Tower of Thorns (46 page)

I'm sorry
, Ash had said.
I'm so sorry.
Because he had known. And she had known. She'd known all the time. The curse was not broken after all. I sank to my knees, put my disfigured face in my ruined hands and wailed.

Grim

“I
'll find him,” I say. Take the message from Brother Eoan. Red fury's rising in me, can't let it get a grip, got to stay calm, think things through. Might be a false alarm. Might be harmless. The claws in my gut are telling me it's not. Why would that fellow be sending messages to Mathuin of Laois? Only one reason I can think of.

I run. See the brothers coming out of the chapel, can't see Flannan, head straight for the scriptorium. Message feels like it's burning my hand.
Stupid Bonehead, why couldn't you learn to read?
I'm there. Hammer on the door. Yell, “Flannan! You in there?” Tell myself not to kill the bastard until he's had a chance to speak. Can't help Blackthorn if I don't know what's going on.

Door opens. One of the brothers, Ríordán's assistant. Turns a bit white when he sees me. I look in past him. No Flannan. Only Brother Ríordán, working on a manuscript. He puts down his quill and stands up. “Flannan is not here,” he says. “Grim, what has happened?”

Before I can think, I'm in there and spilling out what I know. Words falling over each other. That someone wants to harm Blackthorn and that I think Flannan's up to no good. That I need to find the truth fast,
because today's the day she's going up the tower, and I know deep in my bones that it's all linked up somehow.

“Dathal,” says Ríordán to his assistant, calm as calm, “go and find Flannan, will you? Bring him straight here.”

Dathal heads off, and it's just the two of us.

“Now,” says Ríordán, “take a deep breath and tell me again, slowly.”

“But—”

“I know it's urgent. But it can be wise to allow yourself time to breathe. When was Mistress Blackthorn going to the tower?”

“Later. Dusk. Have to tell her—have to warn her—”

“And we will,” says Ríordán.

That “we” calms me a bit. I go through the story again. Leave out some things, like Blackthorn and me being locked up together. Have to say Mathuin's name or it wouldn't make sense. That feels risky. But the thing is, I trust Ríordán. Not just because he's a monk, but because he was kind to me when a lot of folk wouldn't be. By the time I get through it all, Dathal's back.

“Flannan's gone,” he says. “Packed up his things and left, sometime between last night's supper and this morning. Nobody saw him go.”

Shit. Now I'll never catch up with the bastard. Gone where?

Ríordán's looking over at the shelves, where there's a row of little chests like the one I found in the wall. “He hasn't taken his documents. This place was locked all night, and I have the key.” He's got a thinking look.

“What would be in his box?” I ask.

“Anything he was working on: transcriptions, letters, notes. Possibly correspondence he had received. You want to look?”

“Thing is, I can't read. You know that.” Now he's going to say it's private property and he can't show me.

“I will read this one,” Ríordán says, looking at the message that
bird was carrying. “And then make a decision.” One thing he's not, and that's hasty. But he can help me, so I keep quiet, just bite my nails and try to stop shaking. I'm scared—that's the truth. Scared and angry. Like something's ripping me up inside.

He reads it out. “To Mathuin of Laois: for his eyes only. My lord, it appears the target will be eliminated by midsummer, without the need for any further action on my part. Should the event I anticipate not occur, I will revert to the previous plan and bring her to Laois. She has already taken the bait. Your servant, Flannan.”

What in the name of all that's holy is this? The lying bastard! The vile two-faced traitor! She trusted him. He was her friend. I get to my feet, fists clenched, ready to kill someone.

“Brother Conall,” says Ríordán, quite sharp. “Sit down. Whatever this is, you will not solve the problem by giving way to your anger. Dathal, will you leave us for a while? Please do not speak of this matter outside these four walls.”

“Are you sure?” says Dathal, giving me a nervous look.

“I am. Grim and I are friends. Go now.”

When he's gone, Ríordán says, “Tell me what you think this means.”

“He wants to kill her. Blackthorn. She's the threat. Because wherever she goes, she'll speak up for truth and justice, and Mathuin's her main target. She got away from him once before. He's sent Flannan to hunt her down. Someone she trusts. An old friend. Someone she'd never suspect.”

“You shock me. If Flannan has such evil intent, why has he not done Mistress Blackthorn some mischief before now? There must have been opportunities—you've all been at Bann some time.”

Opportunities. Yes, there have been, all those times when the two of them went off for their private talks. But always at Geiléis's house. He might have been able to do it, but he'd never have got away with it. Not with me around. I explain this to Ríordán.

“Eliminated,” he says. “That seems clear enough, though I find it hard to . . . What is this talk of taking the bait?”

“Don't know about that part.” Think I can guess, and if I'm right that man's the worst kind of scum on earth. But that doesn't matter for now. “The rest of it, it says midsummer; it has to be about the tower and what she's going to do there. He knows something he hasn't told us. She's in danger. Deadly danger. Will you open the box? Could be that document, the one with the curse, is in there.”

“The document you found is locked away with the other most precious manuscripts.”

“No, the translation, the copy he made. We never saw it; he just told us what was in it. Could you read it to me?” Time's passing, more and more time. Can't stop shivering. Won't be much use to her if I don't get a grip on myself. “Please. I beg you.”

He stands there a moment, thinking in that scholarly way, and I try hard not to leap up again and shake him into action. Not his fault, any of it. I think about Brother Galen and how kind he was to me. Take a deep breath. Who'd have thought keeping still could be so hard?

“Very well,” says Ríordán, and goes to take the box from the shelf. “Locked, of course; but I imagine you will be able to open it for me.”

Something to do; that's better. He finds me some tools, things they use for binding books—seen them before. Try not to damage the box, nice piece in walnut. My hands are steady enough now. A tap here, a tap there and it's done. Not a scratch.

Ríordán opens the box. Takes his time over sorting out what's in there. I can see there aren't any pigeon messages. Nothing from Mathuin. But he lifts out a bigger piece of parchment, rolled neatly and tied with a red cord. “This may be the one you're interested in,” he says. “Let me see . . . Ah yes, I believe this is his translation of the old document. Shall I read you the entire contents?”

“Please. He didn't show you before?”

“He told me the gist of it, when I pressed him. About the curse. About the fifty years. That a woman could break it.”

He doesn't even know as much as I do. But how much of what Flannan told us was lies anyway? “Read it. Please.”

He does. It's the story I know already, Lily and Ash and the fey curse. The Tower of Thorns, the little folk, the darkness come over the whole place. Midsummer Eve. Only it's in fancy language, like poetry; like a grand old tale. He gets to the end. A willing woman has to hack a way through the thorns and go up the tower. When she gets there she has to cut off the creature's head. Then Ash will be restored to himself and the lovers will be reunited.

Brother Ríordán reads that bit—no surprises yet—and I think we're going to get nowhere. Then he says, still bending over the box, “Oh. Wait.”

He takes out another sheet of parchment. Only a few words on it. “A second page,” he says. “
When this is done, the doom will fall upon the assailant.
”

Takes a while for it to sink in. I look at him; he looks at me.

“Doom,” he says. “What doom?”

But I'm already out the door and running.

•   •   •

Pelting along, trees whirling round me. Breath coming hard. I trip over something, nearly fall, kick it away, keep running. The bag with the creatures. Cat and fox. Why did I waste time fiddling with that rubbish when I should have had my eyes and ears open for danger? Why didn't I see what that man was from the start?

Running on, keeping on, got to find her, warn her before it's too late. Make sure he doesn't get to her first. Slipped away, has he? Don't think so. He'll be around somewhere, watching and waiting. Can't leave till he's seen if it's worked, whatever it is. Can't leave before he knows if he's done the job. That bastard! He's probably been Mathuin's tool ever since Cass died, and that whole story about escaping is one big lie. How dare he do that to her? How dare he?

Halfway down to Geiléis's house and something happens. It's like the air shivers and everything changes, faster than the blink of an eye. And the thing in the tower goes silent. That's when I know she's told me the wrong time of day. She's not waiting for dusk; she's there now, hacking through that hedge, climbing those steps, walking into that room ready to cut off its head. With wretched Flannan in Mathuin's pay, grabbing some kind of chance to finish her off. Can't move for a moment. Eyes all tears, stupid fool, what help's that going to be? Might not be too late. Might not be. Let it not be.

Faster, faster. Wish I could fly. Why can't I fly? Why can't I be there now, now, when she needs me? Run right past Geiléis's house, don't bother to stop, run all the way to the river. Water's low. Can't see anyone on the island. No noise from the tower, but the thorns—there's a gap in the thorns, a big one. She's gone up. She's gone up, and now the wailing starts again. Only it's different. It's someone else's voice. It's—no. Oh, no.

I shout the foulest oath I can think of. Plunge straight into the river. Who cares how deep it is? If my hunch is right, pretty soon drowning's going to look like a good choice. Wet up to the chest. Haul myself out on the island, run for the tower. But the thorns are closing—they're creaking and clinging like claws, and the gap's too narrow now to let a man through. I want to hurl myself at them, bite and rip and fight them. How dare they, how dare they! Something stops me. Could be Brother Galen, smiling over his little pictures, stroking Bathsheba on his knee. Could be that I've remembered something important. I reach into my pouch—sodden from the dunking—and fish out the whistle the wee folk gave me. Lift it to my lips and blow as hard as I can. If this isn't the last resort, I don't know what is.

“Ah,” says a wee gray prickly man by my knee. Wasn't there a moment earlier. Looks like he stepped out of the thorns. “Needing a bit of help, were you?”

“Please! Let me through! Quick, quick, before it's too late!”

The wee man clicks his fingers, and the thorns part again, slowly. Like they don't really want to. Like they might snap together at any moment if they don't fancy the look of me.

“Go,” says the little one, though the gap still looks too narrow, only big enough for an ordinary-sized man. “Quick.”

I do as I'm told. Charge through, snagging my tunic, ripping my trousers, scratching my hands. My hair catches and I just keep on. Leave a clump of it behind on the thorns. And I'm at the door, and running up the stairs, hearing those cries all the way. And I'm in the high chamber at the top. Not knowing what I'll see. Not knowing what I'll do. Full of fear and fury and a sadness that goes so deep it's got no bottom to it. Because I do know. I knew the moment I heard that voice. The curse has come round in a circle, only this time it's not Lily and Ash; it's us. It's me and Blackthorn.

This is what I see. The ax lying on the floor. Light coming in from the open window. A green gown. Something white near it, maybe a shirt. Next to them, more old bones and rubbish. A skull. Two skulls. Little men and women in cloaks, kneeling in a circle.