Tower of Thorns

by Juliet Marillier

  She could hardly have chosen a question better calculated to annoy me. My past was not for discussion. Not with anyone. “I do know a great many tales, and the fey are in most of them.”

  “But beyond the tales, in the world where you and I walk? Have you met beings that are neither the wild creatures of forest and hills, nor human men and women, but Other?”

  “That question strikes me as somewhat intrusive, Lady Geiléis.”

  “Then let me put it a different way. Are you open to the idea that such beings may exist? That they still walk the secluded places of Erin alongside our own kind?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Some have suggested the creature in my tower is simply an animal that has wandered into the place and found itself trapped; or a flock of unusual birds out in the woods; or, indeed, a figment of my imagination. My requests for aid have been greeted with ridicule.”

  “Mm-hm.” It was all too easy to imagine how that had felt: to tell her tale, perhaps to the northern ruler she’d mentioned, only to be scorned and laughed at. It brought back Mathuin and the way he had scoffed at my attempt to challenge him; how he had mocked me when I spoke the truth. I willed myself not to feel sympathy for Geiléis. My decision was already made. Whoever went to help her, it wouldn’t be me. Couldn’t be. I returned my attention to knife and chopping board, attacking the bunch of comfrey leaves with more violence than was strictly necessary.

  “You know of the Tower of Thorns,” Geiléis said. “And yet I’m told you are not from these parts.”

  Told? By whom? She’d been snooping around, asking questions about me. Why, when I’d already made it clear I would not go? “I find your dilemma interesting, my lady, but it’s for someone else to deal with. I don’t understand why you’ve come to see me. I’ve heard the story already. I’ve given you what wisdom I have to offer.”

  Grim loomed suddenly in the doorway. He gave Geiléis a look, then turned his attention to me. “Fetch you something to eat?”

  “Thanks.” I tried to convey with my eyes that he should come back promptly; I did not want Geiléis prodding me with her difficult questions any longer.

  “Won’t be long,” Grim said, and headed off toward the kitchens, where no doubt he had already made useful friends. He’d done that with remarkable speed at the prince’s house in Winterfalls. Which was one of the many ways in which Grim was not like me.

  “You are close,” Geiléis remarked. “Has he served you a long time?”

  I held on to my temper, though it was fraying fast. Why couldn’t she just go away? “Grim is not my servant. He’s my friend and traveling companion.”

  She smiled. Perhaps she thought she understood. But nobody could understand what Grim and I were to each other. I wasn’t sure I did myself.

  “I don’t know what you came here to ask,” I said. “More than my opinion on the existence of the fey, I imagine. I’m busy, so if there’s another question, please be quick with it.”

  “You are rather direct.”

  “I see no reason to wrap the truth in flowery garments. Please just say whatever it is. Unless it’s a request that I travel to Bann; I’m not going to change my mind on that matter.”

  “Very well,” Geiléis said. “Since you limit your answers to your knowledge of lore, I will ask you a question about that. Do you believe in happy endings?”

  Lost for words, I stared at her.

  “The tales are full of them, of course,” Geiléis went on. “But can such an ending exist outside the confines of a tale? Given patience and belief and endurance, do you believe true love can eventually triumph over the odds, no matter how great they may be?”

  This was the last thing I had expected, and I could not think how to reply. She had revealed more of herself in that speech than perhaps she realized. Such a question deserved an honest answer. But I saw on her face, now, a naked need for that answer to be yes.

  “I’m not the right person to ask,” I said.

  “But?” She was gently insistent. “Is a wise woman not allowed a personal opinion?”

  “There’s no rule against that. But it is wiser, surely, for such a one to do the work folk expect of her—healing, counseling, telling suitable stories, laying the dead to rest and welcoming new life into the world. Personal opinions can lead to trouble.” Now I’d said a little too much; inwardly, I kicked myself. How could I answer a question about true love? In my mind was Cass, my lovely man, blinking in the sunlight as he emerged from his workroom, his russet hair on end where he had run his fingers absently through it, his steadfast gray eyes fixed on me as if I were the loveliest woman in all Erin. In my thoughts was Brennan, my sweet baby, who would be a young man of fifteen now if he had lived. “True love breaks your heart,” I said. “If you want my opinion, there it is.” Go away. Go away without another word.

  “Oh, yes,” breathed Geiléis. “And yet, it is surely better to have had such a love and lost it than never to have known the joy of it at all.”

  I drew an uneven breath. “I couldn’t say, my lady.”

  “I think you could, Mistress Blackthorn, but I will not vex you further. I know when I am not welcome. Perhaps, another time, you will give me an answer to my question.”

  “Can true love triumph over the odds? The only answer I have for that is sometimes yes and sometimes no.” In the case of Prince Oran and Lady Flidais, it was a resounding yes, though their happy ending had not been achieved without cost. My own story had ended in sorrow. Cass and Brennan were dead; they were never coming back. And I was broken beyond repair.

  “Then the story could end either way,” said Geiléis. Her voice had shrunk to a whisper. “Thank you for your time, Mistress Blackthorn.”

  I closed the door after her, then leaned on it with my eyes shut, trying not to see Cass and Brennan in the fire, trying to block out the smells and sounds of that day. Wretched Geiléis! She knew I wasn’t going to help her, so why did she have to come prying with her silly questions and waking up the nightmare? True love and happy endings, pah! I paced, resisting the urge to throw something and the equally strong urge to burst into tears. Three strides this way, three strides that way. One fist striking the other palm as I went. Mathuin. It all came down to Mathuin. I shouldn’t be here; I should be in Laois, in the south, making sure that man paid the price for his crimes. Making him atone for Cass, for Brennan, for all the women he hurt and shamed and abandoned, for all the poor wretches locked up with us in that foul prison, for Grim, for me, for everyone he wronged. I could curse Conmael too, for holding me back. Only I couldn’t, because if it hadn’t been for him I’d be dead, and the dead can’t wreak vengeance. Unless it’s a wonder tale, of course. There was nothing wonderful about my story. “A pox on it!” I snarled, striding toward the door.

  And there was Grim, balancing a heavily laden tray. “You talking to me?”

  Somehow we avoided crashing into each other. I retreated to sit on the bench, and he entered to set his burden on the table. Suddenly the stillroom was full.

  “No. And don’t ask me what Geiléis said. I just want to sit here in the quiet.”

  One of the qualities that made Grim bearable to live with was that I didn’t need to tell him anything twice. If I wanted him to shut up, he shut up. If I needed him to talk, he talked. If I was in a foul mood, as now, he made a brew, gave me a cup, then got on with his own business. Often I didn’t need to tell him at all. The only time he’d done something I didn’t want was the time I tried to go back south on my own, and he followed me and stopped me. I couldn’t blame him for that. It turned out he was right; if I’d gone then, I’d have made a mess of things. The scary part was, that time he’d seemed to know me better than I knew myself. If anything was uncanny, that was.

  He set a cup beside me. “I’ll be off, then.”

  “Stay,” I said. “If you want.” And, after a bit, “She ask
ed me about happy endings. The kind you get in tales. Whether I believed in them. Whether they could happen in real life.”

  “Mm-hm.” Grim filled a cup for himself, sat down, passed a platter of bread and honey. “Upset you.”

  “I’ll live. I just hope she’s done with her efforts to get something out of me that isn’t there in the first place.”

  “Eat,” suggested Grim. “It’ll make you feel better.” So I did, and it did. And eventually, when we had made considerable progress on the bread and honey, he said, “About happy endings. Folk like a story to finish well. Doesn’t matter if that’s true to life or not. Helps to hear about folk being content. About good folk getting what they deserve. While you’re listening you can believe, for a bit, that you’re good too. Worth a happy ending.”

  I dashed away a sudden treacherous tear. “You’re saying they do only exist in stories.”

  “Thing is, the story’s like a different world. While you’re in it, anything can happen. The stupid get wise, the ugly get handsome, the poor find pots of gold, the swineherd marries the lady of the house. Only, as soon as the tale’s over, that’s all gone. You’re back in this world. And you’re still poor or stupid or ugly or all three, and folk like Mathuin are still getting away with murder.”

  “You knew I was thinking about him.”

  “Not hard to guess.”

  I wondered if Grim thought he was stupid or ugly or both, but I didn’t ask him. “You once said a person has to have hope or it’s not worth going on,” I said. “But maybe hope’s the same as believing in happy endings.”

  “Job to do,” Grim said succinctly. “Duty. Enough to make it worth going on.”

  “Justice. The same.”

  “Vengeance?”

  “On its own, not enough.” I would not be satisfied with an assassination. I needed to see Mathuin face up to his ill deeds publicly and pay the penalty under the law. Many folk had suffered because of him. Without justice, we would remain forever what he had made us: victims. “Vengeance and justice, together.”

  “Family,” said Grim. “For them that have got one.”

  “Comrades,” I suggested. “That’s what men fight for, not for some grand cause.”

  We sat quiet after that, each of us sunk in memories. Until a man-at-arms came to the door and asked, in an embarrassed mumble, if I knew how to lance a boil in an awkward place. He had a friend with him who was trying hard not to laugh. I was tempted to give him a smack.

  Grim put everything back on his tray. “Better?” he murmured.

  “I’ll do.”

  5

  Grim

  For a while we’re both on edge. Thinking Lady Geiléis might talk to the prince or Flidais, convince them Blackthorn’s the one to go to Bann with her and solve her problem. Convince them she needs Blackthorn more than they do. But days pass and nobody says anything. The prince has sent for the druid, Master Oisín. So Lady Geiléis is waiting.

  Blackthorn goes to give Flidais a check-over, make sure the baby’s growing right. Looks happier when she gets back. Flidais has said she’d never ask Blackthorn to go somewhere if she didn’t want to, and nor would the prince. Just as well. If they did, Blackthorn would have to tell them the real reason she couldn’t go, which is Conmael. And that story’s not getting told. Once it’s out, folk will know who we are and where we came from. Only one step from there to Mathuin finding us. That bastard wouldn’t care about me. But sure as sure, he’d try to stop Blackthorn from talking.

  Once I hear what Flidais has said, I’m happier too. Though not as happy as I’ll be when Lady Geiléis is gone. Still got that funny feeling about her, the feeling I get when I know trouble’s coming. Blackthorn says not to worry, she’s not going to take a foolish risk by heading off to the border. Turns out she thinks a ritual won’t make things much better at Bann anyway.

  “It’ll take more than that,” she says. “Master Oisín will have to stay up there and work it all out. Talk to people. Listen to their stories. Find out what brought the creature to the tower and why it’s stayed there. Who drove it out the last time, and how, and why it came back.”

  Seen that look in her eye before. “You’re interested,” I say.

  “Not interested enough to risk my whole future. And don’t tell me I did that once already. I’ve learned my lesson.”

  “Mm-hm,” I say. Keep the rest of my thoughts to myself. We’re cursed, her and me. Cursed to a life full of nasty surprises. Soon as you start thinking it’s plain sailing ahead, the worst storm in the world blows up. Still, a man can hope. If not, what’s the point of going on?

  • • •

  Thought I knew Blackthorn pretty well: how she’s feeling, whether I should stay around or leave her alone, what she needs doing. How she’ll be if one thing happens or another. Then another visitor comes to court, and I find out how wrong I am.

  We’re out beyond the walls. Blackthorn wants to gather an herb that grows down on the rocks near the sea. Little crawling plant with flat leaves, looks like it’s trying to hide in the cracks and chinks. Easy to miss. Blackthorn says she can use it in a salve for sore joints. Lots of folk ask her for that, so she’s planning to make up a big batch. Gather it first, then soak the leaves to get the salt out, then grind them up and mix them with a lot of other things. Littlefoot, the herb’s called.

  She’s busy gathering. Not an easy job. Has to find the stuff first, then make sure she doesn’t take too much from one plant. Doesn’t want to kill it. She’s crouched down, picking and muttering to herself. Can’t quite catch the words, but I know it’s a kind of prayer, thanks for letting her take the herb and sorry at the same time. I’ve offered to help but she says no, my job is to keep an eye out for trouble. So that’s what I’m doing when the traveler comes in sight. Walking along the road toward the fortress with a dog at his heels, big handsome thing, shaggy gray. Fellow’s got a pack on his back, a staff in his hand, no weapons I can catch sight of. Wearing a scholar’s robe. Looks harmless, but you never know. Dog sees us first and heads in our direction. Fellow clicks his fingers, calls it back. He gives me a nod, then catches sight of Blackthorn, who’s on her haunches with her back to him. Traveler freezes on the spot, staring. That’s a surprise. Her and me, we try not to catch the eye. I’m big, she’s got that bright red hair, but we’re not as startling as all that.

  “Man on the road,” I say, under my breath. “Looking at you.”

  She straightens. Shields her eyes, gives the man a look back. I see a smile break out on his face. Looks like he knows her, and that can only be bad.

  “Saorla!” he calls out. “Is it you?”

  Blackthorn makes a word with her lips, only she doesn’t say it—the fellow’s name?—and then she’s walking forward, and he’s opening his arms, and she’s running to him before I can say watch out, be careful. They throw their arms around each other; he’s got his hand on her hair; she’s crying. Dog’s jumping around them barking its head off. I’m shocked. Can’t think straight. This is not Blackthorn’s way at all. It’s like she’s turned into a different woman.

  For a crazy moment I wonder if it’s her husband, Cass, somehow not dead after all. Who else would she hold on to like that? Who else’s shoulder would she cry on? Makes me feel odd, all mixed up inside. Then I’m next to the two of them, putting a hand down for the dog to sniff, waiting for them to notice me. Blackthorn moves back but keeps hold of the fellow’s hands. She’s staring at him with her face all tears. Looks like she hardly believes what she sees. “But how is it you’re here?” she’s saying. “I thought you were dead with the others; how did you escape? Where have you been all this time?”

  “I might ask you the same,” says the fellow. Looks a bit shaken up himself. “Where are you living? Close by here?”

  “At the Dalriadan court, for now. It’s a long story.” Blackthorn remembers me suddenly. “Grim, this is Fl
annan, a very old friend. From back in the . . . A friend of Cass’s and mine.” She turns back to the newcomer. “Grim is my—traveling companion.”

  “Greetings, Grim,” Flannan says, smiling. “Any friend of this lady’s is a friend of mine.”

  “Fine hound you have here,” I say. “Good company for the road.”

  “This can’t be Tempest,” puts in Blackthorn. “She’d be ancient by now.”

  “Tempest’s long gone. This one’s Ripple, from the same bloodline. She’s a fine friend; she’s walked a long way with me. My work takes me from one house of prayer and learning to another, Grim. I’m a traveling scribe and scholar. That is how Saorla knows me.”

  “I don’t use that name now,” she says, quick sharp. “You should call me Blackthorn.” Flannan’s a well-made fellow, tallish, maybe five-and-thirty, got some muscle on him, not what you’d expect for a scholar. A friend of Cass’s, she said. She’s hardly spoken her husband’s name since the day our cottage was set on fire. That night she told me the story of how Cass and her son were burned to death when Mathuin’s men torched her house. So Flannan’s from the south and he knows her story, some of it anyway. Enough to put her in danger, most likely. But here she is, clutching his hands and smiling, face all wet with tears. I fish a handkerchief from my pouch and hold it out to her. She doesn’t even see me.

  “Where are you heading?” she asks him.

  “West, toward Tirconnell.”

  “In a hurry?”

  Flannan smiles. “Monastic business is generally not conducted in great haste. I’m intending to study some manuscripts; I’m writing a book of tales, and they may provide good material. I’ll tell you more later. For now, if you think the court of Dalriada would accommodate me for a night or two, I’ll come with you. If that was what you were about to suggest.”