Tower of Thorns

by Juliet Marillier

  “You can do it,” Flannan said. “Trust yourself, and it will work out for the best, I’m sure. Of course I don’t like to see you walking into danger; it’s a daunting task. But you’ll succeed. I’m absolutely sure of that, and I know Cass would be too.”

  A pox on the man; now he was making me cry. I needed to stay strong, whatever happened. Strong enough to face what waited for me in Laois; strong enough to stand up in front of Mathuin and speak coherently even if anger and terror were ripping me apart. Maybe the monster in the tower would be good practice.

  I scrubbed a hand over my cheeks. “Cass would think I was crazy even to consider tackling Geiléis’s monster,” I said.

  “But that was one of the things he loved about you. The way you never trod the common path. And that’s been in you since the first; since long before you ever met Cass. Remember that strange little boy back in Brocc’s Wood, the one everyone called the changeling? What was his name—Cully? That day when you stood up for him, I remember wishing I could be brave like you. You didn’t care a bit what anyone thought. You weren’t afraid of anything; you just went ahead and said what needed to be said. You’re still that same person, Saorla.”

  A strange bell sounded in my mind. Cully. How odd that Flannan had mentioned that outcast boy from our childhood, when I had been thinking of him not long ago, for the first time in many years. An odd coincidence. “Don’t call me Saorla,” I muttered.

  “Blackthorn, then. You can do this. I’m sure of it. If you break this curse you won’t just be doing Geiléis a favor, you’ll be changing many folk’s lives for the better. Isn’t that what we were trying to do in Laois?”

  “Still are, from what you’ve told me.” I was only half listening now; in my mind I was sitting under the trees in a faraway forest, watching in silence as Cully coaxed a squirrel to take a nut from his hand. The scene was clear in every detail: an awkward, spindly boy with hair so dark it was more black than brown, eyes of midnight blue, skin unnaturally pale even in summer. Features that were somehow not quite right for a human child. Those who had called him changeling had not really believed he was one—what they’d meant by the word was different, outside, someone who did not fit. Like me. Only nobody had dared to call me names.

  “Blackthorn?”

  Flannan had been saying something and I’d missed it completely.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore, not tonight. If you’re not prepared to leave before Midsummer Eve, then I suppose we won’t. You’re the one who knows the way. You’re the one who knows the people involved.”

  “So you’ll go through with it?”

  “It seems so, though I can’t quite believe I’m saying that. Flannan, I really don’t want to talk about it. I’m going inside now.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “In the morning I think I’m going to be learning how to cut off a man’s head. I doubt very much that I’ll want an audience.”

  • • •

  I’d been planning to talk a few things over with Grim. The odd neatness of the old tale. The fact that it had been uncovered at the only time any of us would have a chance to break the curse. The visit to Ana’s cottage and the way it had disturbed me. The question of Lily, who was supposed to live long enough to see her lover freed. That one was tugging at my mind. I couldn’t discuss it with anyone but Grim.

  But when I got to our chamber Grim wasn’t there. He’d gone over to the guards’ quarters, to talk weapons with Onchú and the others, I assumed. I made a brew—usually a reliable method of bringing back whichever of us was missing—but he did not make an appearance. I sat over the fire awhile, thinking. The tower . . . the creature that was really a young man, a very young man named Ash . . . the unfortunate Lily, who must have given up on her sweetheart and married someone else, or that family line would have died out and Geiléis would not be here . . . The nature of happy endings, and whether such a phenomenon truly existed . . . The small fey king trapped within the thorny hedge, and his folk bound to serve and hold their tongues . . . One, at least, had broken that vow to seek Grim’s aid and to provide help in his turn. And while the little healer had not spoken to me, she had most certainly conveyed a message. They were brave folk, those small ones; brave and patient. How odd that Geiléis had known nothing at all of them.

  I was falling asleep where I sat, and there was still no sign of Grim. Perhaps they’d given him a bed over in the guards’ quarters; it was a fair walk back. Though he found it hard to sleep unless I was close by. Well, he’d have to deal with that particular problem, because pretty soon I wouldn’t be here any longer. He must have managed somehow in the time before he found himself in Mathuin’s lockup. He would manage again.

  I went to bed and fell asleep almost instantly. I did not wake until the sun rose and the voice of the sad being in the tower made slumber no longer possible. Grim’s bed had not been slept in, but as I went outside to the privy he came into the yard, looking wide-awake and very serious. “Make sure you have a good breakfast,” he said. “Going to be a busy day.” I saw, then, the ax in his hand, a weapon that to my inexpert eye looked rather on the small side for the intended purpose. The blade glinted in the morning light; I guessed the cutting edges were lethally sharp. There was some kind of carving on the handle. My appetite for breakfast vanished.

  “A warrior needs to practice and practice,” Grim said. “So that when the time comes his body just does what has to be done. In a battle you don’t have time to work out right and wrong. All you’ve got time for is making sure the other fellow doesn’t kill you before you kill him. A couple of days, that’s not very long. But it’s long enough.”

  “A pox on it all,” I muttered, finding my eyes drawn to that shining blade, that elegant handle. “Why in the name of the gods did I ever agree to this?”

  “You’re the only one can answer that,” said Grim. “Come on, breakfast.”

  “Did you sleep in the guards’ quarters?”

  “Didn’t do much sleeping. Talked about the job you have to do, worked out what weapon was best. This one’s the right weight for you. They’ve got a supply of seasoned wood there. Made a new handle, did some work on the blade. Better balanced now. Want to hold it?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll wait until later. To tell you the truth, the very idea makes me feel sick.”

  “Doesn’t get any easier.” Grim ran a thoughtful finger along the ax’s cutting edge, somehow managing not to draw blood. “You never get used to killing. You just get better at making yourself do it.”

  • • •

  If I hadn’t known already how patient he was, I’d have learned it that day. We worked from breakfast time until midmorning before he let me try the ax. It was all foot positions, balance, turns. Practicing slowly so everything was correct, then speeding up. Going through the movements and then having to tell him what I’d seen around me while I was doing it. In case, Grim explained, there was something unexpected up in the tower, apart from a monster, of course. You couldn’t leave anything to chance, he said.

  We worked in a small yard next to the guards’ quarters, a place designed for just such a purpose. I was pleased to be without an audience for my fumbling attempts to make myself into a warrior. In particular I didn’t want Geiléis watching. I’d been thinking about her a lot since Flannan had told us the old story, and those thoughts set me on edge.

  The ax was perfect for me. Holding it, lifting it, swinging it, I understood what Grim had meant a little earlier when he’d talked about balance and trajectory and using the strength you had to best advantage. The handle was of ash wood and there was a spray of blackthorn carved along it—thorns, flowers, berries, similar to the one he’d done along my bed back at Winterfalls. This decorative carving had been carefully placed so it would not affect the grip. I wondered if its purpose was the same as that of the creatures he’d made t
o decorate the roof of our cottage. To ward off danger. To keep the user as safe as he possibly could.

  The men-at-arms came out to watch us as the morning went on, one or two of them at a time, so I had an audience whether I liked it or not. There was encouragement—“Good strike, Mistress Blackthorn!” “Well blocked!”—and advice—“Bend your knees!” “Go for his privates!” And this from the usually aloof Onchú, toward the end: “Morrigan’s curse, Mistress Blackthorn, you’re a real fighter!”

  At around midday Grim called a halt. My arms felt like jelly, my back ached and I was all over sweat. “Enough for now,” he said. “Food, rest.” And, after a pause, “You did good.”

  I didn’t ask him if he’d ever been a fighting man, though it seemed more than likely. If he wanted to tell me, he’d tell me. Not that there was much time left to tell anything.

  • • •

  Strange, how time seems to speed up when you most want it to slow down. The closer we got to that moment when I’d have to go up the tower, the less prepared I felt. Even with Grim drilling me in warcraft. Even with Geiléis telling me, often, that she truly believed I could do it. She praised my courage until I was sick of hearing it, and on one occasion she offered a generous payment in silver. I wanted to refuse. I wanted to say she should use her funds to help the struggling folk who had the misfortune to live within her borders. But Geiléis was hardly going to do what I told her, and besides, it would be useful for Grim to have something to keep him going when I left. I told her she could pay me—or him—when I’d actually broken the curse.

  “Grim,” I said, after a second long day of training. “There’s something I want to ask you. Or get your opinion on.”

  “Mm-hm?”

  We were lying on our beds, ready for sleep. Grim had banked up the fire for the night; in the faint glow from its embers he loomed against the wall, a big dark shadow. A watchdog to keep enemies at bay. A guardian spirit to ward off evil. A listening ear. A shoulder to cry on. The voice of common sense. As familiar as a comfortable old cloak, which was not at all the way I’d intended it to be when I’d first encountered him on the road and agreed to let him walk on with me. It had just happened. A big nuisance, because all that was going to make it so much harder to walk away and leave him behind.

  “What?” he asked, and I realized I had drifted off into my own thoughts.

  “The story. The curse only giving Lily one chance every fifty years, and that part about her living to see Ash freed. Or to see the curse broken. Which was it?”

  “To see him freed. That’s the way he told it. Flannan.” A pause. “You thinking it might be her? Geiléis?”

  I sat up, surprised. Not that I should have been. Grim was quick at working things out. “So you thought of that too?”

  “Did wonder. Only, if it’s her, Lily, why didn’t she say so from the start? When she came to court? Why tell all those lies?”

  “She did say that she’d gone to a chieftain for help and that he’d thought she was crazy. She probably thought that if she said she was over two hundred years old, Oran would just laugh at her.”

  “But she could have told you,” Grim said. “You’re a wise woman. Strange things don’t scare you.”

  “She might have reasoned that the more of the truth she told, the less likely I was to agree to do this for her. If it is the truth. It’s a bit hard to swallow. If she’s Lily, she’s known how to break the curse all along. And what would it say about her retainers, Senach and the others? Are they all more than two hundred years old as well? Bound to secrecy? What happens to them when the curse is broken?”

  “Nothing in the manuscript about after,” said Grim. “Not the way Flannan told it.”

  “Mm.” For me, what happened afterward wouldn’t matter. Flannan and I would be gone as soon as I’d completed the task. If Geiléis remembered to give me the bag of silver first, I’d leave it with Grim’s belongings. The weakest element of this plan was Grim’s dogged capacity for tracking me. In my heart, I knew he wasn’t simply going to let me vanish. I could fool myself all I wanted with the notion that he would go home and settle down and meet some nice woman; I could reassure myself with the established fact that he could find work wherever he wanted, and friends, and a home. But he wouldn’t. That was just the way it was.

  “What?”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You sighed, like you were fed up with it all. Had enough. Wanting to go home.”

  “Not yet. I came here to do a job and I’ll see it through. Can’t put all that training to waste, can I? But yes, I’ll be happy to be gone.” After a bit I added, “You?”

  “You want an honest answer?”

  “What sort of stupid question is that?” I blinked back sudden tears, furious with myself for losing control. Just as well it was dark. “When have I ever wanted you to tell a lie?”

  “All right, then. I’d like us to be back home right now, and all this to be a bad dream. Same time, there’s been a good part about coming here. Two good parts. First, those little folk. Seeing them, real as the thumb on your hand. Talking to them. That was magic. Second, St. Olcan’s. The garden. The roof. The work, the brothers, teaching the young fellow. Hard for me to make myself do it. Tell you why another time. Thing is, it felt like I walked out into the light for a bit. Went somewhere I never thought I’d be again. Can’t say I’m sorry about that. Only thing is, the roof’s not finished. Still got the ridge to do, and the creatures. And Midsummer Eve’s the day after tomorrow.”

  I wished I had not asked him the question. I wished Midsummer Eve was right now and I could just get this over with.

  “You all right?” His deep voice in the shadows.

  “Fine. Well, not exactly fine, but I’ll do. You never said. About St. Olcan’s.”

  “You had other things on your mind. No need to dump more on.”

  Another silence. Then I said, “About Geiléis. Lily, if it’s her. I’m not going to ask her. It can’t make any difference now.”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “You know,” I said, “there is time for you to finish the thatching. I’m not going to be able to practice with the ax for another whole day, and even if I was, Onchú or one of the others could help me tomorrow. They all seem to be getting friendlier the closer we get to Midsummer Eve; have you noticed? Even Senach has unbent slightly.”

  “No lies, right? Not even the kind that make folk feel better. Give me the choice, I’d leave the roof the way it is and be here keeping an eye on you. Hurts that I can’t go up the tower with you. Hurts that I can’t do my job.”

  “The best thing,” I said carefully, “will be for you to keep busy. There’s nothing to be gained from dwelling on what might go wrong. Work for your hands, that’s the best cure. No reason why you shouldn’t do a full day tomorrow, or if you’re concerned I won’t be ready, work a half day, then come back and put me through my paces. And you could work on the morning of Midsummer Eve. You’d be back well before I went to the tower; I think around dusk would be the right time, when the creature’s growing quiet. Would that be long enough to get the roof done?”

  “If it’s dry. And if I make the creatures tomorrow night.” He yawned.

  “Another night without sleep.”

  “Not as if I’m not used to it.”

  “So will you do that?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Good night, Grim. Sweet dreams.”

  “Night.” He rolled over; became just one shadow among many. I wiped the tears from my cheeks and lay down again. Beside this, chopping off a monster’s head was starting to look like child’s play.

  “Lady?”

  I did not respond. He wasn’t supposed to call me that anymore.

  “Not crying, are you?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Just asking.”

 
36

  Grim

  Up on the roof again. Mind’s full of Blackthorn and the monster and Midsummer Eve. Hands working more or less on their own, finishing off the ridging. Plan is to bring home a bundle of reeds, make the creatures tonight, put them up tomorrow first thing. Then straight back to Geiléis’s place so I’m ready when Blackthorn heads out. Ready to run up the tower behind her, soon as the thorns let me through. Not sure how we’ll all get over to the island. For me that doesn’t matter. Unless there’s a flood, I can wade. Maybe carry her over, like I did last time. Save her getting her feet wet.

  “Grim!”

  I look down and there’s Brother Ríordán looking back up at me, shading his eyes against the sun. “Fine day,” I say.

  “It is. When you’re finished, why not come and take a look at that book I mentioned? You know where we are.”

  I think about how filthy I am. I think about Blackthorn, and Midsummer Eve being tomorrow, and how we’ll be heading home after. I think about Brother Galen and his little pictures curling up and going to ashes in the Norseman’s campfire. The ridging’s more or less done. I can wash under the pump. And the sun tells me there’s still a bit of time to go until midday. Only one problem. That book’s in the scriptorium. Stupid. She’s ready to go up the tower and kill a monster, and I can’t bring myself to step inside a room full of monks and books, not even to see something Brother Galen’s made with his own hands. Something that’s like a part of him still alive.