Tower of Thorns (25 page)

Geiléis always took breakfast in her private quarters. Sometimes she did not emerge until well into the morning. I wondered what she did with her time. I had seen no sign of loom, of distaff and spindle, or indeed of musical instruments or writing materials in her bedchamber. No little dogs; no husband or children to keep her occupied. It was a solitary life, which in itself was no bad thing—there had been times when I had longed for nothing more than to be all alone, with no need to bother about anyone. I'd imagined a little house in the forest where I might live without human companionship and be as ill-tempered and unsociable as I pleased. But that house had always contained implements of work: quills, parchment and inks; herbs and fungi drying; knives and boards, stoppered jars, jugs and vessels for the making of remedies. There'd always been a dog too, a big ugly one to keep folk away. The idea of living alone pleased me. But living alone with nothing to do was quite a different matter. Geiléis was not alone, of course; she had her servants and her men-at-arms. But she kept them at arm's length. She was, in effect, without family or friends. Despite myself, I felt sorry for her. Who would want to come and visit her, with the monster's voice ringing in their ears and casting a blight over the whole
place? I did wonder why she didn't ride out and call upon the folk of the district, the way Oran did at Winterfalls. All the local people there knew the prince and respected him as their leader and guardian, young as he was. Perhaps Geiléis was unwelcome at the local farms and settlements. Perhaps folk believed she had somehow brought the curse down on them.

Time passed and she did not appear. So I took my basket and my knife and headed out into the forest, not bothering with an escort. My mood was snappish. If I was to conduct a public ritual within a few days, I'd need to stop my mind from going around in circles and at least pretend to be calm. Gathering the appropriate herbs for the rite, in my own company and at my own pace, would be a good start.

It was a fair day. The forest was refreshed by the rain, the sun shone and the trees were alive with birds. But there was no escaping the sorrowful voice from the tower. I thought I could reach the spot I remembered without needing to block my ears. A little side path, off to the left. I'd seen it when we went to the tower. It had looked full of useful herbs and fungi, and there would be no need to go too far from the main track, the one deemed safe. When I went back to the house I would beg a corner of the kitchen and make up a few handy remedies—the kinds of salves and lotions that were a little too complex to be produced by a village wife, but were nonetheless in frequent demand. I already had herbs drying in our quarters, gathered from Geiléis's kitchen garden. When we rode out to invite the local folk to the ritual, I would also offer my services as a healer.

It was good to be on my own. It wasn't as if Geiléis's household was noisy. Her servants went about their business with soft-footed efficiency, not speaking unless it was necessary in the course of their duties:
More soup, Mistress Blackthorn?
But they were always
there
. If not quite in our bedchamber, then somewhere very near, bringing in water from the well or sweeping the hallway. And Geiléis herself, though often closeted away, had a habit of appearing unexpectedly.

I walked farther down the main track, wondering if Geiléis would
send someone running after me as soon as she learned I had left the house on my own. I tried to imagine what it would be like here once the monster was gone. Its voice rang constantly in my ears; I had seldom been without a headache since we arrived here. Ah. A headache potion. That would go down well among the locals.

I reached a little side path. I was fairly sure it was the one I'd noticed before, all grown over with ferns and low, creeping plants. I wrapped my shawl more tightly around me and ventured forward, moving slowly lest I crush some delicate stem making its way up to the light, or some small creature crawling at its own short-legged pace across the pathway. A little farther, and a little farther again. A few leaves taken from one plant, a few from another, with a murmured apology and thanks. I should have prayed as I gathered; it was part of the ritual preparation. But I found I couldn't. I couldn't lie to the wild world around me. I no longer believed there were any gods worth praying to, since if they existed they allowed the innocent to die in agony and evildoers like Mathuin of Laois to treat folk as if they were less than the dirt under his boot soles. What god could stand back and let that happen without moving so much as a finger to stop it? The words I spoke as I harvested were as much habit as anything. I'd been taught well, and early; along with the names of herbs and their medicinal uses, I had learned never to harvest without giving thanks, and never to cut so much from a plant that it could not recover itself.

I'd wandered farther than I'd intended. The path, if path it was, wound between the mossy trunks of the trees and over small streams. It climbed steps formed by the roots of a venerable oak and narrowed in one spot to cross a dip by means of a plank less than a hand span wide. I paused, not sure I wanted to venture over, and that was when I saw her, coming the other way with a wee basket over her arm and her shawl drawn tight around her shoulders. I froze, not quite believing my
eyes. A little figure hardly as high as my knee, clad in a gown and apron and shawl as I was, with her dark hair sticking up as if she had walked through a prickle bush without noticing. She had a basket over her arm and a good knife in her belt. Her errand was the same as mine.

So Grim's wee folk were not a product of the curse addling his wits after all. They were real. Unless my mind too had been turned inside out by the screaming.

The little woman must have had her thoughts on something else; she didn't see me until she was halfway across the plank bridge and looked up suddenly. There I was, a healer like herself, but giant-sized. No wonder she turned pale. No wonder she wobbled on her narrow purchase.

“It's all right,” I said, as she regained her balance and stood glaring at me from the middle of the bridge. “I'm out gathering herbs, the same as you. Maybe you can tell me where I might find druid's balm. It may have another name in these parts. It has leaves somewhat like peppermint, but red-tipped. Useful for warding off headaches. Do you know it?” I was babbling now, desperate to get her talking before she took it into her head to flee. “I wouldn't need much, only a leaf or two.” I gathered my wits; reminded myself that there were rules for dealing with the fey. An exchange was easier to negotiate than a gift, always. “I managed to find some of these beetle-foot toadstools; I've found they work well in a poultice to draw out ill humors from a wound. If you could use some, I have enough to share. Or I can show you where they grow, back along this path.” When I turned to indicate the path behind me, I was disturbed to notice that it now looked rather different. Surely I had not come down a hill as steep as that, or walked between those massive oaks. I turned hurriedly back to find that the miniature healer had advanced over the bridge and was standing right in front of me. It seemed she was not afraid of the giant after all; not now she had taken my measure.

The creature in the tower screamed on. This little person might not have heard a word I'd said. On the other hand, when I'd whispered my
offer of help, on the island, the creature had responded, if in a less than civil way. And Grim said he'd had a conversation with his wee man. So maybe she could hear me. And maybe she knew the old story.

Best not tell her why I had come to Bann. What Geiléis wanted might not be what the fey folk of the forest wanted. I set down my basket. “My name is Blackthorn. I'm visiting Lady Geiléis, with my friend. May I talk with you awhile?”

The wee woman put her own basket on the ground. Shook her head; laid a finger across her lips.

“You can't talk?”

She rolled her eyes at me and clapped her hand over her mouth.

“You're forbidden to talk to me?”

The little woman nodded, then pointed into the woods. She mimed picking something and putting it in her basket. Indicated me, then herself.

“I can come with you, yes. But not far; I'm not familiar with the forest, and if I'm gone too long Lady Geiléis may send folk out looking for me.”

She made a complicated face, then took up her basket and headed off. I followed.

We did not go far; only to a clearing where the rain and sunshine had coaxed up an exuberant growth of plant life. It was a healer's dream. She and I worked side by side, filling our baskets. She could talk all right; I saw her lips moving each time she cut, no doubt giving thanks as I was. But she would not talk to me.

She found a patch of druid's balm and tugged at my cloak to draw it to my attention. I plucked sufficient to make a healing draft; I would give it to Grim to take to the settlement. I passed her a share of the toadstools. As soon as she had put them in her basket she tugged at my cloak again, pointing toward the other side of the clearing, where a fallen tree sheltered a prolific growth of small-leaved herbs. She led me there; squatted down, indicated that I should do the same.

I did not see it immediately, and she did not point it out, simply
waited, her eyes on my face. What was it she wanted me to notice? A clump of the tiny herb known as true love's tears, with its cream-hued florets and feathery leaves? A growth of fungi like elaborate tiny palaces? A shiny green beetle?

Still she waited, and at last I saw it: markings made by a knife on the trunk of the fallen giant. Markings so small that a human eye would most likely not notice them unless directed there. I glanced at the little healer, and she lifted her brows as if to say,
Well?

Ogham. It was so long since I'd last used the tree alphabet that I doubted I remembered how to read the script. On the other hand, what you learn as a child stays deep in you, and can usually be found when needed. “I'm not sure I can read this right now,” I said.

My companion indicated with grimaces and gestures that this was not good enough, and that if I did not at least try to read the script, I was not much of a wise woman.

“All right, I will try.” Ogham was not like, say, Irish or Latin. The letters could be used to spell words, but each had a range of other meanings too, according to the nature of that particular tree. A person did not write in ogham something like,
Good morning, my friend! How are you, and what did you have for breakfast?
It was more of a code; a language that gave you the essentials but left you to work out the bits in between. I recognized the last sign here:
straif
. Blackthorn. Some of the others too. But all the letters together did not spell out any word known to me.

The little healer reached out a bony finger to touch the double line of the first letter
.
Perhaps this had to be read for its deeper meaning. “
Duir
,” I said. “Oak.”

She nodded encouragement, gestured to indicate more was needed.

“Leader? Druid?”

She shook her head, then reached up as if to put on a hat. Or a crown.

“Queen?”

An encouraging wave of the hands suggesting I was almost there.

“King.”

A vigorous nod. And was that the very faintest trace of a smile? Morrigan's curse, this wise woman bestowed her smiles no more readily than I did mine.

The little woman skipped to the end, pointing to
straif
—four diagonal strokes across the center line.

“Thorn,” I said.

Before I could start on the magical interpretations of the tree, she signaled yes. Thorn was all she wanted. And now, with first and last letters accounted for, I understood the word between.

“Imprisoned, shut in, captive. The king is captive in the thorn?” That sent a shiver through me. “Does this refer to the creature in the tower?”

She rolled her eyes again.
No, stupid.
She pointed to
duir
, then indicated a height somewhat similar to her own.

“
Your
king? The king of the . . . small folk?”

Her nod said I was right. The curl of her lip suggested my choice of words could have been better. It was perhaps just as well I had not mentioned clurichauns. I was working out what question to ask next when someone shouted my name, not far away.

“Mistress Blackthorn! Where are you?”

In a trice, my companion was gone into the depths of the forest. And only just in time, for here was Onchú, striding toward me between the trees.

“I'm here, quite safe, gathering herbs for the cleansing ritual.” I picked up my laden basket, making sure my skirt screened the ogham inscription. “Did Lady Geiléis send you? I did explain that I need to make most of my preparations alone.”

“She was concerned, Mistress Blackthorn. Let me escort you back to the house now.”

“Very well. Thank you.” I had what I needed, for the time being. And the little woman was not going to reappear while this formidable
man-at-arms was with me; of that I was quite sure. His voice had made her blanch with fear.

“Onchú?” I ventured.

“Yes, Mistress Blackthorn? Careful, don't slip.” He reached out a hand to steady me as I came down a bank.

“Have you ever seen fey folk in these woods? Small ones, about this high?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I spotted something in the distance.” I wasn't going to talk about what had just happened. I would tell Grim, of course, but nobody else. If the small fey folk were afraid of Geiléis's guards, I'd best not reveal the fact that I had just met one of them. If the little woman was sworn to silence, at least where talking to me was concerned, I'd best not make it known that she had communicated in another way, a way known only to druids and wise women. It was hard to believe Geiléis's household did not know of their existence already. Surely everyone in the district must know. Why had nobody mentioned them? “It looked like a very small person in a cloak, running through the woods. But I might have been wrong; it could have been a—a squirrel. Or a bird.”