Tower of Thorns (24 page)

Blackthorn

I
t rained for seven days straight. It was too wet to ride out to the settlement. Besides, I could not fix a day for the ritual until we were fairly sure of a dry spell, so there was no point in issuing invitations. It was too wet to gather herbs. It was too wet to do much at all. Cooped up indoors and unable to achieve anything, I came so close to boiling point I suspected folk might see the steam rising. The temptation to leave was strong; the more so because, even in such inclement weather, Flannan came down almost every day to talk with me in private. His argument was simple and convincing: the task Geiléis had given me sounded dangerous to the point of stupidity, and the fact that nobody really knew what was expected when, or if, I entered the tower, made it even more so. If we were talking of foolish risks, he said, which sounded more perilous—going south and working with a known group of trusted allies to bring down Mathuin of Laois or hacking through a hedge of poison thorn and climbing an old tower to confront a screaming monster? The likelihood of suffering an unpleasant death seemed significantly higher here at Bann than it would be in the south, and a great deal more immediate. Flannan reminded me that the plan was to go only as far as Mide to start with. We'd be protected there. When I pointed out that I'd need to go on to Laois if I were to find witnesses
and persuade them to talk, Flannan said arrangements would be made to ensure my safety at every stage. This time around, it seemed the plot had been worked out in meticulous detail. After his visits I found it impossible to talk naturally with Grim. Most nights the two of us went to bed in uneasy silence.

Late one afternoon the weather did clear briefly, and Onchú and Donncha took me and Grim up the hill to watch the birds fly in to the tower at dusk. If nothing else, this outing gave me a better feel for the lie of the land. As the sun set, the birds winged their way to the tower, settling on every ledge, in every nook and cranny. The shutters were closed and the tower's inmate fell silent. I suspected it would be the same every day. There was a pattern to the creature's existence. If not for the abandoned nature of the screaming, one might have imagined it as a being of orderly habits.

Grim suggested maybe the monster could not tolerate light; he'd wondered if the brightness hurt its eyes, even on an overcast day or a rainy one. Hence its quietening down during the hours of darkness. But then, why did it open the shutters in the mornings? I, in my turn, had wondered if there was some compulsion over its behavior. Could there be a charm or spell in place that forced it to scream during the daylight hours?

Or, Grim said, it might be enduring a routine of strict discipline, as a prisoner would in a place of incarceration, for instance. Or a monk in a monastery. Or a man-at-arms in a school for warcraft. But if that were the case, who had instituted that discipline? Save for the birds, the monster seemed to be all alone in the tower. But perhaps there was someone else there, invisible, silent. The crouched figure of the drawing. A captor? A torturer?

After the brief dry spell, the rain set in again. The enforced inactivity made Grim morose and restless. He needed something to keep him occupied, but it was too wet for the thatching. He did not seem enthusiastic about that job anyway. He could have gone over to St. Olcan's to take a look at the roof—if Flannan could walk in the rain, Grim surely
could—but he hadn't so much as suggested the idea, and that wasn't like him at all. At Winterfalls he was always out helping one person or another with some job. Long days and hard labor suited him. Sitting around idle in a lady's house surely did not.

Eventually I suggested it myself. “You could chat to the monks while you're there,” I told him as we sat over our breakfast on yet another wet morning. “You might meet other folk too—they may have lay brothers or locals who go to help with the stock and the garden. You could start a conversation about the monster. Subtly, of course. You never know what might come out.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Grim. Remember that time after we escaped from the lockup, when you followed me for miles and miles and got soaked to the skin? You can't be putting this off just because of the rain. What is the problem?”

“Nothing.”

That was quite plainly untrue, but anytime I raised the subject of the monastery he went silent, so I stopped asking. And there was another problem: Flannan. I'd expected him to be quickly caught up in his work, as scholars tend to be—I knew all about that; I'd been married to one. But that hadn't happened, or he wouldn't be finding the time to come down here so often. I was fond of the man; always had been. But I was starting to find his frequent visits unsettling, and his constant pressing of the case to head south even more so. I wanted to make the decision on my own, without him filling my mind up with his plans. The choice had to be mine alone. That way, if things went disastrously wrong, I could only blame myself.

But he gave me no respite. After I had expressed doubt about surviving long enough to see Mathuin brought to justice, should we make the decision to try, he told me more about the monastery in Mide where we could be offered a safe place to stay—as there were religious sisters in a separate part of that establishment, I would be welcome, he said, though I might have to keep quiet about being a wise woman. Flannan
was using the pigeons at St. Olcan's to keep in contact with that very monastery, where one of the brothers was an ally. He gave me more names; explained where they were all located and their parts in the plan. He reminded me of how much I had to offer. He assured me that this time it would work. He came close to criticizing me for getting too caught up with Geiléis and her monster.

After four visits of this kind, I snapped. He had brought up that most hurtful argument again, the one about Cass, and I turned on him. “Stop it! Don't say another word! I'm starting to wonder if you really know me, Flannan. I'm starting to wonder if you're still the man you were. In case you've forgotten, we did discuss how Geiléis and her creature could provide us with the perfect cover for slipping away from Dalriada more or less unnoticed. That was the idea, wasn't it—that we'd leave quietly once I've done whatever I need to do at the tower? I'm more than capable of making up my own mind without constant pushing. I'm surprised and disappointed that I need to tell you that. Now I'll bid you farewell, and I don't want to see you again until the day of the cleansing ritual. That's if you plan to be present; I doubt Father Tomas would approve.”

He gathered his cloak and staff in silence. He'd left Ripple behind this time, because of the rain. “If that's what you want,” he muttered. “I thought it was important to you. The most important thing in the world.”

“It is,” I said. “So important that I need no reminding. It's in my thoughts every moment, even when I'm asleep. Now go. We'll talk about this another time. A time of my choosing.”

He put his cloak on and headed for the door without another word.

•   •   •

The weather cleared at last, the sun shone, and Grim could no longer use the rain as an excuse for delaying his walk to St. Olcan's.

“You could go up this morning,” I said as we sat at breakfast, just the two of us, since I had told Senach we were happy to serve ourselves.
“Talk to the brothers, have a look at the building that's worst affected, this scriptorium, and see if they really do have all the materials you'll need.”

“Mm-hm.” Grim chewed on his bread, not looking at me.

“If you're worried about going up on your own after what happened before, then I'm sure Senach can find someone to walk with you. I don't think Flannan will be here today.”

A long silence. Then, “Be a good day to ride out and visit the locals,” Grim said. “Sun shining and all. Might be more forthcoming than these monks.”

“They might and they might not. It's too soon to go to the settlements; we haven't decided when to hold the ritual yet, or where. And I do need time to prepare myself. You walk up and have a look at what needs doing at St. Olcan's first. If the job turns out to be too much for one man, or too much to do by midsummer, then tell them so.”

“If that's what you want.”

My sigh was no doubt audible to him. “It would be useful. In several ways. You're a good listener, and there may be someone up there who can give us some insights. St. Olcan's has a famous collection of books and manuscripts. It's full of scholars. And people trust monks; they confide in them. If there's a written version of the tale about the monster in the tower, it may be in their library somewhere. Or one of the monks may remember it. One of us needs to go in there, make some friends and get chatting, and if anything's certain, it's that it won't be me.”

Grim looked up at last. His expression could only be described as shuttered: the look of a man who does not want you to know what he's thinking. “Thing is,” he said, “Flannan's clever. A scholar. Writing a book about old tales, isn't he? And he's staying at St. Olcan's. What's certain is you're asking the wrong man.”

“Morrigan's britches, Grim, what's got into you? Flannan is nothing to do with this. He just happens to be here at the same time we are. Geiléis didn't ask him to solve her problem; she asked us.” Not quite
accurate, and certainly not fair. I
had
asked Flannan to talk to the monks; I had told him what it was I needed to know. He just hadn't brought me any answers, or shown much interest in finding them. “I'm asking you because I trust you to do the job and do it well,” I said. “And I'm not talking about the thatching. I know, and you know, that you could do that standing on your head.”

His mouth twitched in the ghost of a smile. “That'd be a sight to see,” he said.

“So, will you go? Today?”

Another weighty pause. He had stopped eating. “Got to, don't I?”

“In fact, no. I don't give you orders; I ask for your help.” This must be the result of that strange episode on the day we arrived; he was afraid the monster's voice would play havoc with his mind and drive him off the path. And he was too proud to say so. Men could be infuriating. “You should take someone with you.”

“Or I'll go crazy, even with my ears blocked,” Grim said. “That's what you think.”

“Lady Geiléis did warn us. On the other hand, we've been out and about since then, including our trip to the island, and you've shown no signs of losing your mind.”

“Only thing is, those little folk. You know how they came out, that day. Might want to talk again. Won't make an appearance if I've got a guard with me. Or your scholar friend.”

“Never mind that. Just go to St. Olcan's and have a look. And get someone to walk back with you. Not Flannan. He and I have had a falling-out. Ask Brother Dufach or one of the others. Nobody will think badly of you for that. It's just common sense.”

“What'll you be doing?”

“Talking to Geiléis, choosing a day for the ritual. Going out to gather herbs. Spending time in the forest on my own. Part of the preparation, as I said.”

“Senach won't want you going out without a guard and for once I agree with him.”

“Don't concern yourself. I'll persuade Geiléis. She only needs to hear that without the proper preparation the cleansing ritual has no hope at all of banishing the monster.” Even if I did fit in the hours of meditation and fasting, the solitary vigils, the prayers that were supposed to be offered in the days leading up to the ritual itself, I doubted my efforts would achieve anything. But I did not say so.

“Be careful,” Grim said.

“You too.”

•   •   •

I returned from the privy to find our quarters empty. Grim's cloak was gone and with it his water skin and his weapons. It seemed not quite right to visit a monastery armed to the teeth, but the forest of Bann was a tricky, mysterious place, so maybe it was common sense.