Free Tower of Thorns by Juliet Marillier Page B

others; how did you escape? Where have you been all this time?”
    â€œI might ask you the same,” says the fellow. Looks a bit shaken up himself. “Where are you living? Close by here?”
    â€œAt the Dalriadan court, for now. It’s a long story.” Blackthorn remembers me suddenly. “Grim, this is Flannan, a very old friend. From back in the . . . A friend of Cass’s and mine.” She turns back to the newcomer. “Grim is my—traveling companion.”
    â€œGreetings, Grim,” Flannan says, smiling. “Any friend of this lady’s is a friend of mine.”
    â€œFine hound you have here,” I say. “Good company for the road.”
    â€œThis can’t be Tempest,” puts in Blackthorn. “She’d be ancient by now.”
    â€œTempest’s long gone. This one’s Ripple, from the same bloodline. She’s a fine friend; she’s walked a long way with me. My work takes me from one house of prayer and learning to another, Grim. I’m a traveling scribe and scholar. That is how Saorla knows me.”
    â€œI don’t use that name now,” she says, quick sharp. “You should call me Blackthorn.” Flannan’s a well-made fellow, tallish, maybe five-and-thirty, got some muscle on him, not what you’d expect for a scholar. A friend of Cass’s, she said. She’s hardly spoken her husband’s name since the day our cottage was set on fire. That night she told me the story of how Cass and her son were burned to death when Mathuin’s men torched her house. So Flannan’s from the south and he knows her story, some of it anyway. Enough to put her in danger, most likely. But here she is, clutching his hands and smiling, face all wet with tears. I fish a handkerchief from my pouch and hold it out to her. She doesn’t even see me.
    â€œWhere are you heading?” she asks him.
    â€œWest, toward Tirconnell.”
    â€œIn a hurry?”
    Flannan smiles. “Monastic business is generally not conducted in great haste. I’m intending to study some manuscripts; I’m writing a book of tales, and they may provide good material. I’ll tell you more later. For now, if you think the court of Dalriada would accommodate me for a night or two, I’ll come with you. If that was what you were about to suggest.”
    â€œI was,” says Blackthorn. “The king’s away. Prince Oran is presiding at court. He’s something of a scholar, and very fond of tales. His wife’s the same. My guess is, you’ll be welcome to stay there as long as it suits you.”
    The three of us walk back together, me carrying Blackthorn’s basket with the herbs, which she’s forgotten all about. The hound, Ripple, pads along beside us. Flannan’s trained her well. He only has to move a finger or murmur a word and she does what she’s meant to. Nice to watch, that. Makes me think how good it would be to have my own dog, a proper one, I mean.
    Nobody talks much on the way back. Flannan hadn’t expected to walk into his old friend here in the north, and she’s shocked to see him. There’s a story behind this. For some reason she thought he was dead, and he isn’t. But they don’t talk about the past now. I’m guessing Flannan doesn’t know yet if he can trust me. Doesn’t want to talk with me around, which is fair enough. As for Blackthorn, she still hasn’t got her head straight. But one thing’s plain: she’s happy. Happy deep down, like I’ve never seen before.

6
    Geiléis
    W hen would word come from the druid? Midsummer Eve was drawing ever closer. She cursed herself for agreeing to wait; she should have dismissed that idea straightaway. Now precious time was being wasted, and for no good reason. She didn’t want a druid. She wanted a woman. More precisely, she wanted Mistress Blackthorn, who had made it quite clear she was not