Tower of Thorns (4 page)

“You will also disappoint yourself. And that, I think, would matter.”

“Rubbish. If there's one thing I want to achieve before I die, it's to see Mathuin brought to account for his crimes. Nothing else matters. Nothing.”

“Your expectations of what you can achieve are unrealistic. Hence my conditions and their term. Seven years: long enough to reclaim the woman you once were. Long enough to complete a journey.”

“What journey?”

“To wisdom.”

“Morrigan's curse, what are you, some hoary old mentor teaching a half-grown girl? First you say you trust me; then you tell me I'm still bound to your rules. What sort of trust is that?”

“Did I not say you could travel to court?”

“But not be my own woman.”

He sighed, moving his graceful pale hands in a gesture suggesting helplessness. Which was ridiculous; whatever game we were playing, Conmael held all the pieces. “You will always be that,” he said.

“Bollocks, Conmael. You saw me in Mathuin's lockup. I'd lost any vestige of the woman I was before. That place hammered me flat. It wrung out every drop of kindness. It turned me into a . . .” Why was I telling him this? “Never mind. I will go to court, I will keep to your wretched rules. I wish you'd explain what it's all about. I wish you'd explain why my small human life is of sufficient interest to you that you believe you should take control of it.”

“The reason is of no importance.” Conmael was not smiling now. “If it were, you would remember.”

“Remember what?”

He rose to his feet, elegant as always, and reached out a hand to help me up. I did not take it.

“Remember what, Conmael?”

“As I said, it is of no importance. And now you must be getting on. Did you not say you had folk to visit, places to go? Make sure you are
back in Winterfalls by the fourth full moon. And be mindful of your promise.” He did not wait for me to say good-bye, but in characteristic fashion faded and vanished before my eyes. Wretched fey! There was no making sense of them. The only thing certain about this day was that I'd best hurry if I wanted to partake of Grim's brew before I headed off to the settlement. As for the looming stay at court, Grim and I would have to grit our teeth, breathe deeply and somehow get through it.

Grim

T
hought it would try us hard, stone walls shutting us in, folk everywhere, no room to breathe. Turns out I was right, more or less. King and queen have taken a whole bunch of folk south with them, guards, councilors, grooms, the queen's ladies and so on. Even so, the place is packed. As for stone walls, these ones would keep out the strongest army in all Erin. They're high and thick, with walkways along the top and guard posts everywhere. On the north side, a sheer cliff to the sea. Good thing, that; sort of an escape. Not talking about climbing down there on a rope—a man would need to be a fool or set on killing himself to try that. Been both in the past, but death's not on my mind now. Blackthorn needs me. Not going anywhere without her.

Thing is, from up there a man can get a grand sea view. The guards on watch can't miss boats coming in. The men-at-arms from Winterfalls, the ones who've come with Prince Oran, are doing guard duty with the rest, and they know me. So I can go up there anytime I want some peace and quiet. I like the spot. Pretty, with the sun on the water. Like a pathway to the end of the world.

When I need to come down and make myself useful I keep that picture in my head, the sea, the sky, birds flying over. Helps me breathe.
Helps when there are too many folk around, filling up my head with their noise. So yes, an escape.

Donagan makes things easier. Never thought I'd be grateful to that fellow, but he's kinder than he seems. Clever too. Sorted things out for me pretty well at Winterfalls when I got in trouble, and keeps an eye on me here too, though he must have better things to do. Donagan made sure Blackthorn and me had our own quarters. And they're roomy, though not the same as home, of course. We're tucked away in a tower, and she's got a stillroom down below, shared with one of the court healers, fellow called Caillín. We've left Dog back at Winterfalls, at the prince's house. Lady Flidais left one of her maids, Mhairi, behind. She's looking after Dog. Not sure how that'll work out.

Wasn't looking forward to staying at court. But it's not so bad. Word is, the healer that went off south with the royal party is a difficult sort. Grumpy. Caillín's all right. No pricklier than Blackthorn. She grumbles, but she'll cope. And me? Donagan said if I wanted work—guard duty, he meant—I just had to say the word. I won't, though. Want to be free for Blackthorn if she needs me.

The fellows who've come from Winterfalls treat me like I'm one of them. Always a welcome in the guard room or up on the wall, and nobody asks why I'm there. Nobody mentions that time I half killed Seanan for saying bad things about Blackthorn. Funny, that. Instead of getting me kicked out of the prince's house, that earned me respect.

Lot of rules in this place; who eats when and where, who has to step back to let who pass, who's allowed to go into some parts of the fortress and so on. Apart from that it's like the prince's place at Winterfalls, only bigger. Too full and too noisy. Food's good.

Blackthorn's soon busy. Caillín should be happy. She's doing half his job for him. Lady Flidais doesn't need her much, just wants to know she's close by, Blackthorn says. And me—I keep an eye on Blackthorn, make sure she's safe, make sure she remembers to eat. I keep our quarters clean and tidy. And work comes my way without being asked for.
When something needs doing, I do it. This and that. Unblock a clogged drain, fix a few tiles back in place, load a cart, help muck out a stable. May as well be useful—why not?

One good thing. The prince must have known I couldn't be in the same place as that godforsaken bastard Branoc without doing him violence. He's sent the wretch away somewhere. Not coming back until we've gone home to Winterfalls. Good choice. Otherwise Prince Oran would have had a murder to explain to his father when the king got back. I'll never forget seeing that girl chained up. Branoc didn't even understand that what he'd done to her was wrong. I've seen a lot of bad things in my time. Done some too, and been sorry for it. But a man like that never comes good. Doesn't have it in him.

Feel like I'm waiting for something, don't know what. After all that's happened to us, to Blackthorn and me, seems like our path's never going to be simple and straight. Be good if it was—the two of us staying in our cottage, getting on with our work and minding our own business. Peaceful, that'd be. Don't think it's going to happen, somehow.

I'm up on the wall one day, talking to a few of the lads, when some riders come into view—we're on the landward side, looking roughly west.

“Nobody expected. At least, nobody I've been told about,” says Domnall, narrowing his eyes as he looks down. He was chief guard at Cloud Hill, where Lady Flidais came from to marry the prince. Led her escort. Good man. “Eoin, go down and find Lochlan, will you? Tell him there are folk coming, and ask someone to alert the steward. Is that a lady riding in front there?”

“Escort's armed to the teeth,” I say as Eoin heads off down the steps. Can't tell if the rider in the lead is a lady or not; big cloak covering most of her. Or him. If it's a lady, she's tall. Blue tunics on the men-at-arms, some kind of emblem on them, too far away to see what. They're hung about with swords and clubs and knives and bows like
they've been expecting trouble. “Thought the roads were pretty safe in these parts.”

“They are,” says Domnall. “Could be they've come from farther afield. Beyond the border.” Meaning the border with Tirconnell, which has its own king and maybe isn't as peaceful as Dalriada.

The riders get closer. After a bit, some of the king's guards appear down below, heading out to meet them. They're armed too, taking no chances. Though folk don't attack a place like this with a force of nine or ten, and that's all this lady's got. Yes, it is a lady; she's pushed back her hood and made that plain. Sitting straight in the saddle, head held high, got a proud look about her. Youngish. Hair the color of ripe corn, all done up in plaits.

Both parties halt. The lady says something. Waves her hands around a bit as if she's upset. The fellow heading the king's guards answers, and after a bit the guards escort the visitors in. “Must be a friend,” I say. A lady who's ridden to Cahercorcan with her own men-at-arms isn't here to see Blackthorn or me. But I get a funny feeling all the same. I'm thinking this could be the start of whatever it is I've been waiting for.

•   •   •

Not sure why I go down to the courtyard then. But I do. So I'm there when the lady's party rides up to the steps. Someone's told the prince he's got visitors, and he's all ready to welcome them. The lady gets down from her mount, not looking as stiff as you'd expect after a long ride. Groom takes hold of the bridle. Prince Oran walks forward, but before he gets a word out the lady's thrown herself at his feet, clutching onto his leg and babbling like she's crazy. I move forward quick, thinking she might be up to no good. Prince's guards get there before me, grab the lady's arms, lift her up, pull her away. Prince looks a bit white, as well he might. The lady's men-at-arms draw their weapons. It's not looking good.

“I need your help!” The lady's sobbing. “Oh, please, please listen! I
have nobody else to turn to!” She goes on like this for a bit. Face all wet with tears, cheeks flushed red, hair tumbling down. The prince tells his guards to let her go, and they do.

“Please compose yourself,” says Prince Oran. “Whatever has happened, I give you my promise that you will be safe here. Come, this is best discussed in private. First you need rest and refreshment.”

He gives some orders, the grooms lead the horses away, the guards sheathe their blades and one or two waiting women, the ones that haven't gone south with the queen, help the lady indoors. She's still crying and carrying on, but she's quietened down a bit. I'm wondering what it's all about. But I've got no real business following them, so I go off to talk to Blackthorn instead.

Turns out this visitor doesn't want to wait for rest and refreshment before she tells the prince her story. Blackthorn and me are sitting in the stillroom enjoying a brew when there's a knock at the door and there's Deirdre, Lady Flidais's handmaid. Looks a bit flustered.

“Oh, Mistress Blackthorn, you're here, thank goodness,” she says. “The prince and Lady Flidais want you to come to the small council chamber—I'm to take you there. Grim too.”

“Now?” says Blackthorn, not getting up. “Why?”

“There's a lady here with a story to tell, a strange one, and the prince thinks you should hear it.”

Blackthorn looks at me; I look at her. Feels too soon for another adventure. Hardly had time to get over the last one. But we're at court, and though Oran's the king's son and Flidais is his wife, they're our friends. Anyway, you don't say no to a prince.

Not long after, we're in the small council chamber, so-called. There's a table long enough for twelve, and another table with writing things, and two chests with lamps on. But there's only four people here, apart from me and Blackthorn and Deirdre: the prince, Lady Flidais, Donagan and the visitor, who's wiped her face and tidied herself up. Looks calmer now. Prince Oran tells us to sit down. There's a jug of ale and a platter of honey cakes on the table. Donagan pours ale for us.
Deirdre asks if she should leave, and Flidais tells her no, she should sit down with the rest of us. Donagan walks over and shuts the door. Couple of the fellows are standing guard out in the hall.

“Mistress Blackthorn, Grim,” says the prince, “this is Lady Geiléis of Bann. We believe you may have some insights into the situation she is facing. That's why we've asked you to join us. Lady Geiléis, please tell your tale in full, from the beginning. Take your time. I would have waited until tomorrow, since you've had such a long ride to reach us. But I understand your need to have this heard straightaway.” He looks over at us. “We've already been told part of the story. We thought it best to call you in before Lady Geiléis went further, since we believed we would not find answers for her on our own.”

I catch Blackthorn's eye. We're thinking the same thing. I know it. This is going to end up with her getting asked for help. And she'll have a problem.

Lady Geiléis's face is still puffed up from crying. She's got a little handkerchief crumpled in her hand. “My lands are bordered to one side by the river Bann,” she says. “They take their name from that body of water. I have grazing fields, a tract of forest, my house and outbuildings, a scattering of farms and small hamlets whose folk look to me for leadership. I inherited my property from my father, and I have never wed. Across the Bann lies Tirconnell, territory of the northern Uí Néill. My holding is in Dalriada. A bridge spans the river some miles farther north. It is too far away for my folk to use. But at a certain point, where the Bann runs along my border, there is a ford, passable at all times save in severe flood. It lies in a wooded area, the trees growing densely on either side of the river. In the middle is an island, and on that island stands a tower.”

“The Tower of Thorns,” murmurs Blackthorn.

“You know of it?” Lady Geiléis sounds surprised.

“I remember the name from somewhere,” says Blackthorn. “It may be mentioned in an old tale, in connection with the river Bann. I do recall some mention of the ford and the tower together.”

“The Tower of Thorns,” says Lady Flidais. “That does indeed sound like something from a tale of magic and wonder. How did the place get its name, Lady Geiléis?”

“There are thornbushes growing on the island; it is a forbidding place. The tower is tall and lonely. For many long years, it has stood empty.”

“And now?”

“It is empty no longer. Something has taken up residence there. A . . . a presence. Since its arrival a kind of curse has fallen over the district. I cannot find any way to break it. I am at my wits' end.”

Blackthorn's bursting to ask more questions, plain to see that. But she keeps quiet.