I showed Grim in gestures what I wanted to do. Walk right around. Him, me, you, and him at the end. Look for a door. He understood me straightaway, and managed to convey my meaning to the other men. Onchú and Donncha might have argued the point with me; they were less ready to do so with Grim. His very size earned him respect from a certain kind of man.

We circled the Tower of Thorns. Where was the door? The fearsome hedge stretched all the way to the base and enclosed the tower completely. If any entry existed, it was masked by the tangle of branches. What was the point of hacking a way through only to emerge face-to-face with an impenetrable stretch of wall? Maybe Geiléis’s theory about Midsummer Eve had some substance to it, but even if the thorns could be cut on that day, how would a person know where to start?

We went around again. The men-at-arms were getting restless. Onchú kept looking over his shoulder, and once or twice I saw Donncha lift his bow, arrow on string, and sight across the ford, back toward the woods we’d come from. Geiléis’s house could not be seen from here, but the creature up in the tower must be able to see her at her window, as she could see it at its own. What must be in its mind as it stood there day by day, screaming and screaming and never getting an answer?

At the point directly below the tower window, I halted. I could see the underside of a ledge and a hint of shutters to either side, but I could catch no glimpse of the being within. I wondered if it might be visible from the riverbank, a little farther downstream. What would it do if it spotted a watcher? Shrink back into the darkness within the tower, or only scream the louder?

Onchú had turned, alerted by Grim. I used my hands to convey, Just a moment. Just let me think for a bit.

Onchú frowned, pointing toward the ford. We must go.

Grim raised a hand, palm out. Then a placatory movement with both hands. Not long. He pointed to something on the far bank, diverting Onchú’s attention, and engaged him in a conversation made up entirely of gestures.

I didn’t have long; these men were highly trained and wouldn’t miss much. No time to find the door, but I might snatch a better look at the thorns themselves. I edged a step nearer, and another step. Almost close enough to touch. I had a little knife in my belt, but the memory of those welts on Onchú’s arm quashed any desire to experiment. So I only looked. It was not a plant I recognized. Not blackthorn—hah! That would have been almost amusing—not bramble, not briar rose. The stems looked woody and resilient; the snapping branches were studded with barbs. The thorns were monstrous, each as long as my index finger and wickedly curved. Even without the poison, they would inflict bloody damage. The leaves were small, holly-dark and set in pairs. No flowers . . . ah! Wrong. Flowers there were, but small and few. Tight-furled as if in self-protection. White as new-fallen snow. Red as heart’s blood. Twined together so close, they might have been growing from the same stem. I felt tears sting my eyes and ordered myself not to be so foolish.