Tower of Thorns (16 page)

“Lily! Lily, speak to me!”

It was real. He was here, soaking and shivering in his torn shirt, and she was on her hands and knees, coughing, spluttering, retching up river water, her gown dripping, her chest heaving.

“What were you doing? I thought you had drowned!”

Through her discomfort, she heard the desperate note in Ash's voice. “I'm sorry,” she choked. “I brought you some food, some other things . . . but they'll be all wet.” She snatched a breath; managed to sit up. Eased the sodden bag off her back. Realized that the soaking had rendered her gown somewhat transparent and crossed her arms over her chest. “You're still here,” she said. “I thought you might have gone home.”

“Just as well I didn't, or you would be far down the river by now. You scared me, Lily. I haven't run so fast in a long time. And now you're wet through and freezing cold, and I have neither warm hearth nor blanket to offer you.”

She was indeed cold. The island might be a pretty spot, but the day was cool and her clothes were wet through. “I'm sorry,” she said again through chattering teeth. “The ferryman wasn't there. And I didn't want to go home without checking that you were all right.” He seemed to have more bruises and cuts than before; had that damage been done in the water?

“What ferryman?” Ash asked.

“The little ferryman. The . . . I don't know what he is. A small fey person.”

Something changed in Ash's face; something closed up. Did he think she would lie to him?

“There are fey folk in these woods. I see them sometimes. But that was the first time I had spoken to one. He was . . . friendly. Helpful.”

“Not today.”

“I'm sorry,” she said once more, not sure whether she felt embarrassed or guilty or furious or all three at once. “I . . . I needed to come over. I needed to be sure you . . . I mean . . . You saved my life, Ash.” She was shivering so hard now that she could barely speak. She had indeed been foolish. How was she going to get home?

“Here,” said Ash, and drew her into his arms. “I have no hearth fire, but I'll warm you the best I can.”

It was an awkward sort of embrace, made more so by the fact that the two of them were wet through, but Lily felt his body strong and warm against hers. She laid her head on his shoulder, and knew that if her whole world had not changed the moment she first saw him in the tower, it surely had now. His hand came up to stroke her hair; his fingers were gentle, brushing back the wet strands from her face. Through a rent in his shirt, her cheek touched smooth bare skin.

“I'm—” she began after a little.

“Shh,” whispered Ash. “Don't say you're sorry you came. I am
not sorry at all, only glad that I did not fall and break my neck in my headlong rush to reach you. Glad that I still have you.” There was a lengthy silence, during which his hand came down to caress the back of her neck, while her fingers moved tentatively, then lingered in the strands of his crow-dark hair.

A few paces away, someone cleared his throat. Lily and Ash released each other instantly and struggled to their feet, awkward in their wet garments. Before them stood the ferryman, holding an armful of dry wood and regarding them with a quizzical expression. “Kindle you a wee fire?”

“Oh, yes!” said Lily, and at the same moment, “No!” said Ash.

“Young lady might perish from the cold.”

“No fire,” Ash said. “Unless you can make a fire without smoke. Smoke would draw unwelcome attention.”

He was right, of course. Smoke rising from the island was sure to bring curious onlookers, since it was well-known that nobody ever set foot over here.

“I can,” said the little man, and proceeded to do so, every twig set just right, the whole arrangement circled by white stones that he seemed to find without really looking. When the wood was in place he crouched over it, and a moment later the heap was ablaze, crackling heartily. There was no smoke at all.

“Thank you,” Lily said, crouching close to the flames and reaching out her hands to warm them. “I brought you something, but I'm afraid it will be spoiled.” She unfastened her pack and reached inside for the sweetmeats. Curiously, the little bag that held them was quite dry, and when she peered in, the contents looked entirely unharmed by their dunking in the river. “Here it is.”

The ferryman accepted the small bag, opened it and sniffed deeply at the dainties within.

“It's not meant as a payment,” Lily said. “More of a gift.”

“Tasty,” said the little man, and slipped the sweetmeats into his
pouch. “Kind girl. Warm up quick and I'll ferry you back over. No harm done.”

What was to be said? She had nearly drowned. She had endangered not only herself, but the man her heart told her was her one and only, her destined true love. If the ferryman offered safe transport, she had no choice but to accept. As for why he had not helped her before, when she needed him, the answer was simple. The wee man was fey. The fey did not think the way humans did; everyone knew that. “Thank you,” she said, feeling her eyes fill with foolish tears.

She unpacked her bag. Her plan had been to tend to Ash's wounds herself, to salve and bandage them. But now that he had held her close, now that she had felt the thrill of that in her body, deep and dangerous, she thought it best not to offer. “I will leave these things for you. There's food and drink too.”

Ash had gone oddly quiet. He sat staring into the small fire, his handsome features as somber as if someone had indeed drowned. What had she said to upset him? Was he angry with her for being so foolish? Perhaps she was quite wrong about this. Perhaps those feelings of longing were entirely one-sided.

“Ash,” she said after some time. “You could come too. Leave the island, go home, be safe. Will you tell me who you are? Who you really are? I could help you.”

“You said you'd seen the fey in these woods.” He did not look at her, but kept his gaze on the flames. “When? Who did you see, small folk like him, or . . . ?”

His tone troubled her. It was as tight as a bowstring.

“I see them quite often when I'm out walking, though never very close, and never for long. Not wee folk; these are more like human men and women. Only . . . only I can tell they're different.”

“Have you seen a—” Ash began, then fell silent once more.

“I should go,” Lily said. But she did not rise.

“Rain coming,” put in the ferryman after a while. “Go soon, yes?”

Rain. Rain might be useful, Lily thought. “Ferryman,” she said,
“could you take both of us back over? Ash and me? I know the boat is small, but you could ferry us one at a time.”

“What will you pay?”

“I will pay,” said Ash before Lily could answer. “For her to go safely across, and for you to see she gets home unharmed. Here.” He held out his hand with something on the palm; a small, shining thing that must have been concealed in his clothing, or around his neck perhaps, for there was a fine cord attached.

The wee man examined it. “Sure?” he asked, turning a beady stare on Ash. “Quite sure?”

“I've nothing else to offer. Please take Lily safely home.”

He did not want to come with her; he did not want to leave the island. And yet he'd sounded distraught at the idea of losing her to the river. Lily wondered if young men thought quite differently from young women. She surely did not understand this one. First he put his arms around her and filled her up with warm feelings; then he sent her away.

“It's best,” Ash said now. “My presence imperils you, Lily. Look what just happened—you were a hair's breadth from drowning. If I came with you, danger would follow us both. There's no escaping it.”

“I don't know what you mean. All I want to do is help you. I—” No, she would not say, I love you. She had known him only a day. But she said it in her heart, and with her eyes.

“Just let him ferry you across, and go home, and don't look back,” said Ash. “Promise me.”

This was cruel indeed. And unfair. “I won't promise,” she said with such firmness as she could muster. “I can't turn my back and forget this ever happened. Not unless you can tell me, truthfully, that you never want to see me again.”

Ash looked down at the ground. He said nothing at all.

Lily reached out and took his hands in hers. “Let me help you,” she said. “Please. Whatever the danger is, I will face it with you.”

Ash drew a deep breath and let it out in a kind of shudder. “I
can't, Lily. I can't go, and I can't explain. I'm sorry; sorrier than I can say. Go now, please.” He released her hands; took a step back. Now he was looking at her, and his eyes returned the feelings that were in her own heart. “Please, Lily. Leave the island; forget me.”

“Best be moving,” put in the ferryman, glancing up at the clouds, which were darkening even as he spoke. “A wet walk home, I'm gues
sing.”

Her pride would not allow her to beg, to cling to him, to shed tears. But walking away broke her heart all over again. “I'm not giving up,” she murmured. “I'm stronger than you think.”

What could it be that held him in such fear? This must be far more than she had thought at first. No young man was in such terror of his parents that a night of carousing would leave him unable to return home at all. Surely an apology, a promise to do better in the future and an acceptance of appropriate punishment would be all that was required. The answer must lie in finding out who he really was. Someone must know; someone, surely, must be looking for him. She would find out, even if it meant breaking secrets. She would find out and she would save him.

The little boat made its way across to the shore, every dig of the pole taking her farther from Ash. He stood on the island as she left, his arms wrapped around himself, his face all shadows. It seemed to Lily that she would need hope enough for two.

The rain came as the ferry reached the shore: droplets that soon turned to a steady downpour. Lily stepped out. She could see barely an arm's length ahead. “There's no need to walk back with me,” she said, remembering that Ash had, in effect, paid for her to be escorted home. “Thank you for your kindness, ferryman.”

“Kindness, is it? There may come a day when you won't thank me. But you're a fine girl, and I hope it won't happen. Off home with you, then, and may good spirits watch over you.”

“And over him, I hope,” said Lily. “Ash, I mean.”

The wee man offered no reply. With the rain roaring down as if to punish all in its path, Lily turned and sprinted for home.

Blackthorn

G
eiléis's household provided Grim and me with good accommodation—a roomy chamber, its stone walls softened with embroidered hangings; two comfortable beds well supplied with woolen blankets; and, best of all, our own small hearth with logs and kindling set by in a basket. Not that we'd have much time to sit by the fire sharing a brew, but it was good to have the means to make one if we felt so inclined. A second door led directly to a yard with a privy and a well. We could hardly have asked for better.

Soon after our arrival, servants brought us a small tub and jugs of hot water for bathing. Geiléis's retainers were efficient and, for the most part, curiously silent. There was no screen in the chamber. While each of us in turn bathed, the other went out into the yard. Our domestic arrangements were what they were: too complicated to explain to folk who did not know us well. And none of their business anyway. Grim would rig something up for privacy. He was good at these things.

After the long ride and that welcome bath, and with a full stomach, I anticipated a good night's rest. But the decision that lay before me, along with the knowledge that I had kept the truth from Grim, turned my belly into a churning mass of disturbance. When fitful sleep did come it was attended by dark dreams. I did not make any noise—at
least, not that I was aware of—but Grim knew, all the same, and stayed awake with me. He asked me once or twice if anything was wrong, and I said,
Nothing worth talking about
, which was a kind of lie, but not the bare-faced one that an outright
No
would have been. Geiléis and her monster troubled me less than perhaps they should have. I would deal with them and move on. I would send the creature in the tower packing or I wouldn't. It was Flannan's mission that tangled up my thoughts, the mission I longed to say yes to, in spite of all my reservations. It was the only thing that counted. The only thing I cared about. What Flannan had said, about my not being true to Cass if I held back from bringing Mathuin to justice, stuck in my heart like a prickly burr that could not be dislodged. Yet I knew going south would be a reckless choice, even with all those like-minded folk ready to stand up alongside us. Mathuin was powerful. He was ruthless. Some chose freely to serve him; others did so out of fear. He was quick to punish the disobedient and was ingenious in his cruelty. Yes, Flannan's network was extensive, but I doubted, now, that anything less than a challenge by other leaders could overthrow the chieftain of Laois.

Last autumn I'd walked away from Winterfalls and headed south alone. Back then, my furious desire to see justice—the same passion I'd felt burning in me when Flannan had first told me his plan—had overwhelmed my common sense. If Grim hadn't come after me and talked me out of going, who knew where I would be now? Back in Mathuin's lockup, maybe, either thrown there by his henchmen, or magically transported there by Conmael. Though Conmael had given me five chances to get this right. So he might simply have appeared when I reached the border, made a comment about my poor judgment, and told me to go home. And although it galled me to admit it, he would have been right.

So why couldn't I let go of this? Why couldn't I tell Flannan straight-out that under no circumstances would I be part of this plot? In my dreams, brief, disturbing dreams, I saw Cass, a man whose goodness had shone from him, a husband who had loved me despite my
faults, a father whose son had filled him with joy. I knew in my heart that Flannan was right—if Cass had lived, he would still be fighting. His greatest weapons had been his pen and his intellect. He would have found a way to go on using them. There were other dreams too. The lockup. The dark, the screaming, the thud of a whip on naked flesh. The filth, the things they did to me, the way I became so accustomed to being abused that I almost didn't care anymore. The faces of those men who shared the place with us. Strangler. Poxy. Dribbles. Frog Spawn. Poor sods.

And Grim. Grim who had stood by me when I was at my worst. Who, in those foul days and nights, had always called me Lady, as if I were above it all. Grim who had saved me from myself, over and over. Who had his own terrors, which meant he could not sleep on his own. If I said yes to Flannan, I would have to leave Grim behind. There was no way I was going to risk leading him back into that hellhole.

I ordered myself to go to sleep. I shut my eyes tight, rolled the blanket around me and buried my head in the soft goose-feather pillow. But my thoughts still roiled and swarmed like angry bees, setting my whole body on edge.

Once, during the night, I heard Grim muttering to himself from the darkness of his own bed. The words were unclear. Maybe nonsense, maybe not. It made me sad. It took so little to send him—or me—right back to that place, with the stink and the crying and the last spark of hope all but crushed. In the dark. Among the others, but alone. Almost alone.

“Grim.”

A movement across the darkened chamber as he sat up abruptly. “What?”

“You all right? Just, you were talking to yourself.”

“Sorry. Keeping you awake. Need your sleep.”

“Not as if I'm not used to it,” I said. “And I was awake already.” And would not be sleeping; that had become quite obvious. I got out of bed, wrapped my shawl around me and went over to the hearth. It
didn't take much to coax the ash-covered coals back into flickering flame, thanks to the handy supply of wood. I settled on the bench close by, letting the warmth soothe me. After a bit, Grim got up too and came to sit opposite me, his blanket around his shoulders. The light flickered over his plain, strong features, showing me the small, sad eyes, the heavy jaw, the nose that looked as if it might have been broken more than once. What would happen to him if I did go? Back at Winterfalls there was work for him, a home, friends who knew he was a good man. Maybe he'd be better off without me.

“Why did you change your mind?”

The question came out of the blue, startling me. “What do you mean?”

“About coming here. Leaving court, leaving Lady Flidais. Taking the risk. What changed your mind?”

He hadn't asked me before. I'd thought he wouldn't. “I don't want to talk about it. I just decided it was something I should do, that was all.”

“Mm-hm.” A weighty silence. Grim was hunched over, looking down at his linked hands. “It was him, wasn't it? Flannan. He changed your mind for you.”

Too close to the truth. “Not exactly. But it did make a difference that he wanted to visit St. Olcan's, yes.”

The silence filled with unspoken questions. Grim and I didn't talk about our past. We didn't ask each other about our lives before the time when we met as fellow prisoners. Only, if one of us wanted to talk about that time, the other one listened. I didn't want to now, but it felt necessary. I couldn't have him putting the pieces together and guessing the truth.

“Flannan and I are good friends. Having him survive, salvaging something worthwhile from that terrible time . . . I knew he'd be moving on at some point. That's his life now. Coming here instead of staying at court—it means I can spend a bit longer in his company, yes.”

“Mm-hm. So you turn your back on another friend and go off to fight a monster. Something nobody else has managed to get near.”

“What do you mean, another friend? Are you talking about Flidais? She gave me permission to go. Don't make more out of this than it merits, Grim. We're here now, we have a job to do and we'll do it. And . . .” I couldn't say,
Then we'll go home
. “And don't say
Mm-hm
again or I'll scream and wake up half the household.”

Instead, he said nothing.

“A brew would be good,” I said after a while. “Tomorrow I'll ask that steward for a pot and a couple of cups. And I'll gather a bit of this and that in the woods. We can head out after breakfast and have a look around.”

“Something I forgot,” Grim said. “Something I was going to tell you. Saw a little person, when we stopped by that lake. One of
them
, you know. Only not like Conmael's folk. Even stranger than them. Tiny. With a basket. Scurrying away across a field. Thought it was a squirrel, but no. Wearing a cloak with a hood. Like something out of an old tale.”

“Not a child?”

“Not a human child. All wrong for that.”

“Why didn't you say?”

He twisted his fingers together, not looking at me. “Didn't feel right to speak up, when all of them could hear. Not as if they know about us and Conmael, is it? Didn't get a chance to tell you on your own.” After a little he added, “Sounds as if Flannan doesn't believe in the fey, anyway. He'd have thought I was crazy.”

“Perhaps not. Nobody could visit this place without feeling the—the strangeness. That touch of the Other. And that's even without the monster wailing. Little folk with baskets might be the least of the surprises.” I glanced at him. “You must be feeling it. The same as at Dreamer's Pool, only more so. Magic everywhere, and I can't tell if it's good or bad.”

“Both, maybe,” said Grim, who was a lot wiser than folk gave him
credit for. “Could be what a body makes of it. One thing I know. That crying makes a man sadder than an old house with the roof half gone and the rain coming in.”

“Mm.” He was right, of course. And it wasn't as if Geiléis hadn't warned us. Could be my churning stomach and warring thoughts owed as much to the monster's influence as to anything else. “Sadder than a dog watching over its dead master,” I said.

“Sadder than a pot of porridge with nobody to eat it.”

“Sadder than a sausage left to go cold in the pan.”

“I'm partial to a cold sausage, myself,” said Grim, making me smile.

“I daresay Geiléis's retainers could oblige, if we asked them,” I said. “They seem helpful, though not exactly given to chat. We'd better try to sleep. In the morning we'll brave those woods, if only to gather the makings of a brew. You keep an eye on me; I'll keep an eye on you. Just in case this curse inclines one of us to wander into the river and drown, or stray into some trackless part of the forest, never to be seen again. As for the curse addling folk's thoughts, mine feel addled enough already.”

“Easier to fall asleep thinking of a sausage than that.”

“True. Good night, Grim.”

“Night.”

•   •   •

Nobody could have slept past dawn in this household. As the sun rose, the crying began anew. Although the thick stone walls damped the sound, nothing could have shut it out entirely. If I had not fully understood Geiléis's desperation before, now it made a terrible sense.

We rose and dressed, observing modesty by the simple means of turning our backs to each other. I was heading out to the privy, thinking to draw water from the well for a brisk wash, when a servant came to our door with a jug of hot water, a bowl and a soft cloth. Another
manservant. I realized I had not seen any women here yet, save Geiléis herself.

“What is your name?” I asked the man.

“Dau, Mistress Blackthorn.”

“Have you been working in this household long?”

“A good while.”

He looked no older than eighteen; a clear-eyed, golden-haired lad. “Does the creature's crying trouble you? Or are you used to it by now?”

Dau set down jug, bowl and cloth on the bench. “We serve the lady,” he said. “The creature is what it is.” He gave a little bow, then left the room. Whether he meant yes or no, I had no idea.

Another serving man came to the door not long afterward, offering to escort us to the dining chamber. There, breakfast was laid out on a long table with benches to either side. A platter held fragrant loaves; cold meat was fanned out in tidy slices. In addition there were several kinds of cheese, a dish of porridge, and a jug of ale. No sign of Lady Geiléis, but Flannan was there before us and rose to his feet as we came in. Ripple came out from under the table to greet us.