Tower of Thorns (8 page)

“Then the story could end either way,” said Geiléis. Her voice had shrunk to a whisper. “Thank you for your time, Mistress Blackthorn.”

I closed the door after her, then leaned on it with my eyes shut, trying not to see Cass and Brennan in the fire, trying to block out the smells and sounds of that day. Wretched Geiléis! She knew I wasn't going to help her, so why did she have to come prying with her silly questions and waking up the nightmare? True love and happy endings, pah! I paced, resisting the urge to throw something and the equally strong urge to burst into tears. Three strides this way, three strides that way. One fist striking the other palm as I went. Mathuin. It all came
down to Mathuin. I shouldn't be here; I should be in Laois, in the south, making sure that man paid the price for his crimes. Making him atone for Cass, for Brennan, for all the women he hurt and shamed and abandoned, for all the poor wretches locked up with us in that foul prison, for Grim, for me, for everyone he wronged. I could curse Conmael too, for holding me back. Only I couldn't, because if it hadn't been for him I'd be dead, and the dead can't wreak vengeance. Unless it's a wonder tale, of course. There was nothing wonderful about my story. “A pox on it!” I snarled, striding toward the door.

And there was Grim, balancing a heavily laden tray. “You talking to me?”

Somehow we avoided crashing into each other. I retreated to sit on the bench, and he entered to set his burden on the table. Suddenly the stillroom was full.

“No. And don't ask me what Geiléis said. I just want to sit here in the quiet.”

One of the qualities that made Grim bearable to live with was that I didn't need to tell him anything twice. If I wanted him to shut up, he shut up. If I needed him to talk, he talked. If I was in a foul mood, as now, he made a brew, gave me a cup, then got on with his own business. Often I didn't need to tell him at all. The only time he'd done something I didn't want was the time I tried to go back south on my own, and he followed me and stopped me. I couldn't blame him for that. It turned out he was right; if I'd gone then, I'd have made a mess of things. The scary part was, that time he'd seemed to know me better than I knew myself. If anything was uncanny, that was.

He set a cup beside me. “I'll be off, then.”

“Stay,” I said. “If you want.” And, after a bit, “She asked me about happy endings. The kind you get in tales. Whether I believed in them. Whether they could happen in real life.”

“Mm-hm.” Grim filled a cup for himself, sat down, passed a platter of bread and honey. “Upset you.”

“I'll live. I just hope she's done with her efforts to get something out of me that isn't there in the first place.”

“Eat,” suggested Grim. “It'll make you feel better.” So I did, and it did. And eventually, when we had made considerable progress on the bread and honey, he said, “About happy endings. Folk like a story to finish well. Doesn't matter if that's true to life or not. Helps to hear about folk being content. About good folk getting what they deserve. While you're listening you can believe, for a bit, that you're good too. Worth a happy ending.”

I dashed away a sudden treacherous tear. “You're saying they do only exist in stories.”

“Thing is, the story's like a different world. While you're in it, anything can happen. The stupid get wise, the ugly get handsome, the poor find pots of gold, the swineherd marries the lady of the house. Only, as soon as the tale's over, that's all gone. You're back in this world. And you're still poor or stupid or ugly or all three, and folk like Mathuin are still getting away with murder.”

“You knew I was thinking about him.”

“Not hard to guess.”

I wondered if Grim thought he was stupid or ugly or both, but I didn't ask him. “You once said a person has to have hope or it's not worth going on,” I said. “But maybe hope's the same as believing in happy endings.”

“Job to do,” Grim said succinctly. “Duty. Enough to make it worth going on.”

“Justice. The same.”

“Vengeance?”

“On its own, not enough.” I would not be satisfied with an assassination. I needed to see Mathuin face up to his ill deeds publicly and pay the penalty under the law. Many folk had suffered because of him.
Without justice, we would remain forever what he had made us: victims. “Vengeance and justice, together.”

“Family,” said Grim. “For them that have got one.”

“Comrades,” I suggested. “That's what men fight for, not for some grand cause.”

We sat quiet after that, each of us sunk in memories. Until a man-at-arms came to the door and asked, in an embarrassed mumble, if I knew how to lance a boil in an awkward place. He had a friend with him who was trying hard not to laugh. I was tempted to give him a smack.

Grim put everything back on his tray. “Better?” he murmured.

“I'll do.”

Grim

F
or a while we're both on edge. Thinking Lady Geiléis might talk to the prince or Flidais, convince them Blackthorn's the one to go to Bann with her and solve her problem. Convince them she needs Blackthorn more than they do. But days pass and nobody says anything. The prince has sent for the druid, Master Oisín. So Lady Geiléis is waiting.

Blackthorn goes to give Flidais a check-over, make sure the baby's growing right. Looks happier when she gets back. Flidais has said she'd never ask Blackthorn to go somewhere if she didn't want to, and nor would the prince. Just as well. If they did, Blackthorn would have to tell them the real reason she couldn't go, which is Conmael. And that story's not getting told. Once it's out, folk will know who we are and where we came from. Only one step from there to Mathuin finding us. That bastard wouldn't care about me. But sure as sure, he'd try to stop Blackthorn from talking.

Once I hear what Flidais has said, I'm happier too. Though not as happy as I'll be when Lady Geiléis is gone. Still got that funny feeling about her, the feeling I get when I know trouble's coming. Blackthorn says not to worry, she's not going to take a foolish risk by heading off to the border. Turns out she thinks a ritual won't make things much better at Bann anyway.

“It'll take more than that,” she says. “Master Oisín will have to stay up there and work it all out. Talk to people. Listen to their stories. Find out what brought the creature to the tower and why it's stayed there. Who drove it out the last time, and how, and why it came back.”

Seen that look in her eye before. “You're interested,” I say.

“Not interested enough to risk my whole future. And don't tell me I did that once already. I've learned my lesson.”

“Mm-hm,” I say. Keep the rest of my thoughts to myself. We're cursed, her and me. Cursed to a life full of nasty surprises. Soon as you start thinking it's plain sailing ahead, the worst storm in the world blows up. Still, a man can hope. If not, what's the point of going on?

•   •   •

Thought I knew Blackthorn pretty well: how she's feeling, whether I should stay around or leave her alone, what she needs doing. How she'll be if one thing happens or another. Then another visitor comes to court, and I find out how wrong I am.

We're out beyond the walls. Blackthorn wants to gather an herb that grows down on the rocks near the sea. Little crawling plant with flat leaves, looks like it's trying to hide in the cracks and chinks. Easy to miss. Blackthorn says she can use it in a salve for sore joints. Lots of folk ask her for that, so she's planning to make up a big batch. Gather it first, then soak the leaves to get the salt out, then grind them up and mix them with a lot of other things. Littlefoot, the herb's called.

She's busy gathering. Not an easy job. Has to find the stuff first, then make sure she doesn't take too much from one plant. Doesn't want to kill it. She's crouched down, picking and muttering to herself. Can't quite catch the words, but I know it's a kind of prayer, thanks for letting her take the herb and sorry at the same time. I've offered to help but she says no, my job is to keep an eye out for trouble. So that's what I'm doing when the traveler comes in sight. Walking along the road toward the fortress with a dog at his heels, big handsome thing, shaggy gray. Fellow's got a pack on his back, a staff in his hand, no weapons I
can catch sight of. Wearing a scholar's robe. Looks harmless, but you never know. Dog sees us first and heads in our direction. Fellow clicks his fingers, calls it back. He gives me a nod, then catches sight of Blackthorn, who's on her haunches with her back to him. Traveler freezes on the spot, staring. That's a surprise. Her and me, we try not to catch the eye. I'm big, she's got that bright red hair, but we're not as startling as all that.

“Man on the road,” I say, under my breath. “Looking at you.”

She straightens. Shields her eyes, gives the man a look back. I see a smile break out on his face. Looks like he knows her, and that can only be bad.

“Saorla!” he calls out. “Is it you?”

Blackthorn makes a word with her lips, only she doesn't say it—the fellow's name?—and then she's walking forward, and he's opening his arms, and she's running to him before I can say watch out, be careful. They throw their arms around each other; he's got his hand on her hair; she's crying. Dog's jumping around them barking its head off. I'm shocked. Can't think straight. This is not Blackthorn's way at all. It's like she's turned into a different woman.

For a crazy moment I wonder if it's her husband, Cass, somehow not dead after all. Who else would she hold on to like that? Who else's shoulder would she cry on? Makes me feel odd, all mixed up inside. Then I'm next to the two of them, putting a hand down for the dog to sniff, waiting for them to notice me. Blackthorn moves back but keeps hold of the fellow's hands. She's staring at him with her face all tears. Looks like she hardly believes what she sees. “But how is it you're here?” she's saying. “I thought you were dead with the others; how did you escape? Where have you been all this time?”

“I might ask you the same,” says the fellow. Looks a bit shaken up himself. “Where are you living? Close by here?”

“At the Dalriadan court, for now. It's a long story.” Blackthorn remembers me suddenly. “Grim, this is Flannan, a very old friend. From back in the . . . A friend of Cass's and mine.” She turns back to the newcomer. “Grim is my—traveling companion.”

“Greetings, Grim,” Flannan says, smiling. “Any friend of this lady's is a friend of mine.”

“Fine hound you have here,” I say. “Good company for the road.”

“This can't be Tempest,” puts in Blackthorn. “She'd be ancient by now.”

“Tempest's long gone. This one's Ripple, from the same bloodline. She's a fine friend; she's walked a long way with me. My work takes me from one house of prayer and learning to another, Grim. I'm a traveling scribe and scholar. That is how Saorla knows me.”

“I don't use that name now,” she says, quick sharp. “You should call me Blackthorn.” Flannan's a well-made fellow, tallish, maybe five-and-thirty, got some muscle on him, not what you'd expect for a scholar. A friend of Cass's, she said. She's hardly spoken her husband's name since the day our cottage was set on fire. That night she told me the story of how Cass and her son were burned to death when Mathuin's men torched her house. So Flannan's from the south and he knows her story, some of it anyway. Enough to put her in danger, most likely. But here she is, clutching his hands and smiling, face all wet with tears. I fish a handkerchief from my pouch and hold it out to her. She doesn't even see me.

“Where are you heading?” she asks him.

“West, toward Tirconnell.”

“In a hurry?”

Flannan smiles. “Monastic business is generally not conducted in great haste. I'm intending to study some manuscripts; I'm writing a book of tales, and they may provide good material. I'll tell you more later. For now, if you think the court of Dalriada would accommodate me for a night or two, I'll come with you. If that was what you were about to suggest.”

“I was,” says Blackthorn. “The king's away. Prince Oran is presiding at court. He's something of a scholar, and very fond of tales. His wife's the same. My guess is, you'll be welcome to stay there as long as it suits you.”

The three of us walk back together, me carrying Blackthorn's basket with the herbs, which she's forgotten all about. The hound, Ripple, pads along beside us. Flannan's trained her well. He only has to move a finger or murmur a word and she does what she's meant to. Nice to watch, that. Makes me think how good it would be to have my own dog, a proper one, I mean.

Nobody talks much on the way back. Flannan hadn't expected to walk into his old friend here in the north, and she's shocked to see him. There's a story behind this. For some reason she thought he was dead, and he isn't. But they don't talk about the past now. I'm guessing Flannan doesn't know yet if he can trust me. Doesn't want to talk with me around, which is fair enough. As for Blackthorn, she still hasn't got her head straight. But one thing's plain: she's happy. Happy deep down, like I've never seen before.