Tower of Thorns (42 page)

Blackthorn

“D
on't tell me you're having second thoughts,” Flannan said. “Lady Geiléis will be devastated.”

“I'm not. Not now I've heard the story. But you can't deny the risk. Even if this creature was once a man, the curse transformed it. It could be all teeth and claws, and strong enough to snap me in two. But then, you probably don't believe any of it. You always said the old tales were too fanciful to contain any grain of truth. So why aren't you simply dismissing this whole thing? What do you care about Lady Geiléis's feelings? It would make more sense for us to forget her and her monster and slip away south while everyone else is planning for Midsummer Eve. Wouldn't it? We could do it as soon as Grim goes back up to St. Olcan's.”

We kept our voices to an undertone. Although the courtyard was deserted, Geiléis's retainers had a habit of appearing without warning. Then there was Grim. If there was anyone I didn't want to hear this conversation it was him.

“I thought you wanted to do it,” Flannan said. “I thought you wanted to help her. Another day or two, it's not long.”

“I do. I did. Only . . . I think I'm missing something. It feels a bit
too clear-cut, the appearance of this manuscript too timely, everything a little too neat. And . . .”

“And what?”

“I went out to visit some local people earlier today. That visit made me sad. Disillusioned. I never had a lot of faith in folk's natural goodness, not even when I was young. Didn't have much cause to. But this . . . Since we came here, I've started thinking we're all selfish bastards, every last one of us. Don't care about anything but our own interests.”

“That's pretty harsh.”

“There might be a handful of exceptions.” Prince Oran and Lady Flidais. Donncha, when he wasn't under Geiléis's thumb. Emer, the young woman I was training back at Winterfalls. Grim. “But they're not enough to balance up the hate and selfishness and distrust. And I'm sick of dealing with it.” My promise to Conmael meant I must use my gifts only for good. It bound me to say yes to anyone who asked for my help. And it forbade me from leaving Dalriada or seeking revenge against my old enemy. Within days I would break that third part and head south with Flannan. As for the second part, I was having difficulty finding the will to help anyone. I wondered if it was really worth the effort. Especially when I might get myself killed trying.

“Blackthorn,” said Flannan softly. He stopped walking and took my hands in his. “That doesn't matter. None of it matters. You and I have a mission, and it's far bigger than Geiléis and her monster in the tower. But you need to think this through. The time for us to leave is Midsummer Eve, as we planned. After you break the curse, everything will be confusion for a while. It's the ideal time to slip away unnoticed. Provided Grim's not around, that is.”

“You can leave Grim to me. Just don't say anything in front of him about what time on Midsummer Eve we'll be attempting this. His work at St. Olcan's isn't finished yet, and if he plans to spend tomorrow teaching me how to chop off a man's head, it most likely won't be finished by Midsummer Eve. I'll tell him he can fit in a half day's work
and still be back in time.” Now I was sounding as selfish and untrustworthy as the rest of humankind. And who, after all, was I to judge anyone? A worn-out, angry apology for a wise woman, who only did good deeds because Conmael's agreement bound me to it. That solitary cottage deep in the woods, the one I sometimes imagined for myself, was sounding very appealing: a bolt-hole where I could live out my life and be as bitter and cantankerous as I wanted. “Only . . . I have a strange feeling about this. About Geiléis and the whole thing with the tower. As if there's something more, something I need to know or it will all be a disaster.” Not to speak of having to lie to Grim and get away with it.

“You can do it,” Flannan said. “Trust yourself, and it will work out for the best, I'm sure. Of course I don't like to see you walking into danger; it's a daunting task. But you'll succeed. I'm absolutely sure of that, and I know Cass would be too.”

A pox on the man; now he was making me cry. I needed to stay strong, whatever happened. Strong enough to face what waited for me in Laois; strong enough to stand up in front of Mathuin and speak coherently even if anger and terror were ripping me apart. Maybe the monster in the tower would be good practice.

I scrubbed a hand over my cheeks. “Cass would think I was crazy even to consider tackling Geiléis's monster,” I said.

“But that was one of the things he loved about you. The way you never trod the common path. And that's been in you since the first; since long before you ever met Cass. Remember that strange little boy back in Brocc's Wood, the one everyone called the changeling? What was his name—Cully? That day when you stood up for him, I remember wishing I could be brave like you. You didn't care a bit what anyone thought. You weren't afraid of anything; you just went ahead and said what needed to be said. You're still that same person, Saorla.”

A strange bell sounded in my mind. Cully. How odd that Flannan had mentioned that outcast boy from our childhood, when I had been thinking of him not long ago, for the first time in many years. An odd coincidence. “Don't call me Saorla,” I muttered.

“Blackthorn, then. You can do this. I'm sure of it. If you break this curse you won't just be doing Geiléis a favor, you'll be changing many folk's lives for the better. Isn't that what we were trying to do in Laois?”

“Still are, from what you've told me.” I was only half listening now; in my mind I was sitting under the trees in a faraway forest, watching in silence as Cully coaxed a squirrel to take a nut from his hand. The scene was clear in every detail: an awkward, spindly boy with hair so dark it was more black than brown, eyes of midnight blue, skin unnaturally pale even in summer. Features that were somehow not quite right for a human child. Those who had called him changeling had not really believed he was one—what they'd meant by the word was different, outside, someone who did not fit. Like me. Only nobody had dared to call me names.

“Blackthorn?”

Flannan had been saying something and I'd missed it completely.

“Sorry,” I said. “I don't want to talk about this anymore, not tonight. If you're not prepared to leave before Midsummer Eve, then I suppose we won't. You're the one who knows the way. You're the one who knows the people involved.”

“So you'll go through with it?”

“It seems so, though I can't quite believe I'm saying that. Flannan, I really don't want to talk about it. I'm going inside now.”

“I'll see you in the morning.”

“In the morning I think I'm going to be learning how to cut off a man's head. I doubt very much that I'll want an audience.”

•   •   •

I'd been planning to talk a few things over with Grim. The odd neatness of the old tale. The fact that it had been uncovered at the only time
any of us would have a chance to break the curse. The visit to Ana's cottage and the way it had disturbed me. The question of Lily, who was supposed to live long enough to see her lover freed. That one was tugging at my mind. I couldn't discuss it with anyone but Grim.

But when I got to our chamber Grim wasn't there. He'd gone over to the guards' quarters, to talk weapons with Onchú and the others, I assumed. I made a brew—usually a reliable method of bringing back whichever of us was missing—but he did not make an appearance. I sat over the fire awhile, thinking. The tower . . . the creature that was really a young man, a very young man named Ash . . . the unfortunate Lily, who must have given up on her sweetheart and married someone else, or that family line would have died out and Geiléis would not be here . . . The nature of happy endings, and whether such a phenomenon truly existed . . . The small fey king trapped within the thorny hedge, and his folk bound to serve and hold their tongues . . . One, at least, had broken that vow to seek Grim's aid and to provide help in his turn. And while the little healer had not spoken to me, she had most certainly conveyed a message. They were brave folk, those small ones; brave and patient. How odd that Geiléis had known nothing at all of them.

I was falling asleep where I sat, and there was still no sign of Grim. Perhaps they'd given him a bed over in the guards' quarters; it was a fair walk back. Though he found it hard to sleep unless I was close by. Well, he'd have to deal with that particular problem, because pretty soon I wouldn't be here any longer. He must have managed somehow in the time before he found himself in Mathuin's lockup. He would manage again.

I went to bed and fell asleep almost instantly. I did not wake until the sun rose and the voice of the sad being in the tower made slumber no longer possible. Grim's bed had not been slept in, but as I went outside to the privy he came into the yard, looking wide-awake and very serious. “Make sure you have a good breakfast,” he said. “Going to be a busy day.” I saw, then, the ax in his hand, a weapon that to my
inexpert eye looked rather on the small side for the intended purpose. The blade glinted in the morning light; I guessed the cutting edges were lethally sharp. There was some kind of carving on the handle. My appetite for breakfast vanished.

“A warrior needs to practice and practice,” Grim said. “So that when the time comes his body just does what has to be done. In a battle you don't have time to work out right and wrong. All you've got time for is making sure the other fellow doesn't kill you before you kill him. A couple of days, that's not very long. But it's long enough.”

“A pox on it all,” I muttered, finding my eyes drawn to that shining blade, that elegant handle. “Why in the name of the gods did I ever agree to this?”

“You're the only one can answer that,” said Grim. “Come on, breakfast.”

“Did you sleep in the guards' quarters?”

“Didn't do much sleeping. Talked about the job you have to do, worked out what weapon was best. This one's the right weight for you. They've got a supply of seasoned wood there. Made a new handle, did some work on the blade. Better balanced now. Want to hold it?”

“No, thanks. I'll wait until later. To tell you the truth, the very idea makes me feel sick.”

“Doesn't get any easier.” Grim ran a thoughtful finger along the ax's cutting edge, somehow managing not to draw blood. “You never get used to killing. You just get better at making yourself do it.”

•   •   •

If I hadn't known already how patient he was, I'd have learned it that day. We worked from breakfast time until midmorning before he let me try the ax. It was all foot positions, balance, turns. Practicing slowly so everything was correct, then speeding up. Going through the movements and then having to tell him what I'd seen around me while I was doing it. In case, Grim explained, there was something unexpected up
in the tower, apart from a monster, of course. You couldn't leave anything to chance, he said.

We worked in a small yard next to the guards' quarters, a place designed for just such a purpose. I was pleased to be without an audience for my fumbling attempts to make myself into a warrior. In particular I didn't want Geiléis watching. I'd been thinking about her a lot since Flannan had told us the old story, and those thoughts set me on edge.

The ax was perfect for me. Holding it, lifting it, swinging it, I understood what Grim had meant a little earlier when he'd talked about balance and trajectory and using the strength you had to best advantage. The handle was of ash wood and there was a spray of blackthorn carved along it—thorns, flowers, berries, similar to the one he'd done along my bed back at Winterfalls. This decorative carving had been carefully placed so it would not affect the grip. I wondered if its purpose was the same as that of the creatures he'd made to decorate the roof of our cottage. To ward off danger. To keep the user as safe as he possibly could.