Tower of Thorns Read online

  ALSO BY JULIET MARILLIER

  THE BLACKTHORN & GRIM NOVELS

  Dreamer’s Pool

  THE SEVENWATERS NOVELS

  Daughter of the Forest

  Son of the Shadows

  Child of the Prophecy

  Heir to Sevenwaters

  Seer of Sevenwaters

  Flame of Sevenwaters

  THE LIGHT ISLES

  Wolfskin

  Foxmask

  THE BRIDEI CHRONICLES

  The Dark Mirror

  Blade of Fortriu

  The Well of Shades

  Heart’s Blood

  Prickle Moon

  FOR YOUNG ADULTS

  Wildwood Dancing

  Cybele’s Secret

  Shadowfell

  Raven Flight

  The Caller

  ROC

  Published by New American Library,

  an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  This book is an original publication of New American Library.

  Copyright © Juliet Marillier, 2015

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Roc and the Roc colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  For more information about Penguin Random House, visit penguin.com.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  Marillier, Juliet.

  Tower of thorns: a Blackthorn & Grim novel / Juliet Marillier.

  pages cm.—(Blackthorn & Grim; book 2)

  “A ROC BOOK.”

  ISBN 978-0-698-13923-7

  I. Title.

  PR9619.3.M26755T69 2015

  823’.914—dc23 2015019510

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Also by Juliet Marillier

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Character List

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  For my granddaughter Jamaica

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My heartfelt thanks to the team at Pan Macmillan: Claire Craig, Libby Turner and Brianne Collins; and to Anne Sowards and her team at Penguin U.S. I have found their support invaluable. A very special thank-you to Arantza Sestayo for capturing the spirit of the book so wonderfully in her cover painting. My agent, Russ Galen, has believed in this project from the first, and that is more valuable than I can put into words.

  My daughter Elly has been a valuable brainstorming partner and beta reader, creative, honest and patient. The wise and serene Tamara Lampard was my sounding board for matters magical and uncanny.

  The central characters in this book have been seriously damaged by past trauma. In preparation for writing the novel, and the series, I read a lot about the effects of PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) and strategies for coping with the condition. I should mention two brilliantly written books by Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist David Finkel: The Good Soldiers, about the experience of a U.S. infantry battalion in Iraq during the so-called “surge” of 2007, and Thank You for Your Service, Finkel’s follow-up volume dealing with the fallout for those servicemen and their families after their return home.

  CHARACTER LIST

  This list includes some characters who are mentioned by name but don’t appear in the story.

  At Winterfalls

  Oran: prince of Dalriada

  Flidais: Oran’s wife

  Donagan: Oran’s companion

  Deirdre: Flidais’s chief handmaid

  Nuala: maidservant

  Mhairi: maidservant

  Seanan: man-at-arms

  Blackthorn: wisewoman, formerly known as Saorla (seer-la)

  Grim: her companion

  Emer: (eh-ver) Blackthorn’s young assistant

  At Cahercorcan (The Court of Dalriada)

  Ruairi: king of Dalriada; Oran’s father

  Eabha: queen of Dalriada; Oran’s mother

  Sochla: Eabha’s sister

  Master Caillín: court physician

  Rodan: man-at-arms

  Domnall: senior man-at-arms

  Eoin: man-at-arms

  Lochlan: man-at-arms

  At Bann

  Geiléis: (ge-lace, hard g) the Lady of Bann

  Senach: steward

  Dau: (rhymes with now) manservant

  Cronan: manservant

  Caisín: (ka-sheen) seamstress, married to Rian

  Onchú: senior man-at-arms

  Donncha: man-at-arms

  Rian: man-at-arms, married to Caisín

  Mechar: man-at-arms (deceased)

  Ana: a cottager

  Fursa: her baby son

  At St. Olcan’s

  Father Tomas: head of the monastic foundation

  Brother Dufach: one of the monks

  Brother Fergal: gardener

  Brother Ríordán: (reer-dawn) head archivist

  Brother Dathal: (do-hal) assistant archivist

  Brother Marcán: infirmarian

  Brother Tadhg: (t¯ıg) a tall novice

  Brother Eoan: (ohn) keeper of pigeons

  At St. Erc’s

  Brother Galen: scribe and scholar (deceased)

  Bathsheba: his cat (deceased)

  Brother Conall: a novice

  In Geiléis’s Tale

  Lily: a young noblewoman

  Ash (Brión): a young nobleman

  Muiríol: (mi-reel) Lily’s maidservant

  Others

  Mathuin:
chieftain of Laois

  Lorcan: king of Mide

  Flannan: a traveling scholar

  Ripple: Flannan’s dog

  Conmael: a fey nobleman

  Master Oisín: (a-sheen) a druid

  Cass: Blackthorn’s husband (deceased)

  Brennan: Blackthorn’s son (deceased)

  Brother Gwenneg: an acquaintance from Geiléis’s past

  Cú Chulainn: (koo hull-en) a legendary Irish hero

  PROLOGUE

  Geiléis

  Rain had swollen the river to a churning mass of gray. The tower wore a soft shroud of mist; though it was past dawn, no cries broke the silence. Perhaps he slept, curled tight on himself, dreaming of a time when he was whole and hale and handsome. Perhaps he knew even in his sleep that she still kept watch, her shawl clutched around her against the cold, her gaze fixed on his shuttered window.

  But he might have forgotten who she was, who he was, what had befallen them. It had been a long time ago. So long that she had no more tears to shed. So long that one summer blurred into another as the years passed in an endless wait for the next chance, and the next, to put it right. She did not know if he could see her. There were the trees, and the water, and on mornings like this, the mist lying thick between them. Only the top of the tower was visible, with its shuttered window.

  Another day. The sun was fighting to break through; here and there the clouds of vapor showed a sickly yellow tinge. Gods, she loathed this place! And yet she loved it. How could she not? How could she want to be anywhere but here?

  Downstairs, her household was stirring now. Someone was clanking pots, raking out the hearth, starting to make breakfast. A part of her considered that a warm meal on a chilly morning would be welcome—her people sought to please her. To make her, if not happy, then at least moderately content. It was no fault of theirs that she could not enjoy such simple pleasures as a full belly, the sun on her face, or a good night’s sleep. Her body was strung tight with waiting. Her heart was a constant, aching hurt in her chest. What if there was no ending this? What if it went on and on forever?

  “Lady Geiléis?”

  Senach tapped on the door, then entered. Her steward was a good servant, discreet and loyal. “Breakfast is ready, my lady,” he said. “I would not have disturbed you, but the fellow we sent to the Dalriadan court has returned, and he has some news.”

  She left her solitary watch, following her man out of the chamber. As Senach closed the door behind them, the monster in the tower awoke and began to scream.

  • • •

  “Going away,” she said. “For how long?”

  “King Ruairi will be attending the High King’s midsummer council, my lady.” Her messenger was gray-faced with exhaustion; had he traveled all night? His mead cup shook in his hands. “The queen will go south with him. They will be gone for at least two turnings of the moon, and maybe closer to three.”

  “Who will accompany them? Councilors? Advisers? Friends and relations?”

  “All the king’s senior councilors. Queen Eabha’s attendants. A substantial body of men-at-arms. But Cahercorcan is a grand establishment; the place will still be full of folk.”

  “This son of King Ruairi’s,” she said. “The one you say will be looking after his father’s affairs while they’re gone—what manner of man is he? Of what age? Has he a wife?”

  “Prince Oran is young, my lady. Three-and-twenty and newly married. There’s a child on the way. The prince does not live at Cahercorcan usually, as he has his own holding farther south. He is more a man of scholarship than a man of action.”

  “Respected by his father’s advisers, those of them who remained behind?” A scholar. That might be helpful. “Is he a clever man?”

  “I could not say, my lady. He’s well enough respected. They say he’s a little unusual.”

  “Unusual?”

  “They say he likes to involve all his folk in the running of household and farm. And I mean all, from the lowliest groom to the most distinguished of nobles. Consults the community, lets everyone have a say. There’s some at court think that odd; they’d sooner he just told folk what to do, as his father would.”

  “I see.” Barely two turnings of the moon remained until midsummer. After the long, wearying search, the hopes dashed, the possibilities all come to nothing, she had been almost desperate enough to head south and throw herself at King Ruairi’s feet, foolish as that would have been. Common sense had made her send the messenger first, with orders to bring back a report on the situation at court. She had not expected anything to come of it; most certainly not this. Her heart beat faster; her mind raced ahead. The king gone, along with his senior advisers. The queen absent too. The prince in charge, a young man who would know nothing of her story . . . Could this be a real opportunity at last? Dared she believe it? Perhaps Prince Oran really was the key. Perhaps he could find her the kind of woman she had so long sought without success.

  She’d have to ride for Cahercorcan soon—but not too soon, or she risked arriving before the king and his entourage had departed. It was the prince she needed to speak to, not his father. How might she best present her case? Perhaps this scholarly prince loved tales of magic and mystery. She must tell it in a way that would capture his imagination. And his sympathy.

  She rose to her feet. “Thank you,” she said to the messenger. “Go to the kitchen; Dau will give you some breakfast. Then sleep. I’ll send for you later if I have further questions.” Though likely he had told all he knew. She’d sent him to the royal household in the guise of a traveler passing through and seeking a few nights’ shelter. There’d be limits to what a lad like him could learn in such a place. “Senach,” she said after the messenger was gone, “it seems that this time we have a real opportunity.” At last. Oh, at last! She had hardly dared to dream this might be possible. “You understand what this means?”

  “Yes, my lady. You’ll be wanting to travel south.”

  “I will, and soon. Speak to Onchú about an escort, will you? In my absence, you will be in charge of the household.”

  “Of course, my lady.” A pause, then Senach added, “When do you plan to depart?”

  “Not for a few days.” Every instinct pulled her to leave now, straightaway, without delay; any wait would be hard to bear. But they must be sure the royal party had left court. “Let’s say seven days. That should be long enough.”

  “When might I expect you to return, my lady?”

  Her lips made the shape of a smile, but there was no joy in her. She had forgotten how it felt to be happy. “Before midsummer. That goes without saying. Prepare the guest quarters, Senach. We must hold on to hope.” Hope, she thought, was as easily extinguished as a guttering candle on a day of spring storm. Over and over she had seen it tremble and die. Yet even now she was making plans again, looking ahead, seeing the way things might unfold. Her capacity to endure astonished her.

  “Leave it to me, my lady. All will be ready for you.”

  • • •

  Later still, as her household busied itself with the arrangements—horses, supplies, weaponry—she climbed back up to the high chamber and looked out once more on the Tower of Thorns. All day its tenant had shouted, wailed, howled like an abandoned dog. Now his voice had dwindled to a hoarse, gasping sob, as if he had little breath left to draw.

  “This time I’ll make it happen,” she murmured. “I swear. By every god there ever was, by the stars in the sky and the waves on the shore, by memory and loss and heartbreak, I swear.”

  The sun was low; it touched the tower with a soft, rosy light that made a mockery of his pain. It would soon be dusk. There was just enough time.

  With her gaze on that distant window, she began the nightly ritual. “Let me tell you a story.”

  1

  Blackthorn

  I sat on the cottage steps, shelling peas and
watching as Grim forked fresh straw onto the vegetable patch. Here at the edge of Dreamer’s Wood, dappled shade lay over us; the air held a warm promise of the summer to come. In the near distance green fields spread out, dotted with grazing sheep, and beyond them I glimpsed the long wall that guarded Prince Oran’s holdings at Winterfalls. A perfect day. The kind of day that made a person feel almost . . . settled. Which was not good. If there was anything I couldn’t afford, it was to get content.

  “Lovely morning,” observed Grim, pausing to wipe the sweat off his brow and to survey his work.

  “Mm.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “Something wrong?”

  A pox on the man; he knew me far too well. “What would be wrong?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Seven years of this and I’ll have lost whatever edge I once had,” I said. “I’ll have turned into one of those well-fed countrywomen who pride themselves on making better preserves than their neighbors, and give all their chickens names.”

  “Can’t see that,” said Grim, casting a glance at the little dog as she hunted for something in the pile of straw. The dog’s name was Bramble, but we didn’t call her that anymore, only Dog. There were reasons for that, complicated ones that only a handful of people knew. She was living a lifelong penance, that creature. I had my own penance. My fey benefactor, Conmael, had bound me to obey his rules for seven years. I was compelled to say yes to every request for help, to use my craft only for good, and to stay within the borders of Dalriada. In particular, Conmael had made me promise I would not go back to Laois to seek vengeance against my old enemy. I’d known from the first how hard those requirements would be to live by. But my burden was nothing against that borne by Ciar, who had once been maidservant to a lady. For her misdeeds, she had been turned into a dog. Magic being what it was—devious and tricky—she had no way back.

  “Anyway,” Grim went on, “it’s closer to six years now.”

  “Why doesn’t that make me feel any better? It doesn’t seem to matter how busy I am, how worn-out I am after a day of applying salves and dispensing drafts and giving advice to every fool who thinks he wants it. Every night I dream about the same thing: what Mathuin of Laois did to me, and what I’ll do to him. And the fact that Conmael’s stupid rules are stopping me from getting on with it.”