“Why not, apart from the fact that it would hurt?”

“Last midsummer, I managed to avoid scratches. My men-at-arms were not so fortunate. Show them, Onchú.”

The guard rolled up his sleeve to reveal a network of lumpy, raised welts, stark red against his pale skin.

“Ill humors were quick to enter the wounds,” Geiléis said. “He suffered from a fever for many days; we thought he would die of it. Another of my men sustained similar injuries. I think it possible that these thorns contain a poison. Take the utmost care, all of you.”

I was still staring at those scars. Had Onchú attempted to fight his way bodily through the thorny hedge? It seemed that he had taken very little care for his own welfare. In my opinion he was extremely fortunate to have survived. Indeed, though they were terrible to see, the wounds had healed remarkably well.

“How was your illness treated, Onchú?” I asked. “Poultices? Lotions? Leeches?”

“The fever abated with time, Mistress Blackthorn. The swelling went down of its own accord, about ten days after midsummer.”

“You were badly scarred.”

“Every warrior carries scars.”

“What Onchú will not tell you,” said Geiléis, “is that he incurred these injuries in an attempt to free me from the branches that were whipping back and threatening to encage me. He was a true warrior that day, as was Mechar.”

Something in her tone alerted me. “Is Mechar still here?” I asked.

“He died. The fever burned him up. That was almost merciful, as he would have lost his hands.”

The two men-at-arms made a gesture, both at the same time; a clenched fist laid over the heart.

“Sad loss,” said Grim.

“It was indeed a grievous loss,” Geiléis said, “and serves as a warning to all of us. Be cautious. Keep your ears blocked at all times, unless Onchú tells you it is safe. And do not touch the thorns.”

I was the one she was looking at; I was the one she thought most likely to disregard sensible advice. I could hardly blame her for that. “We understand,” I said.

“Go safely.”

It was interesting, how being told to stick to a single path made a person long to explore all the others. But we had no real choice. As Geiléis’s guests, we could hardly disregard her precise instructions. So we followed Onchú along what appeared to be the main way through the woods, a track broad enough to accommodate a cart and a pair of horses, though its state of repair suggested it seldom had to carry anything but foot traffic. In days past, when the ford was still in use, this path would have allowed people and supplies to be conveyed to and from the north; it must have formed part of a whole network of tracks between the various settlements on Geiléis’s holdings. I did not ask our guards who was responsible for maintaining the area. I would save my questions for the time when I most needed the answers. Thus far, Onchú had not told us to block our ears, so we walked with the monster’s cries ringing in our heads. I tried to make words from them—I’ll kill you! Get off my land! Help! Let me out!—but could not. The creature’s voice was odd indeed, like that of someone calling through a strange horn or a restricting mask. What shape was its head? What of its mouth and nose? The cry was not that of a wolf or a horse or a stag. It was not the bellow of a bull or the screech of a bird or the grunting of a wild pig. It was most surely not the voice of a man.