Lady Geiléis’s face is still puffed up from crying. She’s got a little handkerchief crumpled in her hand. “My lands are bordered to one side by the river Bann,” she says. “They take their name from that body of water. I have grazing fields, a tract of forest, my house and outbuildings, a scattering of farms and small hamlets whose folk look to me for leadership. I inherited my property from my father, and I have never wed. Across the Bann lies Tirconnell, territory of the northern Uí Néill. My holding is in Dalriada. A bridge spans the river some miles farther north. It is too far away for my folk to use. But at a certain point, where the Bann runs along my border, there is a ford, passable at all times save in severe flood. It lies in a wooded area, the trees growing densely on either side of the river. In the middle is an island, and on that island stands a tower.”
“The Tower of Thorns,” murmurs Blackthorn.
“You know of it?” Lady Geiléis sounds surprised.
“I remember the name from somewhere,” says Blackthorn. “It may be mentioned in an old tale, in connection with the river Bann. I do recall some mention of the ford and the tower together.”
“The Tower of Thorns,” says Lady Flidais. “That does indeed sound like something from a tale of magic and wonder. How did the place get its name, Lady Geiléis?”
“There are thornbushes growing on the island; it is a forbidding place. The tower is tall and lonely. For many long years, it has stood empty.”
“And now?”
“It is empty no longer. Something has taken up residence there. A . . . a presence. Since its arrival a kind of curse has fallen over the district. I cannot find any way to break it. I am at my wits’ end.”
Blackthorn’s bursting to ask more questions, plain to see that. But she keeps quiet.
“My home is isolated,” the lady goes on. “The folk who live within my borders are spread thin. We have neither wise woman nor druid. There is a monastery—St. Olcan’s—but this is hardly a matter for monkish intervention. The brethren know of the difficulty. Prayers have been offered up in their chapel for the banishment of evil spirits, but to no avail.”
Monks. I’m liking this less all the time. I swallow down bile, make myself take slow breaths.
“The tower is not easily accessible,” says the lady. “Not only is it in midstream, but there are the thornbushes, growing densely all around the base. The place was built so long ago that nobody can remember who set it there.”
“If the Tower of Thorns stands all alone, out of folk’s way,” says Prince Oran, “why does this represent such a threat, Lady Geiléis?”
“The island on which the tower is situated lies close to the ford. That ford is the only safe river crossing on my land, and indeed the only crossing of any kind for long miles up – or downstream. The banks are heavily forested; to approach the ford, one must walk, or ride, or drive stock along quite narrow ways through those woods. Since the arrival of this . . . creature . . . those ways are no longer safe.”
We’re all caught by the story now, whether we want to be or not. A monster in a tower. It’s like one of those old wonder tales Blackthorn’s so good at telling. Only this one’s true. Has to be. Why would the lady come all this way and then lie to us?
“The creature does not come out; it does not attack. By day, it makes noises—howling, wailing, crying—from the top of the tower. All day. Every day. When darkness falls it becomes quiet. But . . . it is not only the sound, terrible as that is. The monster has brought with it a curse. A strangeness has fallen over my lands in the summertime. Folk set out on straightforward errands, and some hours later find themselves in unknown parts of the wood, confused and exhausted. Stock wander into deep water and drown. Cattle drop dead calves. Hens will not lay. This continues right through the summer, just when crops should be growing and stock fattening. By the time it stops, when the season changes, the damage is done. I have never encountered anything like it. My folk turn to me for answers, but I have none for them.”
“It stops when the season changes?” says Blackthorn. “So this thing has been there for more than one summer?”
“This is the second. When it fell quiet last autumn I believed it gone. But alas, it returned with the first summer days.”
Odd that she’s waited this long to ask for help. Not for me to say, though.
“The monastery you mentioned earlier,” Blackthorn says. “Where is that in relation to the tower?”
“My home lies between the monastery and the tower. St. Olcan’s is a significant foundation; the brethren there are widely known and respected for their tradition of scholarship. The monks have been helpful, to the extent they can be. But I do not believe this is a demon to be driven out by Christian prayers. It has been suggested to me—this will sound odd—that the creature may be a manifestation of the Otherworld. Something old and dark, whose influence cannot be broken by ordinary means. My folk are frightened, Mistress Blackthorn. Burdened; weighed down. I do not know how to help them.”
“Does this curse, if that is what it is, lie over the monastery too?” asks Blackthorn. “Can the brothers travel these paths unaffected? And what about their stock, house cows and the like?”
“Their grazing field lies at some distance from the ford, and thus far their cows have been spared. As for the fell magic that disturbs the minds of men and animals and causes them to stray from the paths, the monks too are susceptible to it if they wander into the area close to the tower. To travel west with any degree of safety, one must go by circuitous ways. So this is difficult for St. Olcan’s too. They are accustomed to accommodating traveling scholars, and to making visits to other monastic houses. It is fortunate that the brethren keep pigeons for the purpose of sending and receiving messages; otherwise they would be quite isolated.”
“What about the owner of the land on the Tirconnell side of the river?” Donagan asks. “Has he taken any action to drive this thing out?”
“A chieftain of the Uí Néill oversees that district. I sought help from him some time ago, and my concerns were brushed aside as a madwoman’s ravings. His stronghold is located at a significant distance from the river, and his folk generally travel by the main road and the bridge, farther north. As far as he was concerned, not only was I out of my mind, but it was a Dalriadan problem and not his responsibility.”
“Two summers, you say. How did this thing come to the tower?”
“Nobody saw it arrive, Mistress Blackthorn. One day the tower was empty; the next the woods were full of screaming. Soon after, the misfortunes began.”
“It sounds like something from an old tale,” says Prince Oran. “And that makes me wonder if there are precedents. Mistress Blackthorn thought she remembered the Tower of Thorns from a story. Have you looked in the lore for answers, Lady Geiléis?”
For a bit, the lady doesn’t say anything. My guess is, she doesn’t want to tell us this part, whatever it is. “I have done some investigation, yes,” she says. “There are no tales about the Tower of Thorns. Only snippets, fragments. Rumors about the woods by the Bann. They suggest that something similar may have happened before, long ago. The same creature; the same enchantment or curse. The same misfortune. Endured not only once, but several times over by my forebears.”
We’re all staring at her. My guess is, I’m not the only one wondering if she really is a bit wrong in the head.
Blackthorn asks a good question. “Do these snippets include anything about what folk did the last time it happened, or the time before? The creature must have gone away, then returned for some reason. That’s if it really is the same one—it would have to be rather long-lived, if it’s been around since the time of your forebears. How was it driven out?”
“Ah.” Lady Geiléis looks down at her hands. “There are no clear answers on that point. It does seem that if anything is to be done, it must be done on Midsummer Eve. On that day, the thorns that bar entr
y to the tower are said to yield somewhat; a brave soul armed with a sharp ax might force a way in.”
Really is like one of those old tales, a good one. Or would be good if it was only a story, not real. Can it be real? “Tried to get through, have you?” I say. Seems fair enough to ask, seeing as she’s said this thing was there last summer too.
“I set foot on the island, last Midsummer Eve,” the lady says. “I attempted to slash a way through the thorns, though I did not know what might lie within the tower. The rumors, such as they are, tell us nothing about what a quester might encounter there, or what that person should do on encountering the creature. I knew only that I must bring an end to the terror and confusion brought by the tower’s strange tenant. But I fell short of achieving that. For a certain distance the thorns did indeed give way to my blade. But before I had gone far, the thing in the tower began an eldritch moaning, perhaps a kind of singing, and the branches began to snap back around me. Had I not retreated speedily I would have been trapped within the thicket of thorns; I would have perished there like a fly caught in a spider’s web. I had brought two guards with me, but neither could make any impact on the fearsome barrier; they tried ax, hatchet and knife to no avail. Mine was the only blade that could cut the stems. And as I said, that success was short-lived.”
There’s a silence; then Blackthorn says, “Forgive me, Lady Geiléis, but attempting such a feat on your own seems . . .” Crazy. That’s the word she wants. But she says, “It seems misguided. Why didn’t you send in your men-at-arms? What were you planning to do, fight the creature to the death on your own?”
I’m thinking the same thing. Fact is, though Lady Geiléis is tall for a woman, and well built, she’s hardly a warrior. Monster would likely snap her in half before she got two steps inside the tower.
“I thought . . .” The lady’s struggling for words now. “I believed that once I saw the thing face-to-face I would know what to do. Kill it, yes, I was prepared to do that. Or drive it out.”
“All by yourself,” says Blackthorn.
Lady Geiléis bows her head. “I was desperate, Mistress Blackthorn. I would do the same thing again, if only I could make a way into the tower. To silence that voice, to rid my lands of the curse, I would do almost anything.”
“Mistress Blackthorn’s right,” says Donagan. “It would make more sense to send in a warrior. Or several.”
“I had two armed men with me when I attempted to hack a way through; I told you. Neither of them made any progress, and both were hurt trying to save me from the thorns. Perhaps that should tell us something. I wish I knew what.”
“That it’s a job for a woman?” suggests Blackthorn.
Lady Geiléis gives her a look. “It is suggested in the old fragments of story that only a woman can prevail against this creature. It seems I am not that woman.”
Not liking the sound of this at all. Wish the prince would tell the lady to fix her own problems and leave the rest of us out of it. Wish Blackthorn hadn’t said what she’s just said. I can see where this is going, plain as plain. So although I don’t want to, I speak up again. “This sort of thing’s trouble,” I say. “And not the kind of trouble you can fix by running at it with a weapon in your hand.”
“I’m in complete agreement with that,” says Blackthorn. “A body doesn’t meddle lightly with such matters. Even if you’re right about Midsummer Eve, Lady Geiléis, marching in to confront this creature—to destroy it—could be disastrous, whether it’s one woman doing it or a whole troop of guards. Only a fool uses human means to combat the uncanny. Besides, the thing may not be evil, only . . . misguided. Frightened, perhaps.”
“You believe the tenant of the tower is fey.”
“If it were anything else,” Blackthorn says, “you’d have solved your problem long ago, one way or another. That’s if your account of matters is full and accurate.”
“Why would I lie to you, Mistress Blackthorn?”
“I didn’t say you were lying. But the story feels incomplete. How does this thing survive up in the tower on its own? What does it eat, birds plucked from the sky in midflight? Spiders and moths?”
“Someone—something—must supply its needs. What, I cannot say.”
For a bit it’s quiet. I can see Blackthorn thinking hard, choosing the right words, the safest words.
“You could call in a druid,” she says. “If there are none in your district, I think Prince Oran could find someone for you.”
“To do what?” asks Lady Geiléis.
“To cleanse and bless the land. To ask for the goodwill of whatever spirits dwell in that place.”
“Could not you fulfill that same task, Mistress Blackthorn?”
That’s come sooner than I thought it would. The lady hasn’t quite asked for Blackthorn’s help. But she’s come close; too close for comfort.
“A wise woman could do it, yes,” says Blackthorn. “But not this wise woman. I have work here. I can’t travel.” She waits a bit, then says, “When I suggest a ritual of that kind, Lady Geiléis, it doesn’t mean I’m certain it would achieve the end you desire. The fey don’t see the world in the same way as you or I might. To deal with them is to walk a perilous path, full of twists and turns, byways and dead ends. The fey have little comprehension of human feelings: love, friendship, loyalty, selflessness. That makes it hard for their kind and our kind to work in true cooperation. But the fey understand nature in ways humankind cannot; every part of their being is attuned to it. To bless the woods that lie under the curse, to cleanse the isle where the tower stands . . . I do not believe the ancient inhabitants of Bann would look unkindly on such a ritual.” She takes a breath, then says, “It is for that reason that I do not suggest something that might seem obvious: the use of fire.”
Things go quiet again for a bit; then Prince Oran says, “Astonishing.” Could be talking about what Blackthorn just said. Could mean the whole thing. Unbelievable would be another word.
“You’re very wise, Blackthorn,” says Lady Flidais with a smile. “Lady Geiléis, I understand why you might want Mistress Blackthorn to do this for you in person. But we need her here at Cahercorcan. Or, to be more precise, I do. She’s acting as my personal healer until our child is born. And after that, she has work at Winterfalls. An entire community depends on her skill.”
“If you believe it might help, Lady Geiléis,” says the prince, “I could certainly summon a druid to assist you. But it would take some time; we’d need to send a message south. I believe Master Oisín would oblige, provided we can find him. I could not promise he would be at Bann by midsummer.”
Lady Geiléis bows her head. “I see,” she says. Her voice is wobbly, like she’s holding back tears. I start to feel sorry for her, though I don’t want to. She’s trouble for us, for Blackthorn and me. I knew it as soon as I clapped eyes on her.
“It is so hard, I don’t know if I can go on,” she whispers. “And yet I must.”
Donagan’s been pretty quiet. He gets up now, pours more ale for everyone. Deirdre, who’s been even quieter, hands around the platter of cakes. But nobody’s eating.
“Why not send for Master Oisín anyway?” Donagan says. “The wait would give Lady Geiléis the opportunity for a well-needed rest—you and your escort could be easily accommodated here, my lady—and in the meantime we could apply our minds to other solutions for you. As Grim pointed out, this isn’t a problem that can be solved by a show of force.”
“Even if it were,” says the prince, “I would be reluctant to send men-at-arms to Bann for the purpose. That kind of action is too easily misunderstood by neighboring chieftains, and Lady Geiléis’s land lies right on the border with Tirconnell. Wars have broken out over less.”
“It is a frail hope,” says Lady Geiléis. “To wait for this druid, while time passes and midsummer draws closer . . . and then, perhaps, to bring him west only to find his blessi
ng no more effective than Father Tomas’s well-intentioned prayers . . .”
“Sometimes,” says Blackthorn, “answers take time to find. A long time. Druids know their lore; they spend years and years committing it to memory. Somewhere in that body of learning, there may lie an answer to your difficulty. Meanwhile, consider what we already know. This being has taken up residence in the tower. It is disturbed, distressed, perhaps angry. Since it came, some kind of spell has fallen over the land all around. The question I would be asking, if I were you, the key to the whole dilemma, is why?”
3
Geiléis
Tonight, as on every night, dusk would be heralded with a story. No matter that she was miles from home. She would tell the tale anyway, as she had over and over since she had first found herself trapped in the endless nightmare. She would tell it before her mirror, here in the guest quarters at Cahercorcan, with the door closed against the intrusions of Prince Oran’s serving folk. She would tell it in a whisper. Even if she had stood on the high walkway of the king’s stronghold and shouted at the top of her voice, he surely could not have heard her. He was too far away; beyond reach. But she would remain faithful. She would keep her promise. So, the nightly ritual.
Onchú stood watch outside her door. He would ensure she was undisturbed. She stood quite still in the center of the chamber. By the light of flickering candles she whispered the story: the old, old story. Each time it was a little different, for she twisted and turned it according to her mood. But no matter what the manner of telling, the tale was cruel as a knife; bitter as gall.
Long ago and far away, across valleys and over mountains, there lived a noble couple. Theirs was a prosperous holding, with many farms and settlements. There was a wide tract of woodland in which many creatures roamed. There was a broad river brimful with fish. On all sides there were peaceable neighbors.
The couple had but one child: a daughter. When she was a babe, her doting parents had used a pet name for her: Lily. As she’d grown older, the name had stuck. At sixteen, Lily was tall and straight, with long hair the color of ripe corn and wide eyes as blue as the summer sky. Folk thought her beautiful. She was a quiet girl, sweet and biddable, and all in that household loved her.