Tower of Thorns by Juliet Marillier Read Free Book Online Page A

trouble for us, for Blackthorn and me. I knew it as soon as I clapped eyes on her.
    â€œIt 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.
    â€œWhy 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.”
    â€œEven 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.”
    â€œIt 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 blessing no more effective than Father Tomas’s well-intentioned prayers . . .”
    â€œSometimes,” 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
    T onight, 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 whichmany 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.
    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