Tower of Thorns

by Juliet Marillier

  “Thanks,” I call back down. “Won’t be long.”

  I finish the job neat as I can. Check all along the ridge to be sure it’s perfect. Then climb down and have a good wash. The scriptorium. I see it in my mind, only it’s not this one at St. Olcan’s, it’s the one at St. Erc’s, and the lovely books are torn and broken and all over blood. Monks lying where they’ve fallen, arms and legs askew, eyes staring at nothing, faces like tortured ghosts. Brother Galen. Bathsheba. Don’t think I can do it. Got to try.

  I stop to have a word with Brother Fergal in the garden. Know I’m putting off what I have to do. “Won’t be here this afternoon,” I say. “Need to be back at Lady Geiléis’s. Things to get done.”

  “Midsummer,” says Brother Fergal, looking solemn. “Yes, I have heard that Mistress Blackthorn will be making an attempt to silence the creature in the tower. Father Tomas is somewhat uncomfortable about the whole matter, and prefers that we don’t discuss it. But please wish your friend our very best in her endeavor.”

  “Thanks.” Not sure how much I should say, how much they know. “Wish she wasn’t doing it, to tell the truth. Worried about her. But there it is. I’ll pass on the good wishes. A few prayers wouldn’t go astray. But then, she’s a wise woman, so maybe not.”

  Brother Fergal smiles. “God stretches His merciful hand over all of us. The righteous man and the sinner, the faithful and those who have lost their faith.”

  “Those who know their path and those who are yet to find it.”

  “Ah. You remembered.”

  “Liked the sound of that. Only, Blackthorn knows her path. Always did. Straight and true.”

  “I will have a word with Him on her behalf. You might consider doing the same. God hears your prayers, Grim. Farewell, now.”

  Head for the scriptorium. Halfway there I remember the reeds I’ll need to make the creatures. A few bundles left, stored in the barn. Get them first, makes sense. I turn back across the garden. There’s Ripple waiting outside the pigeon loft, and there’s Flannan coming out the door. Sends a lot of messages, that man. Always in and out of there. I give him a nod. He nods back. Looks as if his mind’s on other things. Same could be said for me.

  “Heading back early,” I tell him. “Job’s finished on the roof. For now.”

  “Finished.” He’s seeing me now. Question in his eyes.

  “That’s right. Planning to help Blackthorn with some moves this afternoon. So she’s as ready as she can be tomorrow.” Shut it, Grim, I tell myself. Babbling on, trying to put off the time when I open the scriptorium door, because my stupid mind’s telling me what I’ll see inside is a pile of dead men. “I’ll be off, then. Just got to pick up a bundle of reeds. Make the creatures for the top, you know?”

  “So it’s not finished,” says Flannan, though why he’d care one way or the other I can’t think.

  “All but. Make the creatures tonight, put them on in the morning, early. Then it’s done. Back down to the tower in time to keep an eye on her.” Can’t seem to stop talking.

  “I see. Please wish Blackthorn the best of luck from me,” says Flannan. “I don’t suppose I will see her now until it’s all over.”

  What? He won’t even come down to see her tonight and wish her well? Her old friend that she relies on?

  He turns his back and walks away, with Ripple alongside. Just as well, since I was about to say something God wouldn’t like me to say in a monastery.

  I fetch the bundle of reeds. Good thing these fellows had the supply all gathered and sorted and stored; made the job a whole lot easier. A thing I like about the life in a monastery. Well organized. Tidy. You always know where you are. Until something goes so wrong there’s no putting it right. Not ever.

  Pretty soon I’m on the path back down to Geiléis’s house, bundle on my shoulder, heart down in my boots somewhere. Just couldn’t do it. Just couldn’t make myself go in there, even though I know it’d only be monks writing. Even though Brother Ríordán’s invited me to see Brother Galen’s book. Even though I want to see that book so much it’s like a pain in my insides. Fact is, alongside Blackthorn I’m a craven coward. Look what she’s gone through. Husband and son burned to death before her eyes. A whole year in that cesspit of Mathuin’s. There’ll be other stuff too that she hasn’t told me about. Thing is, every foul name she’s been called, every hurt, every blow has made her that bit stronger. Strong like one of those winds that comes up and sweeps everything clean. Or a fire. A hot, angry fire roaring, Get out of my way!

  This is how it is. Big fierce warrior with a weapon doesn’t scare me. What scares me is the things in my head. Things that come out of the blue. I can be walking along and suddenly it’s my worst day ever all over again and I’m seeing what I never wanted to see for the rest of my life. If Blackthorn could make a cure for that I’d thank her till my dying day. I know potions can’t fix it. Not unless they’re the kind that kill a man. Something I have to sort out myself. Thought I was going to do it today. Nearly sure of it. Failed again.

  Forget that for now. Got to get a grip on myself. Don’t want to walk into Geiléis’s house with my face all sad. Set aside my worries; they’re nothing beside what Blackthorn has to do tomorrow. So, leave the reeds for later. Take her through a training drill again, not as hard as yesterday—don’t want her tired out. Go through the possibilities once or twice more. Tall monster, short monster, big monster, skinny monster. Sharp claws, maybe. Lots of teeth. Tail he can use as a weapon. She’ll need to be quick. She’ll need to be really quick. Well, she’s light on her feet—that’s something. Might ask the fellows if anyone’s got a leather tunic small enough for her. A helmet too. Should ask her about magic, whether she can use it in a fight. You never know with a wise woman. Especially her.

  Thinking all that through gets me back to Geiléis’s. I put my bundle of reeds away. Blackthorn’s not in our quarters. Can’t find her anywhere. Feel my heart drop, which is stupid. Midsummer Eve’s not until tomorrow. And she wouldn’t go off to do it on her own anyway; that would be stupid. I go and ask Senach. He tells me she’s over at the practice yard already. Which is good. Means Onchú and the others are helping her. I head off to join them. One more day. Morrigan’s britches.

  37

  Geiléis

  One more day. Less than a full day, since they would make the attempt in the morning. She would have preferred dawn, but they must wait until Grim was out of the house, or he would insist on following Blackthorn like a big clumsy shadow. She could not risk the possibility that he would get in the way somehow, stop the wise woman before she finished it. Who knew what would happen with the thorns, once she cut her way through? Besides, Blackthorn herself did not want her so-called companion there. She’d told him that the attempt would be made just before dusk. He would be out of the way, at St. Olcan’s, until the deed was done.

  As for the scholar, who knew what game he was playing? A man who would turn his back on an old friend could not be trusted. He too must be kept at a distance until it was all over.

  All over. At last, the end of this. Could it be? There had been so many times of hope before, and so many bitter disappointments. She moved to her mirror and drew away the cloth that veiled it. The woman who gazed back at her seemed calm; there was no sign of the anticipation that gripped her body from head to toe. Tomorrow. Oh, gods, let tomorrow be the end.

  A tap at her door. “Come in, Senach,” she said without turning.

  “It’s Onchú, my lady.” His broad-shouldered figure appeared in the mirror behind her.

  “Ah.” She turned. “How is Mistress Blackthorn progressing with her training?” The lengthy rehearsal was pointless; if the curse could be broken, it would be broken no matter how inept the woman was with her ax. She needed only to go up there and do it. Something her predecessors had not managed. But at least Blackthorn’s activities in the practice yard were keeping her busy. If she wa
s occupied in swinging her weapon, she might not spend too much time thinking. Questioning. Reaching conclusions.

  “She’s being fitted out with some protective garments, my lady, at Grim’s request. We saw no harm in doing that.”

  “Perhaps it’s a wise precaution. None of us can anticipate exactly how this will unfold. Onchú, Grim will be here this afternoon. Make sure the others are careful with their words.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Another thing. Tomorrow, when we go to the island, I want a presence of guards at the house, watching out for Master Flannan. Should he come down from the monastery while the attempt is under way, he must be stopped. He must not reach the island. I don’t want him speaking to Mistress Blackthorn again.”

  “Stopped?”

  “By whatever means are required. Including lethal force.”

  “Yes, my lady. And if Grim should return early?”

  “The same would apply.”

  There was a silence; then Onchú said, “Stopping Master Flannan would take, at most, two men. Grim would be another matter.”

  “I’m sure it is not beyond your capabilities, Onchú.”

  He bowed his head. “Yes, my lady. Lady Geiléis?”

  “What is it?” There was a new note in his voice, one that unsettled her. They all knew what might be coming. They all wanted this brought to an end.

  “I will obey your orders, of course. If you wish me to remain at the house myself, I will do so. But . . . I ask that you allow me to accompany you to the island. Myself and Donncha. The men are all expert. We have sufficient guards to watch the track and to deal with anyone who might happen to arrive.”

  “You’ve given me loyal service, Onchú. I wish I could reward it with something better than this. I will leave the deployment of guards to your expertise. Just make quite sure that neither Flannan nor Grim can reach Blackthorn before this comes to its conclusion.”

  “I will, my lady,” Onchú said, somber-faced. “Thank you.”

  “It is hardly worthy of thanks. But I am glad you will be there. You and Donncha. Tell him I said so.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  He left, closing the door behind him. Geiléis threw the cloth back over the mirror. How was she to spend this day, this last full day of the curse? Odd that now, after the years of waiting, on the brink of success time seemed to have slowed; it was as if the day were a year long. She moved to her storage chest and opened it. There had never been a maidservant, only Senach and his faithful men, tending to everything. And Caisín, of course. Caisín was clever with the needle and kept Geiléis’s clothing in excellent condition. But she did not like having Caisín too close; the girl made her feel guilty, even after so long. Geiléis had learned to dress herself. To look after her own hair. She was no longer the privileged child she had been when she first saw a light in the Tower of Thorns and climbed out her window to investigate.

  Tomorrow she would see him again. Tomorrow she would climb the tower stair and he would be there waiting, a monster no longer. She had changed over the years, though in that respect the curse had been kind—she looked perhaps two-and-thirty, no more. Her skin still pale and fresh; her hair still glossy. But what of Ash? The long punishment must surely have taken a toll on him. He had been forced to endure the unendurable.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she murmured, lifting one gown after another from the chest. They were layered with lavender sprigs; the smell was wholesome and sweet. “It doesn’t matter how you look. Only that you will be free. Only that I can put my arms around you at last, at long last. Only that I can say I love you face-to-face.”

  Ah! Here it was. The gown Caisín had made at her special request: a simple style, fashioned in finespun wool dyed willow green, edged with darker ribbon. It was twin to the one young Lily had worn on the day she tried to wade to the island and nearly drowned, and Ash ran down from the tower to save her. The day she first felt his arms around her. In her memory, that day shone bright. It was innocence and first love and summertime. It was joy and awakening. She was not that bright-eyed sixteen-year-old anymore. But she would wear the gown, in honor of that girl and her long-ago dreams.

  She draped the garment over the chest, ready for the morning. It was not yet time for the story. Still day, still the endless day. But she climbed to her high window anyway, to gaze out over the trees and listen to the sad voice from the tower. To shape in her mind the words she would speak to him later, as dusk fell on his last day in the Tower of Thorns.

  • • •

  Once upon a time there was a girl named Lily, who was the apple of her father’s eye . . .

  38

  Blackthorn

  Neither of us slept much that night. Grim’s big, clever hands were busy with his bundle of reeds and his sharp knife, working minor miracles. As for me, my body was protesting after the day’s unusual activity, and my mind was teeming with misgivings, unanswered questions, and—though I didn’t like to admit it even to myself—hideous visions of how this whole thing might go wrong. I must have been crazy ever to agree to it. Two days of training were hardly going to equip me to defeat a monster, even if that monster had once been a man. Any one of Geiléis’s guards would have beaten me in a fight within the count of ten. Five, most likely. And they were men.

  We didn’t talk. Not much. I kept the fire going and made a brew or two. Grim sat in the light of two lanterns, narrowing his eyes over the intricate work. Raven, dove, cat, fish, that was what he’d planned. Only when the night had worn on until it was nearly dawn, and I lay on my bed watching him through half-closed eyes, I saw that the last creature was not going to be a fish after all. Unless he was so tired that he had forgotten a fish does not have four legs.

  “What’s that one?”

  My question made him start. “Thought you were asleep,” he said.

  “I can’t sleep. There’s too much going on in my mind. What is that, Grim? It looks like no fish I’ve ever seen.”

  “Changed my mind.” He used his knife to feather the reeds that formed the tail, making it into a brush. “Red fox. This one’s for you.”

  “Me? Why would St. Olcan’s want a symbol of an unbeliever, and a woman at that?” I could understand why he’d chosen a fox. Apart from the obvious—red hair—a fox was wary, aloof, inclined to snap. Fiercely protective of her own. Cunning, folk said. I didn’t feel very cunning right now.

  “Maybe they wouldn’t,” said Grim, forming the fox’s ears into a more pointed shape with a quick twist of the fingers. “But I’m the one making the roof. Fox’ll remind them of what you did. Not just for them, for the whole district. Breaking this curse, that’s no small thing.”

  “I haven’t done anything yet. But thanks. You’ve earned a fresh brew. I’ll get up and make it. I might even creep out to the kitchen and find you some food. That was a long night’s work. You’ll need to catch some sleep later.”

  “Nah. Want to get these up on the scriptorium roof and be back as quick as I can. Make sure I’m here when you need me. Time enough to sleep after. When it’s all over.” He glanced across at me. “Unless you were planning to pack up and leave straightaway.”

  I froze, thinking that he had somehow guessed what Flannan and I planned. But no, of course not. He meant himself and me. The two of us going back to court. Answering would require me to tell another lie. I got up, found the ladle, refilled the kettle from the bucket of clean water, making sure my back was turned to him. “Not today. It’ll be too late. And we’ll all be tired out, no matter what happens. I imagine Geiléis will be happy to house us for another night, especially if I really do manage to break the curse. She offered me silver; did I tell you? We should take it, when this is over. It would be useful back home.”

  “Lady,” said Grim, which was a sure sign he was heading into deeper waters, somewhere I did not want to follow, since my self-control was not at its bes
t right now.

  “Don’t call me that. I don’t want to think about that time. There’s enough churning around in my head already.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” said Grim. “She never asked you, did she? Not straight-out. So you’re not bound to it.” A weighty pause, during which I said nothing at all. “Thing is,” he went on, “no matter how brave you are, no matter how much you practice, you could . . . you could come to grief. It’s not just cutting off this thing’s head. It’s a curse. Magic involved. Anything could happen.”

  “What are you suggesting? That I tell Geiléis, I’m sorry; I’ve changed my mind, and head off home? She’s counting on this. They all are. Even the creature in the tower. This is his only chance in fifty years to become a man again. And the little folk—I’ll be setting them free, letting their king out of the thorns. They helped me. I should do it even if it’s just for them.” The idea of turning tail and fleeing back to Cahercorcan was all too appealing right now, not only because of the thing in the tower, but also because of Mathuin of Laois, and the perilous mission that would take me south tomorrow, far away from all this. Far from Dalriada, and from Lady Flidais, who was expecting me back. Far from the cottage at Winterfalls and young Emer who was such a good learner. Far from Grim.

  “Thing is,” he said, using his knife to trim a few stray ends of reed from the little fox, “what the wee folk said to me was go home. Both of us go home.”

  I stared at him. “They did? When was this? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Back a while. That day when you told the clurichaun story. Thought it might be all in my head. The curse, you know, making me crazy.”

  For a while we didn’t talk. I made a brew; he set his handiwork aside and cleared up, sweeping the remnant reeds into a neat pile and tipping them into the kindling basket. He wiped down the table, then went outside to wash his hands. I caught a glimpse of the sky when he came back in. I didn’t think I was imagining the first faint traces of day.