Getting darker. The monster’s voice is not so much of a wail now. Sounds more like a child who’s been crying so long he’s all out of strength. Harsh, rasping sort of sound. Sobbing. Like he’s defeated, giving up. Makes my throat hurt to hear it. For just a bit, I wonder if this monster’s not yelling threats and curses, but calling out Help! In my head there’s a little boy fallen down a well, or shut up in the dark, or stuck up a tree with night coming, and nobody to hear him.
“Look through that gap between the trees,” says Lady Geiléis to Blackthorn, “and you will see the tower.”
I look too, and there it is. Eerie, with the light starting to fade. Made all of pale stone, taller than the trees, and they’re old oaks, some of them. Window at the top. Can’t see if the shutters are open. Can’t see if the creature’s there, but the sound’s still coming, cracked and broken. Wisps of mist coming up from the river, creeping between those big trees, making a shroud for the place. Of course, it’s on an island. That’s what the lady said. Woods are so thick around the tower, all I can see of the river is a gleam here and there.
Birds, suddenly. Birds all around the tower, a dark cloud of them. The sun’s sinking; nearly dusk.
“Ride on,” says Lady Geiléis.
“Wait!” Blackthorn’s not moving, and even though she’s not much of a rider, her horse keeps still too.
“We must move on, Mistress Blackthorn. The path is not easy; we must reach our destination while there is still sufficient light.”
Blackthorn’s not hearing her. She’s staring at the tower, the birds, the window that might or might not be open.
“Mistress Blackthorn!” Geiléis is sharp now. “We must move on.”
Those birds; if they were making a sound, could we hear it? Or are we too far away? Could be it’s like Dreamer’s Wood. Full of magic, dangerous stuff, so birds know to keep quiet. One thing I can guess, looking at that tower. Whatever’s in it is uncanny. Or it’s something trapped there by a spell. A spell so strong, even I can feel it.
The lady reaches out to grab hold of Blackthorn’s bridle and haul her away, which I could tell her wouldn’t be a good idea at all.
“Give her a moment, my lady,” I say, speaking loud so she can hear me over the monster. “Could be important.”
Don’t much like the look Lady Geiléis gives me. Chilly as a lake on midwinter morning. That look tells me what she really thinks—that I’m too stupid to take any part in this, and that she can’t understand why Blackthorn lets me tag along.
Flannan takes the wool out of his ears. “Holy Mother of God,” he says. “That’s the saddest sound I heard in my life.”
“Mm,” murmurs Blackthorn. “I want to wait here until the sun sets, Lady Geiléis.” Seems she did hear after all.
“Impossible. The track would be far too dangerous in the dark.”
“You said the crying stops at sunset. I want to hear that. I want to see what those birds do when it ceases.”
“The birds? What part can they play in this?”
“I don’t know. But I’m here to find a solution for you, and I cannot do so if you restrict me.” Got that note in her voice, the one that means trouble’s coming.
“We could come up another day,” I say. For once, I think the lady’s right. Makes no sense to risk the horses just because Blackthorn’s got a bee in her bonnet about something. “On foot. Wait for the sunset. Bring a lamp for the way back.”
Geiléis looks at me again, not so chilly. “Indeed.”
The horses are restless, picking up their feet, twitching their ears, ready for the home stable and a good feed. Even Blackthorn, with her eyes fixed on the tower, can’t miss it. “Very well,” she says, and turns her horse. “Either here, or somewhere else with a good view of the top.”
“Ah,” says the lady. “For that, there is no need to venture so far. The tower is clearly visible from a certain spot in my house. Now come. The power of that place and its inhabitant is far greater than you imagine. We must not linger here.”
Turns out Lady Geiléis’s house has its own tower. Small one, on the corner. Built all of stone, like those old fortifications you find here and there. The rest of her house is stone too, big dressed blocks that would have been hard to lift. Looks as if it’s been there a few generations. Moss growing all over; thatch darkened with the wet. Forest all around, couple of old oaks growing up right beside the house. Someone’s lit torches by the entry to show us the way in. Monster’s stopped its wailing. I’m guessing it went quiet right when the sun dipped out of sight. Couldn’t see, riding through the woods. The birds—there’s no knowing what they did, though there are birds in the trees around the house, making the little chirps, peeps and hoots that mean good night. Could do with a sleep myself. Blackthorn’s got a look in her eyes that says her temper’s holding by a thread. She needs food, quiet, rest. Soon. Hope Lady Geiléis can see that.
We go in through a gate in the wall and stop in a courtyard, nothing grand. I make sure I’m down quick enough to give Blackthorn a hand. She looks like she might have trouble standing on her own. That’s when I remember Flannan isn’t meant to be staying here at all. But here he is, with his dog, and it’s almost night.
“Master Flannan,” says the lady. Her men-at-arms are leading the horses away. The house door’s open and a fellow with a lamp is waiting to see us in. “It is too late for you to ride on to St. Olcan’s tonight. Please accept my hospitality until the morning; one of my folk will take you there after breakfast.”
Makes sense. Trouble is, if he’s around, I’ll get no chance to talk to Blackthorn on her own until bedtime. Maybe not even then.
Flannan thanks her and we go indoors. The fellow at the door is Geiléis’s steward. Name of Senach. There are other serving folk around, waiting to be told what to do.
“Grim and I need our own chamber, with two beds,” says Blackthorn. “I imagine Master Flannan will be happy with a place in your men’s quarters.” She’s trying not to let everyone see how the journey’s worn her out.
“You’ll be weary, all of you,” Lady Geiléis says. “Senach will arrange for a light supper to be sent to your quarters; we don’t stand on ceremony here. Time enough to talk again in the morning.” She gives Blackthorn a direct sort of look. Blackthorn meets it, as steady as a rock, though I know she’s dropping with tiredness. “You’re sure you would not prefer a chamber all to yourself, Mistress Blackthorn?”
“Quite sure, Lady Geiléis. Can your household not accommodate my request?”
“Senach,” says the lady, “show Mistress Blackthorn and her . . . friend to the guest quarters. Dau, take Master Flannan to the men’s quarters, and arrange for all of our visitors to be provided with hot water for bathing. The dog will need to be fed; I’m sure you can find something suitable.” She looks at Blackthorn again, then at me, but holds back whatever it is she wants to say. I’m guessing she doesn’t want to offend Blackthorn, because she needs her problem solved. And if she didn’t know Blackthorn had a mind of her own when we left court, she must know now. “I wish you a good night’s rest.”
“Just one thing.”
“Yes, Mistress Blackthorn?”
“The stairs to that higher level of the house—where are they?”
“The high chamber is accessible only through my private quarters.”
“I see,” says Blackthorn, maybe not so tired after all. “Since I was unable to watch and listen as the creature fell quiet at sunset, I would like to be present in the morning when it wakes. Shall I knock on your door a little before dawn?”
Something funny going on here. Beyond me.
“Let us delay this one more day, Mistress Blackthorn. That was a long ride. I, for one, intend to sleep late tomorrow.”
“We don’t have a lot of time,” Blackthorn says. “As you’ve pointed out.”
“True; but one day wi
ll make no great difference. Besides, you’ll be wanting to take breakfast with Master Flannan before he leaves, since the two of you are old friends.” Never mind that the creature starts its noise at dawn, according to the story, and Flannan’s not going to be rushing off to this monastery as early as that. Though the brothers will be early risers. That I know.
“The day after tomorrow, then,” Blackthorn says. “I’ve no wish to disturb you in your private quarters, but if that’s the only stairway to your tower I’ll need to do so, more than once. I want to hear how it starts and stops. I want to see if anything changes.”
“I have watched it over and over, Mistress Blackthorn.”
“And learned nothing from it,” Blackthorn says, blunt as ever. “Isn’t that why I’m here?”
“We are all weary,” says the lady. She looks it, same as Blackthorn. Pale as pale, her eyes all dark shadows. “I will accommodate your needs in due course. Now I’ll bid you good night. If you need anything, ring the bell in your quarters and my folk will attend you.”
14
Geiléis
It seemed to Geiléis that the mirror lied. The woman in the polished bronze was every inch a queen. Her golden hair was plaited into a crown. She held her back straight and her head high. Nobody would have doubted that she held control of her own destiny.
“Who are you?” Geiléis whispered. “Pretender! I do not know you.”
Her reflection gazed back, eyes wide, brows lifted as if in silent mockery. Behind her the bedchamber was quiet, shadowed, a single lamp casting soft light from the chest in the corner, by the little stairway to her tower. Up there, the shutters had been closed for the night. She had come too late for dusk. Across the forest in his own tower, he would be sleeping. A blessed time of respite, until tomorrow’s dawn.
“This is impossible.” Despite her best efforts, her voice shook. By all the powers, could she not keep a rein even on that? She made herself breathe deeply; tried to hold herself tall, as that other woman did. “It is intolerable. I look at you and I see—I see weakness. I see falsehood. I see failure.”
Perhaps the woman in the bronze smiled just a little. It was hard to tell.
“The healer—this Blackthorn—she will be as useless as the others, and you know it,” Geiléis muttered. “They’ve all been useless. Nobody can do it. Who but a fool or a half-wit would undertake such a task willingly? Blackthorn is neither. Indeed, I believe she may be altogether too astute.”
A tap at the door. She flung the cloth over the mirror, veiling the lying mask of her reflection. “Come in!”
Senach, with a tray. “My lady, your supper.”
“I can’t eat.”
“Perhaps later, my lady. I will leave it here.” Her steward set the tray down on a chest carved with oak leaves and acorns. “Your guests are settled. All that you requested has been provided for them. And word came from Father Tomas. He will send one of the brothers in the morning to escort Master Flannan to St. Olcan’s.”
“Thank you, Senach.” He was a good servant. It was too easy to take him—to take all of them, patient and loyal as they were—for granted. “You have done well.”
He bowed his head in acknowledgment. They expected little from her. Which was as well, since she had little left to give.
“There are times when it is near impossible to go on, Senach. When the flame of hope might be extinguished by the merest sigh. I do not think I can bear another failure.”
A silence.
“Nothing to say?”
“It is not for me to express an opinion, my lady. I serve you. I serve your will.”
“And if I told you my will is as fragile as that flame I spoke of? That I look at myself in the mirror and see beneath the surface an old woman, weak and exhausted?”
“Then I would say, my lady, that Midsummer Eve is not far away. Whatever is needed to keep that flame burning, we will do it for you. We would give our lives for you, Lady Geiléis. Every one of us.”
“I know.” She drew a deep breath; released it in a sigh. “And what choice is there, when it comes to it? Very well; here are my instructions, for now. The woman, Blackthorn—she is inquisitive, Senach. Clever. Observant. Not like the others. I don’t want her discovering the full truth too early, or she may turn tail and run. But we mustn’t appear to be impeding her investigations. I persuaded her to come to Bann on the grounds that she might find a solution for me, and we must allow her to take what steps she thinks appropriate. We should let her learn enough to hold her interest until the time comes. But not too much. She is the kind of person who might want to meddle. Already she shows a desire to take control of the situation. That we cannot have.”
“And the fellow, Grim?”
“I don’t believe such a man can present any threat, save in his devotion to the woman. I doubt the fellow will observe anything that the healer misses. Let him trail along behind her until we near the end.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Mistress Blackthorn has expressed a wish to observe the activity of the birds at the tower; I cannot imagine why. She can be admitted to my chamber at dawn, if she insists, but not at dusk. You might instead offer to take her and the man up the hill to a spot with a clear view. Make sure she does not see anything else, Senach. No activity on the ground. Nothing untoward in the woods. Make sure the word goes out.”
“I will attend to it, my lady.” Her steward paused; cleared his throat. “I hope you will take a little of the supper. It will give you strength.”
“That will be all for tonight.” She waved a hand toward the door.
“Yes, my lady.”
• • •
Alone once more, Geiléis used her lamp to light a candle. Then, step by careful step, she climbed to the upper level. Never mind that dusk had fallen some while ago. She must keep faith. Her folk believed in her. They still had hope, even after so long. Senach was right; Midsummer Eve was drawing ever closer. Perhaps, against all odds, this time she would succeed. Perhaps this healer with her shock of flaming hair and her prickly ways would be the answer she needed. Perhaps, perhaps . . . And in the meantime, although he slept, the story must be told . . .
Lily slept little that night. Her mind was alive with Ash: the way he had looked at her, the brief touch of his hand, the whisper of his breath against her cheek. His words: You are a lamp in the dark, a fair flower in the shadows. Nobody had ever spoken to her like that, and it made her feel quite odd. Why had she left him in the tower all alone? Why had she not run to her father or to the household steward, explained the situation and asked for help? Yes, that would have meant confessing she had been out in the woods without any companions, and that would have led, without doubt, to her being prevented from going back, and that meant, almost certainly, that she would never see Ash again. But what if she returned to the tower tomorrow and he was lying dead, when she could have saved him?
Next morning she endured an hour of embroidery, an hour of practicing the harp, an hour of exercising the lapdogs in the courtyard and kitchen garden, where they dug a deep hole while she sat on a bench and dreamed of Ash. She returned the dogs, filthy but in good spirits, to her mother. She went to the larder and helped herself to a slice of mutton pie, two apples and, on further consideration, a small bag of sweetmeats. All this she smuggled to her bedchamber. It helped that her maid, Muiríol, was fond of one of the grooms, and welcomed any excuse to make a trip out to the stables or to the field where the horses were exercised. But it startled Lily to discover her own talent as a dissembler and thief.
She found another water skin, though she hoped Ash would, at the very least, have regained enough strength to get down the stair to the island, where the river could provide as much water as anyone could possibly want. Perhaps the little ferryman would have brought him back over. Indeed, the more she thought about it, the more obvious it became that Ash would have gone home,
wherever home was. He was surely tall enough to wade to shore with no difficulty. Of course he would be gone. He would have been braver than she was. He would have faced up to his family and told them he’d been out late, and had drunk too much, and had fallen down and hurt himself, and had then found himself in a strange place, and had suffered disturbing dreams . . . He wouldn’t be there, she told herself. And that was a good thing. But she would still go, just in case.
She found bandages and salve in the stillroom, making sure she slipped in and out while her mother was occupied with bathing the lapdogs. Back in her chamber, she packed everything into a bag and, hearing Muiríol’s voice from the hallway as her maid returned from the stables, thrust it under her bed. She waited, trying not to think of him and failing miserably.
Then there was the midday meal to get through, and a conversation during which she made brief responses while barely aware of what her parents were saying. The meal seemed interminable. Her mother commented that Lily seemed out of sorts; perhaps she was unwell? Lily agreed that it was time for her rest, and that she might stay abed a little longer than usual. She retired, telling Muiríol to take the afternoon off. She closed her bedchamber door.
Then it was bag on her back, shutters open, down the oak tree, out through a tiny door in the outer wall that only the kennel boys used, and away through the forest to the tower. Lily was certain nobody had seen her go; she had made herself as swift as a shadow.
Today the sun was veiled by clouds, and the river flowed sullen and gray. Lily made her way along the bank to the little pebbly beach, but no small craft bobbed there in the shallows. There was no sign of the ferryman. Should she call out? What if her voice alerted the wrong person to her presence—a traveler heading north across the ford, or even someone from home, who would surely tell her parents she’d been in the woods alone?
“Ferryman?” She dared a soft call. “Are you there?”