Tower of Thorns (28 page)

She had learned nothing new from Brión about the night he was rescued. They had spoken of a hundred other things, a thousand, but on that matter, as on the future, he'd had nothing to say.

“You're afraid,” Lily said now. “Afraid to tell me.” She expected him to deny it; if she'd observed anything about boys, it was that they did not like to be thought cowards. “I love you. If you're in some kind of trouble, I want to help you.”

“If you knew the truth,” Brión said, “you too would be afraid. And I don't want to draw you into that. How can I put you at even more risk? I shouldn't have stayed so long here. It was selfish. I wanted to be with you, to be close to you, but . . .”

“Brión,” said Lily, gritting her teeth, “just say it. Just tell me. It's to do with what happened that night, isn't it? Before I found you?”

He muttered something.

“What did you say?” Suddenly she was shivering too. Wishing she had not pushed this; wishing she had waited for him to be ready to tell.

“You will despise me,” said Brión.

Lily could think of nothing to say.

“There was a woman,” Brión said in a whisper, glancing this way, that way. A little cold breeze came up out of nowhere, ruffling the grasses. “A beautiful woman. On a white mare, with silver jingling on the harness. We were out hunting, and I saw her, and . . . I followed her. Rode after her. Left my companions behind. I was dazzled, Lily. Out of my wits. I did not consider that she might be fey.”

In Lily's shocked mind, everything began to make a terrible kind of sense. “Go on,” she said, keeping her voice calm.

“I rode deeper and deeper into the woods. I could see her ahead, the white shadow that was the horse, the tall figure riding, with her fair hair all twisted and twined with jewels and her silken gown in more colors than anyone could find names for, flowing around her with a life of its own. The paths grew narrower; I had to get down and lead my horse. And still she went on, just too far ahead for me to reach her, but close enough for me to catch glimpses of her now and then. I followed her all the way to the Bann, and when she rode into the ford, I did the same.”

“But . . . your horse . . .”

“He shied and threw me into the water. He bolted. I hardly noticed. The woman was on the island, standing motionless by her own horse, waiting for me. The moonlight shone down on her; she
looked like a goddess. Lily, I am ashamed to tell you this story. So ashamed of my weakness.”

Lily said nothing, simply waited.

“My thoughts had room for nothing but her. So I waded over to the island. Wet, disheveled, with any dignity I'd had completely gone, I walked up to the lovely woman and stammered a few words. My name. My admiration. Something foolish.”

“She had you under a spell,” Lily breathed. This was like something from an ancient tale, not real life. Innocent though she was, she had no difficulty in imagining the missing part of the tale, from Brión's first dazzled greeting to the woman to the moment she had found him next day, lying exhausted in the tower, his body all over bruises and scratches. She tried not to judge him; she tried hard. “Tell me the rest, Ash.”

He flushed scarlet. “I . . . She and I . . . It was as if I was in a different world, and the rules of this world were forgotten. I wish I had not done it. I could blame her. I could say she made me do the things I did, lured me, worked her magic on me. But the blame is mine. I should not have followed her. I should have said no to her. I should have been brave enough to refuse. And I should have been brave enough to tell you the truth from the start.” His voice was stronger now, and the blush had faded somewhat. He fixed his eyes on hers, and the look in them was clear and honest. “I'm sorry. From the bottom of my heart, I'm sorry. I hope you can forgive me, Lily. What I have to offer you . . . as a husband, I mean . . . is spoiled. Tainted. I should not have let this happen.”

“She ensorcelled you,” Lily said. “That's why you're still afraid.”

“If we went away, we could be free of it. Far away, where she could not find us.”

The idea seemed to Lily no more reasonable than it had been before she knew the truth. “No,” she said firmly. “We should stand up to her. We should be brave. Running away never solved anything.” Oh, the naïveté! Oh, the youthful confidence! Oh, the stupidity!

“I can't go on,” Geiléis whispered. “I can't go past that moment, I can't. Not again. Please don't make me tell it again.” But there was nobody to hear. She clutched her shawl around her, staring out into the gathering dark. She'd been a fool to believe for a moment that he could hear the story as she told it, night after night. The curse was cruel in its every careful particular. There was nothing soft about it. There was nothing in it to her own advantage, no kindness, no concession, no provision to make the long penance easier to endure.
Tell it. Tell it until you understand what you have done. Tell it over and over until this all comes to an end.

“All we wanted was to be happy,” she said to the empty air. “That, surely, did not merit such suffering.” The cruelest part was this: she who had worked the curse had not been seen from that day on, but still the spell endured. A powerful magic indeed. That boy who had followed a beautiful woman into the forest could have had no idea what he would unleash.

The quiet of the woodland below her window was broken by the sound of horses' hooves on paving stones, and of voices. That was Onchú speaking. And now a woman's voice—Blackthorn. They were back, and if her ears did not deceive her, so was Grim; nobody else had such a deep voice. She would go down soon and greet them; she would express polite interest in what they had been doing. The ritual preparations; the roof of the scriptorium. But her mind would be full of one thing only. She wondered, sometimes, whether she should have told Blackthorn the truth from the start—not the full truth, but almost all. The woman was open to the strange and uncanny. She might have been prepared to accept it, saving Geiléis and her household the need for lies. It was too late now. Once she'd told that story at court, with Blackthorn and Grim present, there'd been no choice but to stick to it. Gods! It was almost midsummer. Let Blackthorn not find out she'd been lied to all along. If she learned of that betrayal—she'd see it as that—she'd surely walk away. Or try to. And Geiléis would have to silence her. The
true story, the full story could not be allowed to go beyond these four walls. If it did, there might never be an end to this.

“Stop it!” she muttered. “Get ahold of yourself!” Less than a turning of the moon remained until Midsummer Eve. After so long, she must not stumble at the very end. She must walk on steadily, one step at a time. While her guests were tidying themselves up for supper, she would tell the next part of the tale—the part she feared and loathed, but must revisit over and over because the curse bound her to do so. If she told it now, tomorrow would be easier.

Geiléis drew a deep, steadying breath and took up her story once more.

Not long after this, Muiríol appeared at the gate, making urgent gestures, and Lily and Brión were obliged to return within the walls. He was whisked back off to bed, and she went to her chamber to think in solitude. What he had told her was terrible. To meddle with the fey . . . to lie with one of them . . . that had been beyond foolish. Had he never listened when his mother told him the old tales?

But they could not run away. She hoped that in the morning he would see how ridiculous that idea was. What did he think they would live on? Did he imagine their families would not move heaven and earth to find them? Each was an only child; each was of noble birth. They could not simply turn their backs on one life and start another with no resources save their love for each other. Of course, in the old tales, such things did happen. He might find work as a swineherd or a gardener, and she as a rather inept seamstress or washerwoman. And eventually, years later when they had a child of their own, they might be rediscovered by their families and brought home to a welcome attended by tears and joy. In those tales, anything could happen. And this felt just like such an ancient story, so unlikely it could hardly be believed. But it was real. She had seen the dazed expression in Brión's eyes when she found him in the tower. She had seen the torn clothing and the injuries to his body. And she had seen, late at night after he had been rescued, a light in that high window, as if someone was
walking around the tower room with a candle in her hand. As if someone was sad. Or angry. As if someone did indeed still have her eye on him.

“He's mine,” she whispered. “You can't have him. You're no good for him. You can't frighten me; I will hold on with everything I have.” Fine words; fine and strong. But she was cold, all the same. She felt the shadow of approaching danger.

That night, Brión had supper alone in his bedchamber, and when Lily asked if she could go in and speak to him before she retired for the night, her mother said no, that would be entirely inappropriate. Besides, Brión had a severe headache and needed to rest.

Later, when the household was abed, a strange wind blew up. It whispered through the treetops and whined across the garden; it insinuated itself between the shutters, blowing out late candles; it whooshed down chimneys and stirred up the embers of fires. Lily stood by her window looking out over the forest, and the wind wrapped itself around her in an icy embrace, making her heart shrink. Were there words in that stirring of the air, harsh words meant only for her ears? She could not understand them, but she felt the hatred.

“You can't frighten me,” she said again. But that was a lie. A terror gripped her beyond anything she had felt before. “I will hold on,” she said. “I will. I love him. You can't have him.” And she thought she heard an answer in the wind: Oh, foolish human girl. If you want him, come and fetch him! He's of no more use to me. The wind swirled around Lily, teasing at her hair, tugging at her shawl, dancing in and out the open window.

“What do you mean?” Lily fought for composure. Was the fey woman giving up just like that? Passing Brión back to her as if he were of no more consequence than a loaf of bread gone stale or an apple turned too soft for eating? “What do you mean, fetch him?”

From the tower. He's in the tower. The wind rattled the shutters and was gone, leaving the chamber in stillness. Her heart cold, Lily gazed out toward the tower. The moon was dark; the forest lay hidden. But she could see a light. A faint, faltering light, as of a candle
struggling to hold its flame against an eldritch draft. Now her heart was pounding. The fey woman was giving up. She was releasing Brión from the spell. But only if Lily was brave enough to go out in the night and bring him home. A quest. The old tales were full of quests. And she'd have to do it alone. If she woke her father and arranged an expedition with men-at-arms and horses and iron weapons, chances were they'd get to the tower to find it empty.

Lily flung on her warm cloak, searched for her outdoor shoes, tried to calm her racing thoughts. She was about to climb out the window into the dark embrace of the oak tree when common sense prevailed. This could be a trick. The fey loved tricks. What if Brión was tucked up asleep in his quarters, and what the fey woman really wanted was to lure Lily out into the forest so she could work some fell charm on her? It would be foolish indeed to rush out there without at least checking whether Brión was still safe in the house. But she mustn't be seen by anyone. It wasn't so much the impropriety of being spotted slipping into a young man's bedchamber at dead of night; it was that once seen, she would likely be questioned. When folk discovered that Brión was gone, that mounted search party would go out whether she liked it or not.

She carried her candle in one hand and her shoes in the other, making her way as softly as she could to the door of Brión's quarters. There were no guards in the hallway; she breathed a prayer of thanks and pushed the door ajar. The bedchamber was in darkness. All was silent. Lily lifted the candle, peering in, not quite prepared to walk right up to his bed.

The covers were on the floor. The pillows had been torn open; feathers drifted uneasily in the draft, an eerie summer snow. The chamber was littered with clothing, most of it shredded. It was as if some monster had run riot here. There was no sign of Brión.

“Go,” whispered Lily to herself as her gorge rose and her mind filled with unspeakable images. “Go now and don't look back.” No creeping out the front door. No slipping out the kitchen door. There
would be guards outside; her father was careful. She must go back to her own chamber and out the window, the same as last time. And hope nobody saw her before she reached the little side door. Hope that door was open. She suspected it would be; the uncanny wind would have seen to that. Her adversary had challenged her. Lily had promised herself she would be brave, and she would meet the challenge. Ash, she thought, making his name a talisman to keep her safe. I'm doing it for you, Ash. I'll fetch you home and make an end to this.

A sudden tap at the door.

Geiléis started, nausea rising in her at the wrenching interruption. She had been deep in the tale. She ran down the steps, strode to the door and flung it open. Senach cringed visibly, as if he expected her to strike him. She had never hit him; he was a good servant. “What?” she demanded.

“I'm sorry for the intrusion, my lady. This is something you will want to hear.”

At her gesture, the steward entered her quarters, closing the door noiselessly behind him.

“Very well. Tell me.”