Tower of Thorns

by Juliet Marillier

  “Too late now,” Grim said, sitting down on the bench. “To ask the wee folk about it. I know that. One says go. One says stay. Could be they’re like clurichauns, can’t agree about anything.”

  “Or one choice might be better for us, and the other one better for them. Grim, I don’t want to talk about this anymore. By the end of today it’ll be all over, one way or another.”

  “Be a lot happier if I could come up the tower with you.”

  “We know you can’t, so there’s no point worrying about it.”

  Interesting, how silence can sometimes say so much more than words. He sat there with his elbows on his knees, looking at the floor. I tried not to think about the fact that after today’s breakfast I would never see him again. Ordered myself sharply not to let tears fall.

  “I’ll go and find us some food,” I said. “Where’s that candle?”

  But when I tiptoed through the house and gently pushed open the kitchen door, it was to find the room lit by lamps and all the household serving folk gathered there, sitting or standing with cups of mead in their hands. The remains of a modest meal were on the table, with a neat stack of used platters. They’d been talking in hushed voices, but the conversation ceased as I went in.

  “You’re up early,” I said, noting the pale faces, the tight lips. “I was just looking for something for Grim to eat—he’s been up all night making the finishing touches for his roof.”

  “Let me find you something, Mistress Blackthorn.” Senach moved with his usual smooth competence to the larder, picking up a tray as he went. “I hope you got some rest.”

  “I haven’t slept. But thanks.”

  Nobody commented, but I guessed it had been the same for all of them. They had spent the last night of the curse together, in what I imagined must be a mixture of hope and doubt. I suspected that Geiléis would be awake in her quarters, as tight with anticipation as I was. Perhaps she was up at her high window, waiting for the dawn. Thinking that this might be the last day that voice rang out to play with folk’s minds and to turn all within her holdings sour and sad.

  “I hope I can do it,” I said quietly. “I can’t promise I’ll succeed. But I can promise to do my best for you all.”

  “Let me carry this through for you, Mistress Blackthorn.” Senach was by my side, the tray in his hands laden with sufficient food to make breakfast unnecessary.

  “Best if I take it myself. But thank you.” I set my candle on the only free corner of the tray and headed back.

  We ate the food, though neither of us had any appetite. We tidied up and got dressed. Dau came to the door and asked if we wanted breakfast and we said no. Grim packed his reed creations carefully into two bags. Raven and dove, cat and fox. I watched him. He suggested we might pack up the rest of our things, since we’d most likely be leaving tomorrow morning, and I said no need, there would be plenty of time in the evening. Then we waited. All too soon the sun came up, the creature in the tower began its daily lament, and it was time for Grim to head for St. Olcan’s where, according to him, they would be singing Prime and after that sitting down to breakfast. The pattern of daily prayers meant monks were up before first cockcrow.

  “I’ll walk out to the courtyard with you,” I said.

  “If you want.”

  He didn’t know this was good-bye forever. And if I had any wits at all, I’d make sure I did nothing to put that idea into his mind. We walked out side by side, he with his two bags and his knife in his belt, I in my ordinary clothes. The leather breastplate and cap the guards had fashioned for me were in the bedchamber. I was not quite sure yet if I would wear them; it felt like pretending to be something I was not.

  At the small gate in the wall Grim halted. “See you later, then. Be a good idea to catch some sleep this morning, if you can.”

  “I’ll try.” I ached to stand on tiptoes and kiss his cheek, to give him a hug, to tell him without words that I was sorry. To say that if I did one worthwhile thing in my life, it would be going to Laois and seeing Mathuin brought to justice, and that I had to take the chance Flannan had offered. And that I was leaving him behind, not because I did not want him, but because, in the long run, he would be so much better off without me. But if I touched him I would cry, and he would decide he couldn’t go to St. Olcan’s after all, and I wouldn’t be able to get away without him. “I hope the monks like your creatures. They don’t know how fortunate they are to have such fine work for their roof.”

  Grim smiled. “Should be good luck for the place. For everyone who works in there. Scribes, scholars, folk that love books and learning. I’ll be getting on. Sooner I finish the work, sooner I’ll be back. You all right?”

  “Fine,” I said. “Or as fine as I can be with this thing to do. See you later, then.”

  He walked out the gate and was gone. Just like that. I pressed my lips tight together. You’re a warrior. Be strong. You managed just fine without him before, and you can now. I turned and walked back to the house. We would wait just a little, to be quite sure he was gone. Then we would head for the tower.

  39

  Grim

  Shouldn’t take long. Want to do a proper job, not rush things, but all the same. Should be back at Geiléis’s by midday at the latest. Plenty of time. That’s what I’m thinking, walking up through the woods. Hear the bell ringing for Prime. Hear the thing in the tower wailing. Wonder if it knows today’s the day. If he knows. Poor fellow. Poxy life that must be. Two hundred years of it. Doesn’t bear thinking of. Not the best for her either. Lily. Geiléis, if it’s really her. Like being stuck in your worst nightmare forever, or what feels like forever. Having to listen to him and not being able to do a thing. The woman that thought up that spell was a nasty piece of work.

  Been hoping I might catch sight of the wee folk, maybe have a word about what’s going to happen. But no; no sign of them today. They know, of course. That today’s Midsummer Eve. That Blackthorn’s going to give this a try. I talk to them anyway, going past the spot where I turned back once before.

  “If you’re there, today’s the day. Hope it turns out well. Hope everything’s better for you, afterward. Hope you get your king back safe and sound. Kind folk, you are. Glad you showed yourselves to me. I’ll never forget that, not till the day I die.”

  Nothing comes back to me, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there, looking and listening. I get an idea, something that would be good to do. There’s bread and cheese in my bag, in case I get peckish on the job. I get it out, break it up, lay a good share on a flat stone by the path. “For you,” I say to the empty air, feeling a bit stupid. “Thanks for what you’ve done. Can’t have been easy.” Blackthorn’s told me about the basket going up the tower and the wee man she saw on the island. If Flannan’s document is right, they’ve been looking after that fellow, Ash, ever since he first got trapped up there. All these years.

  Enough of that; need to get on. I’m shouldering the one bag and bending to pick up the other when I spot something on the path up ahead. Not one of them; something smaller. Something hurt. A bird, lying on its side, fluttering a wing, trying to get on its feet. A pigeon.

  I go close, kneel down, take a good look. Bird’s terrified. Eyes wild. Struggling and struggling, can’t get up. I push down memories, move slow, take my time. Little leather tube fastened to its leg. One of Brother Eoan’s messenger birds. That leg looks all right; other leg looks all right. Could be the bird’s fallen foul of a hawk or owl. Been dropped for some reason, still alive. Can’t see any blood. I reach down, gentle as I can, and slip one hand underneath. Other hand on top, lift nice and slow. Looks like it’s the wing. Broken feathers. Handled the birds often enough at St. Erc’s. Not the kind of hurt where the only thing to do is wring the creature’s neck and end the pain. This one could be patched up. Might only need some peace and quiet, a bit of a rest. Brother Eoan will know what to do with the wing.

 
“Come on, then,” I say. “Let’s get you home.”

  Can’t carry everything with the bird in my hands, so I leave the bag with fox and cat by the side of the track. Plan is, take the pigeon to St. Olcan’s, then run back down and fetch the bag. Won’t take long.

  • • •

  I’m in luck. Brother Eoan’s not in the chapel; he’s in the pigeon loft filling up the containers with water and seed. Birds are clustering around, wanting their food, making those little soft sounds they do. Wonder what they’re saying to each other?

  “Found this one in the woods,” I tell him. “Broken wing, I think.”

  He comes to take the bird quick, carries it through to a smaller room with pegs to hang things from and shelves to store things on. Everything to look after the birds, and stuff for the messages too, those leather carriers, so small and neat, just room enough to fit a scrap of parchment rolled tight as tight. First thing Eoan does is lay the bird on a table, on a cloth, while he has a good look at it.

  “Unfasten the cord, will you, Grim?”

  While he holds the bird still, I fiddle with the fine cord that holds the letter carrier in place. Manage to get it off the leg, but I’ve undone the wrong bit so the message falls out. “Sorry,” I say, picking up the scrap of parchment. All covered over with tiny little writing, a wonder anyone can read the thing.

  “That message will need to go back to Master Flannan,” says Brother Eoan. He’s checking the flight feathers on the damaged wing, running his fingers along each one in turn. “This is one of the Laois birds. He’s the only one who’s been using them.”

  All of a sudden I’m cold. “Laois?”

  “From the foundation at St. Brigid’s.”

  Something not right about this. Seems all right on the surface but it’s not; I just know. “Long way for a pigeon to fly,” I say. “You’d need to be in a rush to hear someone’s Latin translation, to send it with a bird.”

  Brother Eoan is smiling. “This one is doubly fortunate. Whatever caught her let her go before too much damage was done. And the next person to walk by knew exactly the right thing to do. She’ll be fine. I can repair the wing. She’ll need rest. No more long flights for quite some time. As for St. Brigid’s, as well as their scholarly correspondence the brethren there send and receive messages on behalf of their local chieftain. I believe they’re located quite close to his stronghold. Muadan, Maolan, something like that.”

  “Mathuin,” I say. Something sinks its talons into my belly and squeezes tight. “Mathuin of Laois.”

  40

  Blackthorn

  “Are you ready, Mistress Blackthorn?”

  Geiléis herself was at my door, come to remind me of my mission in the tower. Hah! As if I needed any reminding that today was the day of reckoning. Here I was in my leather breast-piece, with the ax on my back—my aching shoulders told me how many times I had practiced getting the wretched thing quickly into my hand—and my knife in my belt. Ready? Hardly. Who could ever be ready for this? But I was doing it, ready or not.

  That reminded me. True love’s tears. I’d picked a small supply of the leaves and dried them; they were wrapped in a handkerchief. “I’ll just be a moment more,” I said as I put the little bundle away in my pouch. What possible use the herb might be I did not know, but if I was heading out to break a fey curse, taking the little folk’s advice seemed a good idea. I cast a glance around the chamber. Anything I’d forgotten? A mage’s staff would be handy, or a cloak of invisibility.

  “Mistress Blackthorn?”

  I snatched one last item for luck, then followed her out. Stuffed the red scarf into the pouch as I went, on top of the herbs. That scarf had its own story. Grim had bought it for me at a fair, coming north last summer. I’d thought that inappropriate and had probably made my feelings obvious. The scarf had been a key clue in solving the mystery of Branoc the baker, who had abducted and hurt a young woman. It had served as a good-bye and as a call to action. The scarf wasn’t going to scare off enemies or behead the monster for me, but I took it anyway.

  The entire household was assembled in the courtyard to watch us go. Nobody said, Good luck, or, You can do it. Nobody clapped me on the shoulder or offered a reassuring smile.

  Senach was pale and shaky, quite unlike his usual self. When he spoke, his voice was choked with emotion. “Farewell, Lady Geiléis. Our hearts go with you.”

  There was a murmur from the others, serving folk and guards alike. The men-at-arms made a gesture I had seen before, laying a clenched fist over the heart.

  “Come, then,” said Geiléis. “Onchú, lead the way. Do you wish to block your ears, Mistress Blackthorn?”

  I shook my head. I would need all my senses alert.

  The forest felt different this morning. The day was clear and bright, but everything was somehow . . . veiled. Uncertain. It seemed to me that pathways might shift, trees switch places, sun abruptly turn to storm. The magic was stronger, as if the land knew this was a time of change. I wondered if the little folk were watching as we passed, thinking this might be the end of their long servitude. Remembering the ferryman, I asked, “How do we get across to the island? I’ll do better in the tower with dry shoes.” It was hard to keep my voice steady; already, my heart was going like a war drum.

  “We have a boat, Mistress Blackthorn,” said Donncha. “It’s been long out of use, but the men have made it watertight. It will take all of us at once.”

  “I see.”

  We reached the ford. Today, the water looked shallow enough for a person to wade safely all the way over. But it was deeper around the island, and with so much at stake it would be foolish to take unnecessary risks. Onchú led us downstream to the point where the distance to the island was least, and there indeed was a boat, no tiny fey craft this time but a sturdy rowing boat drawn up on the bank in readiness. I stepped in; Geiléis did the same. The men pushed the vessel into the shallows, then climbed aboard. Donncha rowed. Onchú was alert to danger, scanning the woods all around as we crossed the narrow channel. The creature’s voice was piercing, painful to the ears. Could he see us coming?

  The boat scraped onto the other shore, and we were on the island. I accepted Donncha’s help to get out with my feet dry; beside me, Geiléis had allowed Onchú to assist her. Now he offered her a handkerchief, and I saw that she was weeping. She turned away to wipe her eyes, then reached to untie her cloak and toss it into the boat. There was I in my uncouth garb of working gown under leather fighting garments, my hair covered by the cap the men had made for me, the ax on my back. And there was she in a gown befitting a princess from an ancient tale. It was simple and flowing, its hue a delicate green, its decoration a border of darker ribbon. The garment fitted her perfectly, subtly showing the curves of her body. Now, with one impatient hand, she untied the fastening that held her hair in a single plait, and shook the long fair tresses out over her shoulders. If I had doubted up until this moment that she was Lily, I doubted it no longer.

  She looked up toward the high window. She said something, but the voice from the tower drowned it. He was not so much wailing now as shouting. Trying to say something, trying to form words we could understand. But all I could hear was pain, grief, longing.

  Geiléis turned toward me. Pointed, gestured. This way. I did not say I knew already where the door was, or that the unerring path she took to that spot told me more than she realized. It was too late for doubts. Too late for accusations. Too late for anything but getting on with the job. Here I was, just below the high window; this was where the little man had sent up the basket. Geiléis stepped away, leaving me on my own. Now it really was time.

  My palms were too sweaty to hold anything steady. As for my heartbeat, if I’d been tending to anyone with such a fast rate I’d have thought them about to expire on the spot. Slow your breathing, I told myself. Concentrate. Call upon your training. It may have been long ago, but a wi
se woman never forgets. This is a good thing you’re doing. A good thing. And when it’s done, you’re going on your true mission, the one you’ve been waiting for. Breathe deep. Strike hard. Strike true.

  I faced the hedge of thorns. I had thought perhaps the creature might fall silent. But his strangled attempts to speak continued as I drew my knife. I shut out the memory of Onchú’s scars, and Caisín’s, and of the man who had died from his wounds. I gritted my teeth and cut into a branch.

  There was a groaning sound, then a cracking and splitting; pieces of wood flew through the air all around me, making me duck. I shut my eyes.

  The noise ended; the creature in the tower fell silent. Now there was a pathway before me, arched with thorns and just wide enough for one woman to walk along without being damaged. At its other end, the door to the tower stood ajar. The hedge had opened to let me through.

  No matter how many old stories a person knows, there is no preparation for finding yourself right in the middle of one. I drew a breath and moved forward. One step. Another step. The pathway ahead remained open. But behind me I heard the thorny branches snapping back into place, barring the way to anyone who wanted to follow.

  Red flowers and white bloomed side by side on the bushes; underfoot the earth was broken and uneven, as if the hedge had pulled back its roots to make the path. Deeper in, I thought I saw a scatter of bones where some poor creature had crept in long ago and been trapped. What if—no, I would not consider the possibility that the thorns would bar my way out. If I completed the task, the curse would be broken. I just had to cut off someone’s head. I just had to get my mind into the fighting mode Grim had spoken of, where all you thought of was killing the other fellow before he killed you.

  I was at the door. A glance over my shoulder showed the hedge unbroken. I could not see Geiléis and the guards. From the tower, silence.