Now, in those days, the fey walked the land of Erin more openly than they do now. In the forest close by her father’s holdings, Lily would sometimes glimpse a cloaked woman moving between the great oaks, or a tall man clad all in green, bending to converse with his own reflection in the water of a woodland pond. She was not sure what it was about such folk that told her they were fey; she simply knew, and knew instantly. Lily was cautious; she had heard tales of men and women wandering into mushroom circles, or venturing into caves at twilight, or taking other risks that led them into a world from which there was no returning. Her mother had warned her that the fey were tricky, dangerous, not to be trusted, and in general Lily did her best to avoid them.
But after her sixteenth birthday, a restless spirit grew in Lily. No longer content with embroidery or spinning or playing with her mother’s lapdogs, she snatched the chance, when she was supposed to be resting in her bedchamber, to slip out the window, climb down by means of a conveniently placed oak tree, and head off into the forest alone. This was quite against the rules—her handmaid and a guard were supposed to accompany her anytime she ventured out. That was only common sense. Had her parents known of Lily’s solitary expeditions, they would have been deeply disturbed.
A river flowed through these woods. In the river was an island, a lovely place all covered with wildflowers, and on the island stood a tower. That tower drew Lily as a selkie’s song draws a lonely fisherman. It fascinated her; it had done since she was a small child and had been told by her parents that the place was dangerous and that she was never to go there. It had not been explained what the danger was, but as Lily grew older she heard folk talk about rotting wood and crumbling stones, sudden steep drops and hidden wells. She heard hints about magic. And she noticed that nobody, nobody at all, ever seemed to set foot on the island. No wonder birds thronged there, and insects on the blossoms. For them, it was paradise.
Nobody knew who had built the tower; nobody knew how long it had been there. The ford that lay quite close to the island saw daily traffic of many kinds: horsemen, oxcarts, herds of goats, folk on foot with bundles held over their heads. A person could not reach the island from the ford without wading into quite deep water; to do so without being seen was well-nigh impossible. Should a goose girl or swineherd or carter spot Lily attempting it, word would soon get to her father, and her father would make sure that was the last time she visited the tower.
But Lily, that good, obedient girl, had found another way across. It was the day of Beltane when she made her discovery. Folk were sleeping off the effects of a night of revelry, and nobody was about. The road was quiet, the ford deserted. The fair isle called to her, with its greensward and its flowering bushes and its tower rising to the sky in an elegant sweep of moss-softened stone. But the river was flowing high. Trying to wade across would be a foolish risk. Besides, how would she explain her wet clothing when she got home? Maybe there were stones to balance on, or a fallen tree, or some other way to get over. Lily went along the riverbank, picking a path through the dense growth of shade-loving plants. Once, she slipped, and in clutching at the nearest stem to stop herself from falling in, she bloodied her palm on thorns. Muttering an oath, she forced a way through to find herself on a tiny strip of level shore, covered in neat round pebbles, all shades of brown and gray and green. They were remarkably uniform in shape.
Lily found a handkerchief in her pouch and used it to bind up her bleeding hand. Already, her mind was fashioning explanations. She knew that just a season ago, she would not have dreamed of deceiving her parents thus. But something had got into her; something had changed her. Perhaps it was all part of growing up.
She used her teeth to tighten the knot in the makeshift bandage. It was as she did so that she spotted the boat. Had it been there a moment before? She could not say, but now it bobbed in the shallows as if waiting for Lily to climb aboard. The little craft was shaped like half of a walnut shell, and was just big enough for one young woman to sit in and row herself to the island, had there been oars. Oh, but she wanted to go across. She wanted so much to climb that tower, climb to the very top where she could look out over the dark expanse of the forest and the long, silver winding of the river, and catch a glimpse of the mysterious lands that lay beyond. Although she knew it was foolish, she felt she might give almost anything to do that.
Perhaps there was a stick she could use as a pole, or a piece of bark for a paddle . . . She cast around for something useful.
“What will you give me if I take you over?” spoke up a wee little voice. And there on the sward was a wee little man not much higher than Lily’s knee, and clad all in green like the folk in the old tales. The diminutive fellow doffed his hat and gave Lily a bow. “You want to use the ferry, you pay the ferryman.”
“Ferry?” echoed Lily. “It’s rather small, isn’t it?”
“I think I can count up to one,” said the little man, “and one of you is what I see. Room for you, room for me. What will you pay?”
Now, Lily did not carry silver pieces or coppers or anything of the like when she went walking in the forest; why would she? Besides, she’d been taught not to trust the fey, and though all the fey folk she’d seen before had been tall and stately, who was to say they did not come in all shapes and sizes? Either way, she knew she should be careful. “What is the usual fee?” she asked, thinking of an old and disturbing story in which an unwary passenger found himself obliged to act as ferryman until he could convince someone to take his place. No matter how badly she wanted to explore the tower, she must not fall victim to a trick of that kind.
“A coin, a kiss, a tale, a promise. A bag of magic beans, a feather from a singing bird, a hair from your head.”
A hair. That should be simple enough. She was already plucking it when doubt came over her. “Why would you want a hair?”
“Pretty,” said the wee man. “Like gold.”
“And that really is all you want? Will one hair get me over to the island and back again?”
“It will, and more besides.”
She plucked the hair, coiled it into the shape of a ring, and gave it to the ferryman, who did not put it on his finger, but slipped it into the leather pouch at his belt. Yes, Lily was foolish. But she was sixteen years old, and the rising, capricious tides of Beltane were flooding through her body and spirit. Such things happen.
She stepped into the little boat, and the ferryman got in after her, with a long pole in his hand, and took her on a bobbing, uneven course out onto the river. The ferry was not the most comfortable of boats, but the wee fellow knew what he was about. In next to no time they reached the island, and Lily disembarked onto another pebbly shore.
“You will wait for me, won’t you?” she asked. “I want to have a look at the tower. Climb up, if I can.”
“When you want me, do this.” The wee man stuck his fingers in his mouth and delivered a piercing whistle.
“When I want you, I’ll call ‘Ferryman!’” Lily said. “I have never learned to whistle like that.”
“Useful skill,” observed the ferryman. “Off you go, then; take a look around. You never know what you might find in a spot like that.” He jerked his head toward the tower, but did not quite look at it.
So, at last she was here. Such a lovely place, all grown over with a profusion of flowering plants, here and there a small tree—a hawthorn, an elder—and the air filled with a wonderful sweet scent. Patches of soft grass seemed to invite a traveler to lie down and dream awhile; flat stones provided perfect spots to sit and listen to the singing of birds, the rippling of the river and the sighing of the wind in the trees. But there was the tower, standing at the highest point, and Lily set her steps toward it, not letting herself linger. Who knew how soon her small ferryman might grow tired of waiting and head off on his own business?
The base of the tower was broad; it took some time to walk right around it. Mosses clothed
the pale stones in a soft garment; flowers grew everywhere, a bright carpet. The voices of birds made a high music. And ah! here was the door at last, and it stood open. Within, all was shadow.
Lily drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders. She was not afraid; not really. But her heart was beating like a drum, and her palms were suddenly clammy. It was so dark in there. She took a step inside, and another step. There was a spiral stair against the tower wall, stretching up, ladder-steep, into the shadows.
Very well. She tucked her hem into her belt and up she went, treading with care. Spiders had colonized the tower’s interior; their webs were everywhere, catching at her hair, tickling her fingers, covering her skirt with filmy white strands. Things scuttled and scurried and whisked out of sight. The darkness was not complete; had it been so, she would indeed have been risking her life on this stair. From somewhere above, a faint light filtered down. There must be a window, an opening up there, Lily thought. She might be able to stand at the top looking out, as she had dreamed.
The stair came to an end, and she stepped forward into a round chamber. There was indeed a window, but its shutters were drawn together; between them a narrow gap admitted a thin bar of light, which fell across the wooden floor. It was cold in the chamber; the chill sent a shiver through Lily, and she hugged her shawl around her. The empty room seemed somehow a disappointment, though she was not sure what else she had expected. Still, there were those shutters, and the view outside. But she hesitated; she did not rush across to throw them open. Something felt wrong here; what was it that set her on edge? Lily stood quiet a moment or two, and in the quiet she heard something. A sound so faint that it would have been easy to miss. A sound softer than the creak of the floor under her feet, softer than the rustling of mice in the wall, softer than the distant murmur of the river, down below the shuttered window. The sound of breathing.
Almost, she turned and fled back down the precipitous stair. But no; this was an adventure, like something from an old tale. She must be brave.
She walked steadily to the window, lifted her hands to the shutters and flung them open. In the chamber behind her, nothing stirred. It seemed, now, that the breathing had ceased. She turned.
There was a man in the tower room. He lay sprawled on the floor, clad in little more than a torn linen shirt and leggings. His face was ghost white in the light from the window; his hair was as dark and glossy as a crow’s wing. His eyes were closed. He might have been dead, or merely asleep. He was the most beautiful young man Lily had seen in her whole life. All sixteen years of it.
Her heart hammered. What should she do? Slip away without a sound? Touch him, try to move him? Scream for the ferryman? Run back home, admit that she had broken the rules, fetch help?
Be calm, she told herself. What was it that drew you here, but this? She went over to the young man, crouched down and bent close, so close that surely, if he breathed, she would feel it against her cheek. Let him not be dead, she prayed. Please, let him live.
And there it was, slow and steady; the soft whisper of his breath against her skin. Her heart leaped. In that moment, her whole world changed.
Darkness had fallen; it was night.
“Tomorrow,” Geiléis whispered. “I will tell more tomorrow.” Oh, if only the story could end there, in that moment of wonder. If only it could end with youth and innocence and hope. “Sleep now, until the morning.”
4
Blackthorn
Grim and I were in our chamber preparing for bed. “No sign of Lady Geiléis at supper,” I said. “That was something of a relief.”
“Long ride from Bann,” said Grim. “Four or five days, the fellows were saying. She must be tired out. And upset. Hoped for more from the prince. Made that plain enough.”
Geiléis’s arrival had set me on edge. Perhaps that feeling was a warning. Perhaps it was only the anticipation of change. I knew Grim felt the same, and I had learned that his judgment was reliable. His appearance and manner might once have earned him the name Bonehead, but beneath the blockish exterior and straightforward manner was a person of sharp instincts and natural wisdom. It had taken me a long time to see that fully.
“The prince can do whatever he wants for her,” I said. “As long as nobody asks me to help. Going to Bann and dealing with this monster is not the way I planned to spend the summer.”
“The prince won’t want you heading off. Not with Lady Flidais and the child and all.” Grim’s was the voice of common sense. “He’ll wait for the druid. No need to worry.”
He was wrong, and he knew it as well as I did. A magical puzzle to be worked out; a task only a woman could perform. An entire district depending on the problem being solved by midsummer. Lady Geiléis clearly desperate for a solution . . . Surely it was only a matter of time before she asked me directly to help her and put me in an impossible situation. Oddly enough, part of me wanted to set things right for her. The story of the screaming monster in the tower intrigued me. But I couldn’t go. Getting involved in a matter right on the border would be asking for trouble. I had promised Conmael I would stay in Dalriada. Take one step into Tirconnell and I’d be bound to my fey mentor for an extra year. A river, an island . . . It would be all too easy to take that step without even realizing I’d done it.
Besides, if this was an uncanny curse, a doom that might have been in place, on and off, for years, it would not be easily lifted. It could not be up to me, or indeed to any ordinary person, to do so. I knew in my bones that the cleansing ritual, though it might help, would not be the complete answer. Someone needed to find out what had brought that being to the tower.
“You could ask Conmael,” Grim said.
“You reading my thoughts now?”
He smiled. “Nah. Just having the same ones. What do you think?”
“Conmael’s not here.”
“Can’t he pop up anywhere he wants? By magic? Remember when we were on the road. Him and his friends did that when it suited them.”
“When it suited them. Not us.”
“Seems to me,” Grim said, “that fellow’s on your side, even if he’s been hard on you. Wants you to get on, you know? Don’t much care for him, myself, but he’s been a help. You can’t say otherwise.”
“I don’t want to ask him. And I don’t want to go to Bann. I want to stick to his wretched rules and get the seven years over.” And then I’ll go back to Laois and make Mathuin pay.
“Mm-hm.”
“I’ll stay out of Geiléis’s way. I’ll keep as busy as I can. You can help by warning me if you see her coming, so I can avoid her. With luck Master Oisín will get here soon, and she’ll be off home again before she has a chance to ask me outright for help.”
“Mm-hm.”
“Stop saying that! It sounds as if you’re saying yes and meaning no.”
“Night, then. Sleep well.”
“Hah!” Neither of us ever slept well. Our nights were a tangle of bad dreams, the ghosts of the past come back to torment us. “You too, Grim.”
• • •
I was not best pleased next morning when, just as I was at the most difficult stage of preparing a salve, there was a polite tap at the stillroom door. I swallowed the snarling Go away that sprang to my lips. That kind of knock might mean Flidais or one of her attendants, Deirdre or Nuala. “Who is it?” I called.
The door opened and there was the Lady of Bann, clad in a gown of russet red with her hair in cunningly interwoven plaits. So much for avoiding her. I could feel myself scowling. “Lady Geiléis. Did you need something?”
“To speak with you, if you permit. May I come in?”
“I’m busy. If I interrupt this preparation, the mixture will curdle and be spoiled. Sit on that bench, over there.”
Geiléis sat. If she thought me unmannerly, she gave no sign of it. I took my time with the preparation. Rushing it was likely to see a botch
ed result, which meant good ingredients wasted. So I stirred the mixture in its little pot on the brazier, tested it from time to time, eventually took it off the heat, added further components, stirred again and waited until it was well thickened. I spooned it carefully into a sturdy jar. My visitor waited in silence while I washed pot, ladle, spoon, knife and chopping board in the bucket and wiped them dry.
When all was to rights, I dried my hands on my apron and addressed Lady Geiléis. There had been plenty of time to rehearse the right words in my mind. “I’m hoping you have not come to ask me if I can travel west with you, my lady. I understand how difficult things are for you, and I have some sympathy. But I’ve given Lady Flidais my word that I will stay here and look after her. She needs me.”
“You take your calling seriously.”
“Why would I not?” Impossible to sound anything but sharp.
“I meant no offense. Watching you work is an education.”
“I work better on my own. Was there something else you needed? Were you seeking some kind of remedy?”
“Your opinion only.”
“I’m a healer, not a councilor.”
I saw Geiléis school her features. Thinking, no doubt, that I sounded hostile and wondering why.
“All I ask is that you listen awhile,” she said. “I seek nothing further from you.”
“Very well. You’ll excuse me if I get on with my work while you talk.” I busied myself, wondering what was coming.
“You are a wise woman, Mistress Blackthorn. A wise woman is generally well versed in ancient lore, or so I understand. And . . . I believe it is usual for your kind to be more open than most to the strange and uncanny. More precisely, to the fey. Some folk do not believe they exist outside the old tales. But you were quick to suggest the creature in the Tower of Thorns is not of this world. Tell me, in the course of your years as a healer, have you yourself encountered beings of that kind?”