Time passed and she did not appear. So I took my basket and my knife and headed out into the forest, not bothering with an escort. My mood was snappish. If I was to conduct a public ritual within a few days, I’d need to stop my mind from going around in circles and at least pretend to be calm. Gathering the appropriate herbs for the rite, in my own company and at my own pace, would be a good start.

It was a fair day. The forest was refreshed by the rain, the sun shone and the trees were alive with birds. But there was no escaping the sorrowful voice from the tower. I thought I could reach the spot I remembered without needing to block my ears. A little side path, off to the left. I’d seen it when we went to the tower. It had looked full of useful herbs and fungi, and there would be no need to go too far from the main track, the one deemed safe. When I went back to the house I would beg a corner of the kitchen and make up a few handy remedies—the kinds of salves and lotions that were a little too complex to be produced by a village wife, but were nonetheless in frequent demand. I already had herbs drying in our quarters, gathered from Geiléis’s kitchen garden. When we rode out to invite the local folk to the ritual, I would also offer my services as a healer.

It was good to be on my own. It wasn’t as if Geiléis’s household was noisy. Her servants went about their business with soft-footed efficiency, not speaking unless it was necessary in the course of their duties: More soup, Mistress Blackthorn? But they were always there. If not quite in our bedchamber, then somewhere very near, bringing in water from the well or sweeping the hallway. And Geiléis herself, though often closeted away, had a habit of appearing unexpectedly.

I walked farther down the main track, wondering if Geiléis would send someone running after me as soon as she learned I had left the house on my own. I tried to imagine what it would be like here once the monster was gone. Its voice rang constantly in my ears; I had seldom been without a headache since we arrived here. Ah. A headache potion. That would go down well among the locals.

I reached a little side path. I was fairly sure it was the one I’d noticed before, all grown over with ferns and low, creeping plants. I wrapped my shawl more tightly around me and ventured forward, moving slowly lest I crush some delicate stem making its way up to the light, or some small creature crawling at its own short-legged pace across the pathway. A little farther, and a little farther again. A few leaves taken from one plant, a few from another, with a murmured apology and thanks. I should have prayed as I gathered; it was part of the ritual preparation. But I found I couldn’t. I couldn’t lie to the wild world around me. I no longer believed there were any gods worth praying to, since if they existed they allowed the innocent to die in agony and evildoers like Mathuin of Laois to treat folk as if they were less than the dirt under his boot soles. What god could stand back and let that happen without moving so much as a finger to stop it? The words I spoke as I harvested were as much habit as anything. I’d been taught well, and early; along with the names of herbs and their medicinal uses, I had learned never to harvest without giving thanks, and never to cut so much from a plant that it could not recover itself.