Tower of Thorns (2 page)

Blackthorn

I
sat on the cottage steps, shelling peas and watching as Grim forked fresh straw onto the vegetable patch. Here at the edge of Dreamer's Wood, dappled shade lay over us; the air held a warm promise of the summer to come. In the near distance green fields spread out, dotted with grazing sheep, and beyond them I glimpsed the long wall that guarded Prince Oran's holdings at Winterfalls. A perfect day. The kind of day that made a person feel almost . . . settled. Which was not good. If there was anything I couldn't afford, it was to get content.

“Lovely morning,” observed Grim, pausing to wipe the sweat off his brow and to survey his work.

“Mm.”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “Something wrong?”

A pox on the man; he knew me far too well. “What would be wrong?”

“You tell me.”

“Seven years of this and I'll have lost whatever edge I once had,” I said. “I'll have turned into one of those well-fed countrywomen who
pride themselves on making better preserves than their neighbors, and give all their chickens names.”

“Can't see that,” said Grim, casting a glance at the little dog as she hunted for something in the pile of straw. The dog's name was Bramble, but we didn't call her that anymore, only Dog. There were reasons for that, complicated ones that only a handful of people knew. She was living a lifelong penance, that creature. I had my own penance. My fey benefactor, Conmael, had bound me to obey his rules for seven years. I was compelled to say yes to every request for help, to use my craft only for good, and to stay within the borders of Dalriada. In particular, Conmael had made me promise I would not go back to Laois to seek vengeance against my old enemy. I'd known from the first how hard those requirements would be to live by. But my burden was nothing against that borne by Ciar, who had once been maidservant to a lady. For her misdeeds, she had been turned into a dog. Magic being what it was—devious and tricky—she had no way back.

“Anyway,” Grim went on, “it's closer to six years now.”

“Why doesn't that make me feel any better? It doesn't seem to matter how busy I am, how worn-out I am after a day of applying salves and dispensing drafts and giving advice to every fool who thinks he wants it. Every night I dream about the same thing: what Mathuin of Laois did to me, and what I'll do to him. And the fact that Conmael's stupid rules are stopping me from getting on with it.”

“I dream about that place,” Grim said. “The stink. The dark. The screams. I dream about nearly losing hope. And when I wake up, I look around and . . .” He shrugged. “The last thing I'd be wanting is to go back. Different for you, I know.”

I wanted to challenge him; to ask if there weren't folk who'd wronged him, folk he might care to teach a lesson to. Or folk who'd once loved him, who might still be missing him and needing him to come home. But I held my tongue. We didn't ask each other about the past, the time before we'd found ourselves in Mathuin's lockup, staring at each other across the walkway between the iron bars. A whole year
we'd kept each other going, a year of utter hell, and we'd never shared our stories. Grim knew some of mine now, since I'd blurted it out on the day fire destroyed our cottage. How Mathuin of Laois had punished my man for his part in a plot against injustice. How he'd burned Cass and our baby alive, how he'd ordered his guards to hold me back so I couldn't reach them. Grim knew the dark thing I carried within me, the furious need to see justice done. And Conmael knew. Conmael knew far more than anyone rightly should.

“Pea soup?” Grim's voice broke into my thoughts.

“What? Oh. Seems a shame to cook them—they taste much better raw. But yes, soup would stretch them out a bit. I'll make it.”

“Onion, chopped small,” he suggested. “Garlic. Maybe a touch of mint.”

“Trying to distract me from unwise thoughts?” I turned my gaze on him, but he was busy with his gardening again.

“Nah,” said Grim. “Just hungry. Looks like we might have company in a bit.”

A rider was approaching from the direction of Winterfalls. From this distance I couldn't tell who it was, but the green clothing suggested Prince Oran's household.

“Donagan,” said Grim.

The prince's body servant; a man with whom we shared a secret or two. “How can you tell?”

“The horse. The white marking on her head. Only one like that in these parts. Star, she's called.”

“You think the prince's man will be happy to eat my pea soup?”

“Why not? I always am. Need to start cooking soon, though, or he won't get the chance.” Grim laid aside his pitchfork and straightened up, a big bear of a man. “I'll do it if you want.”

“You're busy. I'll do it.” Since I didn't plan on standing out front like a welcoming party, I headed back into the house. Donagan was all right as courtiers went, but a visit from a member of the prince's household generally meant some sort of request for help, and that meant
saying yes to whatever it was, however inconvenient, because of my promise to Conmael. The most reasonable of requests felt burdensome if a person had no choice in the matter. If I was to survive seven years, I'd need to work on keeping my temper; staying civil. I only had four chances. Break Conmael's rules a fifth time, and he'd put me straight back into Mathuin's lockup as if I'd never left the place. That was what he'd threatened, anyway. Maybe he couldn't do it, but I had no intention of putting that to the test.

Grim stayed outside and so did Donagan, whose arrival I saw between the open shutters. Once he'd tethered his horse, he leaned on the wall chatting as Grim finished his work with the pitchfork. That gave me breathing time, which I used not only to prepare the meal, but to put my thoughts in order. Step by small step; that was the only way I'd survive my time of penance. My lesson in patience. Or whatever it was.

•   •   •

Donagan had brought a gift of oaten bread. It went well with the soup. Dog sat under the table, feasting on crusts. Our guest waited until we had all finished eating before he came to the purpose of his visit. “Mistress Blackthorn, Lady Flidais has asked to see you, at your convenience.”

Nothing surprising about that, since Lady Flidais, wife to the prince, had been under my care since she'd first discovered she was expecting a child. The infant would not be born before autumn, and thus far the lady had remained in robust health. It was typical of her, if not of Donagan, that this had been presented as a request rather than as an order.

“I can come by this afternoon, if that suits Lady Flidais,” I told him. “I have one or two folk to visit in the settlement.” This had to be more than it seemed, or they'd have sent an ordinary messenger, not the prince's right-hand man. “Is Lady Flidais unwell?”

“The lady is quite well. She has a request to make of you.”

There was a silence; no doubt Donagan felt the weight of our scrutiny.

“Can you tell us what it is?” I asked. “Or must this wait until I see her?”

“I've been given leave to tell you. King Ruairi and Queen Eabha will be traveling south soon for the High King's council; they and their party will be away from Dalriada until well after midsummer. The king requires Prince Oran to be at court for that period, acting in his place.”

My thoughts jumped ahead to an uncomfortable conclusion. Lady Flidais and the prince both loved the peaceful familiarity of Winterfalls. I was quite certain they'd rather stay here than go to the king's court at Cahercorcan, some twenty miles north. But although Oran was not your usual kind of nobleman, he wouldn't refuse a request from his father, the king of Dalriada. And where Oran went, Flidais would be wanting to go too. The two of them were inseparable, like lovers in a grand old story. If they needed to be at court for two turnings of the moon or more, that meant . . . My guts protested, clenching themselves into a tight ball.

Grim said what I could not bring myself to say. “The lady, she'll be wanting Blackthorn at court with her. That what you're telling us?”

“Lady Flidais will explain,” Donagan said. “But yes, that is what she would prefer. Lady Flidais does not place a great deal of trust in the court physicians.” He fell silent, gazing into his empty soup bowl. Grim and I stayed quiet too. There was a long, long list of reasons why the prospect of going to court disturbed us; not all of them were reasons we could share with Donagan or indeed with Lady Flidais.

“Inconvenient, I know,” the king's man said eventually, still not meeting my eye or Grim's. “Your young helper would need to act as healer here in your absence. And . . . well, I understand this wouldn't be much to your liking.” Now he glanced across at Grim. “Lady Flidais's invitation extends to both of you. Since it's for some time, there would be private quarters provided.”

“Invitation,” echoed Grim. “But not the sort of invitation a person says no to, coming from a prince and all.”

Donagan gave Grim a crooked smile. I had come to understand that he had a soft spot for my companion, though what exactly had passed between them during that odd time when Grim and I had stayed in the prince's household I was not quite sure. I knew Grim had been in a fight and had hurt another man quite badly. I knew Donagan had helped get Grim out of trouble. So it was possible that Donagan realized how hard it was for Grim to sleep without me to keep him company—not the sort of company a man and a woman keep when they're wed, more the company of a watchful friend, the same as we'd had when we were in that wretched place together, before I'd understood what friends were.

“True enough,” Donagan went on. “Still, I imagine you will say yes, not because you feel obliged to, but because Lady Flidais trusts you. And because you have her welfare at heart, as we all do.”

It was a pretty speech. No need to tell him that if I said yes, it wouldn't be for that heartwarming reason, but because I was bound to it by Conmael. Court. Closed in by stone walls, surrounded by highbred folk quick to judge those they deemed their inferiors. I imagined myself embroiled in petty disputes with the royal physicians, who could only resent Lady Flidais's preference for a local wise woman over their expert and scholarly selves. Court, where every single activity would be subject to some sort of ridiculous protocol. Morrigan's curse! I'd found it hard enough staying in the prince's much smaller establishment. Grim would loathe it. And what about Conmael and our agreement? He'd ordered me to live at Winterfalls, not at Cahercorcan. So complying with one condition of my promise would mean breaking another. A pox on it!

I rose to my feet. “Thank you for bringing the message. I have some herbs to gather before I head over to the settlement, but please tell Lady Flidais she can expect me around midafternoon.” I thought I did
an excellent job of sounding calm and unruffled, but the look Grim gave me suggested otherwise.

“How soon?” he asked Donagan. “When's the king leaving?”

“At next full moon. It's a long journey to Tara, made more challenging by the fact that Mathuin of Laois is stirring up trouble in that region. And the king will want Prince Oran settled at court before he leaves.”

“Doesn't give us long,” Grim said. His hands had bunched themselves into fists.

“You'll be offered all the assistance you need for the move. Horses, help with packing up, arrangements put in place so young Emer can continue to provide a healer's services to the community.”

“Emer's been under my guidance for less than a year,” I protested. “She may be quite apt, but she can't be asked to step into my place. It's too much to expect.”

Donagan smiled. “I'm sure a solution will be found. Lady Flidais will discuss that with you. Now, I can see you are both busy, so I will make my departure.”

When he was gone, we sat staring at each other over the table, stunned into silence. After a while Grim got up and started gathering the bowls.