Tower of Thorns

by Juliet Marillier

  Sudden tears pricked my eyes. “He was wrong,” I said. “If I’d been able to do anything I wanted, I would have saved him. I would have saved Brennan. That’s where my so-called abilities led me—into losing everything I cared about. Into letting that foul wretch Mathuin defeat me.”

  Flannan’s look was painfully direct. “You’re defeated? Or merely delayed on your quest? Which is it?”

  This was close to the bone. It was uncomfortable. “I don’t have a quest. And I wasn’t expecting an inquisition.”

  His manner softened straightaway. “I’m sorry. I have spent too long on my own, poring over books; forgotten my manners.” He rose to his feet, ready to leave.

  “I don’t need manners from an old friend. Only honesty. I can’t go to Bann because I gave Lady Flidais my word. And there are folk back at Winterfalls who rely upon my being there to look after them. And . . .”

  A silence; he was giving me time to collect myself.

  “I’ve been beaten down over the years, Flannan. Hammered flat. Every time I picked myself up, there was a bit less of me left. I’ve been through things nobody would want to hear about. It’s the same for Grim. Lady Geiléis’s monster in the tower intrigues me, yes. But experience tells me getting involved would be complicated. I don’t want a quest. The life I’ve got now is enough. Let the druid help Lady Geiléis. He’ll do as good a job of it as anyone can.”

  I thought Flannan was going to leave the room without another word. But in the doorway he paused to look back at me. “Have you really changed so much?” he asked. “The woman I knew was all courage. A taker of risks. A seizer of opportunities. She’d never have been content with the life of a village healer.”

  “But that’s exactly what I was back then.” I spoke through clenched teeth. The truth hurt sometimes.

  “If you believe that,” Flannan said, “either your memory is faulty, or you’re refusing to face reality. What happened to Cass was terrible; I don’t deny that. But—”

  “Stop. Just stop. That woman you knew would not have broken her word to go rushing off on a wild quest to deal with a monster. And there’s nothing wrong with my memory. The day my husband and son were burned to death before my eyes is as clear now as it was then. I wish time had blurred those images. I wish it had muted their screams. Now go, please. I have work to do.”

  “I’m sorry.” Flannan’s voice was shadow-soft. “There’s more for us to talk about; much more. But it can wait.”

  • • •

  I wasn’t proud of what happened after that conversation. I did try to keep calm. I knew I shouldn’t give myself time to brood. That would only make me angrier, not with my old friend but with Mathuin and his ill deeds and my inability to do anything about them. Mathuin held such power. A woman on her own had next to no chance of exposing his crimes, let alone of bringing him to justice. Even supposing I got an unlikely opportunity to stand up and accuse him at a council, chances were his fellow chieftains would laugh at me exactly as Mathuin himself had done before he locked me up in the dark. Maybe, if Flannan knew the whole of that story, he’d think me brave after all. But in truth, I’d been a fool. And now there was my vow to Conmael. It bound me to leave Mathuin alone for seven years. And it held me close to home, if you could call Winterfalls home. Lady Geiléis and her monster in the tower might be a quest, but they were not my quest. I couldn’t tell Flannan about Conmael. If that meant he thought I was a coward, so be it.

  I went to the stillroom. Just as well nobody was waiting to consult me, as I was in the foulest of moods and liable to snap off someone’s head if they so much as looked at me. I cursed the day I had told Grim the tale of how I lost my family. I cursed Flannan for reminding me of it; for implying that I was somehow betraying Cass by choosing the life I had. For a man whose friendship I had always valued to say those things made them doubly painful.

  I closed the door, stood completely still and made myself count up to ten, then commenced preparations for the most complex distillation I could think of, something so tricky it would take all my concentration. I willed the memory of that long-ago day into the locked compartment of my mind where I had kept it secure until the fire at our cottage at Winterfalls had seen it burst from its safe confines. Cass. Brennan. They’d been dead for close on thirteen years and they still tore at my heart. Grim had told me once that Cass was watching over me, cheering me on, admiring my courage. But I had seen the pitiful mass of bone and ash that was all the fire had left of my husband. Cass had died crouched over our baby, trying to shield Brennan from the flames. I wanted to believe that his spirit was still here with me; I wanted to believe that the two of them were together, and that they forgave me for not saving them, and for not dying alongside them, and for not bringing their killer to justice. But wanting something was not enough to make it real. Needing something to happen didn’t mean it ever would. Instead of letting herself be eaten up with longing, a person should just get on with things. As for Flannan, he’d hardly lived the life of a questing hero himself. How dared he accuse me of cowardice?

  My hands were shaking; the mixture slopped over the side of the flask onto the worktable. Old friends, trusted and true friends, did not lie to each other. Perhaps I really was a coward. Perhaps I should have done what I’d intended when I first agreed to Conmael’s terms—told him I would keep my side of the bargain, then broken it as soon as his back was turned, and headed south to face up to Mathuin, despite what Conmael had threatened. Perhaps I should have died fighting.

  A knock on the door. The flask fell from my hands and shattered on the floor, splashing its contents all over my skirt. I swore, loudly, as Grim pulled the door open. A pungent smell filled the little chamber. As he came in, I picked up an earthenware vessel and hurled it at the wall. It broke with a satisfying smash, making Grim wince.

  “Came to see how you were.” He squatted down and began to gather up the pieces.

  “Leave that! You’re not my servant! I’ll clean up my own mess.”

  He went on calmly tidying, leaving me no choice but to get down and help him. “Put them in the bucket, over there,” I said. “Then you’d better go.” After a moment, I added, “I’m not fit for company. As you see.”

  He dropped the shards into the bucket. “Want to tell me what made you so angry?” he asked.

  “No. I want you to stop being so understanding and leave me on my own. I just said so.”

  “Planning on breaking any more pots?”

  “I’ll break all the wretched pots I want!”

  He rose to his feet, turning a particular look on me. “It’s just, these are your work things. Useful things. Also, they belong to Cahercorcan, not us. Might be cross with yourself later.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. Not to you and not to anyone.”

  He simply stood there, a big solemn presence, making me feel like an ill-tempered child screaming over some thwarted desire. I seized a cloth and began to mop up the worktable. In my current state, I had no more hope of completing this distillation than I had of becoming the woman I had been, the one Flannan seemed to think I still could be. Or should be.

  “He’s upset you,” Grim said. When I made to speak, he went on. “I know—you don’t want to talk about it. But he’s upset you.”

  “It’s my business, Grim.”

  “Don’t like to see you angry. Not like this, throwing things and cursing.”

  I smiled, surprising myself. “Really? You put up with it all right in the lockup. A whole year of it.”

  “Different in there,” he said, fetching the millet broom from its corner to deal with the smaller fragments. “We needed it, the rest of us, to keep us going. Reminded us we were still alive. Stopped us from giving up.”

  I examined my skirt; those stains would be hard to get out. “I wonder if it was worth it,” I said. “Staying alive. Getting through that hellish year and the tim
e before. I wonder what the point of it was.”

  Now I had really shocked him. I had even shocked myself.

  “Start thinking like that,” Grim said, “and you lose hold of hope. Hope’s all we’ve got. You taught me that, remember?”

  “Mm.” I was realizing that I had just made an exhibition of myself for no good reason. I had broken some perfectly good crockery and ruined a perfectly good gown. I’d lashed out at Grim, who had committed no offense beyond walking in at the wrong moment. And all because Flannan had brought not only himself but the ghosts of the painful past. “He implied I was a coward,” I said, rubbing at invisible traces of the spillage on the table. “A lesser woman than I once was, because I said I wouldn’t go west and deal with Lady Geiléis’s monster in the tower. He said Cass believed I could do anything I wanted to. What he meant—what Flannan meant—was that if I stayed here, stayed safe, I was proving Cass wrong.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Grim’s big hands clench into fists and wished I had not spoken. A moment later, he let out a breath and relaxed them.

  “Cass was right,” he said. “Had faith in you. Me too. And other folk. Lady Flidais and the prince. All the people you look after. Flannan hasn’t seen you for—what, twelve, thirteen years? What would he know?” A pause. “Throw some more stuff if you want. If it makes you feel better. Go right ahead—don’t mind me.”

  “Maybe not,” I said. “I don’t want to bring in an audience. And I can’t afford to lose any more of these crocks. Though they do make a satisfying noise when they smash. I suppose I’d better go and change this gown, try to scrub the marks out.”

  “Salt,” said Grim. “Might do the trick. Don’t let him upset you again, eh? Meant well, most likely, but he should watch his words.”

  “He was telling the truth, as he saw it. I expect he’ll be gone soon, more monasteries to visit, more lore to study. Lady Geiléis too, once the druid comes. Flannan being here—it’s got to bring the past back; it can’t be otherwise. And that brings a flood of bad feelings. Sorry I shouted at you. And . . . thanks.”

  “What for?”

  “Talking sense.” It was far more than that; so much more, I hadn’t the words for it. Nobody else could break through that rage when it overwhelmed me.

  “Anytime.”

  8

  Grim

  The day after they’ve had their argument, I see Flannan walking in the garden with the dog, Ripple. Looks like he’s got a lot on his mind. So much he’s not seeing what’s around him. Upset, and who wouldn’t be? They’re old friends, him and Blackthorn. Old friends don’t fight right after they’ve found each other. They don’t call each other cowards. Flannan sits down on a bench, bent over like he’s got a weight on his shoulders, and Ripple leans against him, puts her head on his knee. That dog’s the best-trained creature I’ve ever seen.

  I was angry before, when she told me what he’d said. Now I feel sorry for both of them. I go over and sit down beside him. Flannan doesn’t say a word, not even good morning.

  “Don’t suppose you want my advice,” I say after a while. “But you need to make your peace. Thing is, she’s not often happy these days. Been through some dark times. That smile on her face, when she saw you, that was a rare thing. Most likely you don’t know how rare.”

  Flannan looks like he hasn’t had much sleep. He strokes Ripple’s ears and stares across the garden. Couple of fellows digging, too far away to hear us. “So she told you what I said.”

  “Some of it, yes.”

  “I didn’t think she would do that. Betray a confidence.”

  “Whatever was said, it’ll go no further than me,” I say. “Her and me, we’re careful with our words. You need to talk to her again. Explain yourself to her. Hard to believe you think Blackthorn’s a coward. That’s what she told me. She’s the bravest person I’ve met in all my life.”

  “Would she listen, Grim?” He’s looking at me now, looking properly. He’s just as upset as she was.

  “She might throw things. Talk to her when she’s not busy—that’s my advice. And say what you mean straight-out.”

  He nods. Still looks weighed down.

  “You’ve brought back the past,” I say. “That’s good for her. And it’s bad. Talking about Cass and her little boy . . . It hurts her. You’d want to tread softly.”

  “I shouldn’t have come,” he mutters. “I’m doing no good here.”

  Know that feeling all too well. “If you can put that smile on her face again, you’ll have done more good than you know,” I say. “She’ll be working now. I’ll take you to meet some of the fellows, show you around the place if you want. Big maze here, easy to get lost. Start with the garden, mm?”

  Turns out this is a good idea. Walking around gets him out of his gloom. He asks questions, not about the past, just about my garden and the work I do at Winterfalls, thatching and carting and so on. Then I take him and Ripple to meet some of the prince’s guards, the ones I’m friendly with. We share some ale and tell a few stories. And later on, by the time he goes to see Blackthorn again, he’s in a better mood and so is she. If she’s happier, I’m happier. Job well-done.

  The two of them have got things to talk about, private things. That’s plain enough. So I keep out of their way and let them talk. That stuff, it’s none of my business. One thing worries me, though. Flannan’s come from the south. He’s from Blackthorn’s past, and the past’s dangerous. Hope he understands why we don’t want anyone knowing where we are.

  I ask her about this, one night when we’re in bed but still awake. She snaps at me across the chamber.

  “Of course he understands! He’s in the same position as I am. Flannan was part of the whole thing, the letter denouncing Mathuin, the plan to confront him. But he was away a lot; his work often took him across the border. He was in Mide at the time; that’s why he wasn’t taken in when the rest of them were. That’s how he escaped torture and execution. And afterward he just never went back.”

  “Not as brave as the others, then.”

  “What was he supposed to do, walk straight into Mathuin’s clutches saying, Oh, you forgot me? Not a sensible idea unless you believe in heroic sacrifice, which I don’t.”

  I’m thinking that’s exactly what she was planning to do last autumn when she started off for Laois all by herself. But I don’t say so. She was sensible enough to stop when I caught up with her. Something I’ll be glad of until the day I die.

  “I’m going to sleep,” Blackthorn says. “No more talk about this. It’ll only give me nightmares.”

  The next morning she’s cast off her bad feelings, and she’s walking around with a smile in her eyes and a spring in her step again. Makes me wonder what I was worrying about. Seeing her this way’s like magic, not spells and curses but a good kind of magic. Like spring flowers and sunshine and children laughing. I do miss sitting with her, just the two of us chatting the way we did before Flannan came. I used to drop in when she was free, bring her a brew, pass the time of day until she started work again. Makes me sad that we don’t do that now. If anyone drops in to see her, it’s him, not me. But how can I want things any different, with her so happy?

  Tempted to ask Domnall if I can do some shifts on guard, just to keep me busy. But I don’t ask him. Lady Geiléis is still here waiting for the druid. I see her pacing around the place, wound up tight as a bowstring. Something tells me, Don’t get too busy. Blackthorn might need you. But a lot of the time I feel out of place, like an extra finger or toe that’s not wanted.

  At night, when we’re back in our quarters, she’s not so keen to talk as she was. Her mind’s away, off somewhere else. In the past, most likely. Know that feeling. Know it better than I want to, the dark things that never go away, the sunny, precious things that go all too soon. With him here, there’s talk of Christian houses of prayer he’s visited, scholarly monks he’s learned f
rom. When I hear that, I’m straight back to that day I’d like to wipe away forever. The day of blood and death. The day when I wasn’t strong enough. That’s one story I’ll be keeping all to myself.

  9

  Blackthorn

  After our argument, Flannan stopped talking about Laois and Mathuin and the failed plot. We spoke instead about the distant past: our shared childhood. Or we chatted about this and that—the court musicians, the passing season. He told me about his work and the discoveries he was making in the royal collection of books and manuscripts. The prince and Lady Flidais both liked him—no surprise, since he was a friendly, open-minded sort of man, and loved scholarship—and there was plenty to keep him occupied in Cahercorcan’s extensive library.

  He offered no apology for upsetting me. He did not retract his words about my lack of courage, or my failure to be true to myself or to the memory of Cass or whatever it was he’d meant. And, not wanting to find myself cursing and throwing crockery again, I acted as if that difficult conversation had never happened. I did not forget it. His words had stung hard.

  Time passed and although Lady Geiléis was still at court, waiting, I began to believe things would go according to plan after all. The king would return from the south, we would go back to Winterfalls, and with my help Lady Flidais would deliver a healthy baby. Flannan would travel on to his next monastery, and Lady Geiléis would head home for midsummer, with or without the druid.

  More fool me. My life and Grim’s were never going to follow a straight path. Fate loved to spring surprises on us. Mostly unwelcome ones.

  I was in the stillroom, dressing a knife wound suffered by one of the men-at-arms during combat practice. Another man hovered, anxious for the friend whom he had accidentally wounded.

  “It will heal cleanly,” I told them. “Twelve days. Don’t pick at the stitches, don’t be tempted to take them out yourself, and under no circumstances try to use your arm for anything more than wielding your spoon at supper time, understand? If your master-at-arms raises any objections, tell him to come and talk to me.”