognition that there was no way she could get across on her own. Was that a sound of laughter from the high chamber? Gritting her teeth. Tucking up her skirt. Trusting in the power of true love to get her over. One step, and her shoes filled with water so cold it turned her feet numb. Another step, and suddenly she was in to her knees, and the river was pulling at her, insistent, perilous. “Ash!” she shouted. “Ash, are you there? I’ve come to bring you home!”
Then the little voice in the darkness. “Try it on your own and you’ll be swallowed up as quick as the snap of a hawk’s beak. I’ll take you over. If you’re sure that’s what you want.”
The ferryman. He was right beside her, holding his wee boat steady in the swirling waters, the pole dug deep. “I’m sure,” she said, and he said, “Climb in.”
The swift, uneasy passage to the island. She gasped a thank-you as she ran for the tower. Up the spiral stair, not thinking what would happen if she fell. No waiting to catch her breath. Forward. Forward into the high chamber.
The fey woman stood waiting, a shielded candle in her hand. Tall. Beautiful. Terrifying. Behind her was Ash. A cruel gag cut into the corners of his mouth. He was chained tight against the wall. When he saw Lily he made a terrible sound of anguish. A monstrous sound. That sound said, Lily! It said, You shouldn’t have come.
“Ah. The foolish human girl has come to your rescue.” The woman took a step toward Lily. “Or so she believes. What is your name, young woman?”
She swallowed. Found in her quaking heart a kernel of pride. “I am the only daughter of the chieftain of Bann. They call me Lily.” Another breath. A step of her own, forward. Tonight she was a warrior. “You said I could come and get him. Ash. Brión. So I’m here. Unchain him. I’m taking him home.”
The woman’s lustrous eyes widened. She threw
back her head and let fly a peal of mocking laughter. “Oh, I don’t think so. I really don’t think so. Are you truly so lacking in understanding that you imagine you can stand up to me? Don’t you know who I am, Lily?” She made the pet name sound like something she might toss on the midden.
“I love him.” Lily kept her voice steady, though her whole body was trembling. She kept her back straight and her head high. “True love is the most powerful thing of all. It doesn’t matter who you are: noble lady, enchantress, great queen of the fey. If you believe in love, you will let him go.” Still thinking, at that moment, that she could do it. Still hoping, for all her terror.
“Oh, Lily,” the woman said. “There is no such thing as love. Passion, yes. Possession, most certainly. But love? It exists only in the soft minds of human men and women. Love will not save your young man. Nor will it save you from your due punishment. You think he’s suffering now?” She gestured toward Ash, who was writhing in his chains, moaning animal sounds through the tight gag. “You understand nothing of pain. But you will. Believe me, you will.”
Every instinct told Lily to flee while it was still possible, down the stair, over the river, back home through the forest before the fey woman cast a spell. But there was Ash, captive, chained, hurt. She could not leave him.
The fey woman spread out her arms. She became even taller, far, far beyond the height of the tallest human woman. The tower room darkened; the candle glowed an eerie blue. “Hear now my curse!”
Someone coughed behind Lily, making her jump.
“No, you don’t,” said the ferryman. “Leave the girl alone; she’s only trying to help her young fellow there.”
Tower of Thorns Page 28
