“Mm,” I said absently, wondering what it was the little folk of Bann were trying to tell Grim and me. Our king is captive in the thorn. So, they wanted me to free him? “You’re right,” I said. “Today all I need to do is ride to see this field and decide if it’s suitable. I will ask Onchú to arrange an escort. But not right now—I have some work to do first.”

Back in my quarters I changed my shoes, hung up my cloak and unpacked the basket. And yes—among the contents was a neat bunch of true love’s tears, tied up with a green thread. Another message, no doubt. It might as well have been a letter written in Armorican, for all the sense I could make of it.

22

Grim

Got to do it. Can’t put it off any longer. Got to be a man; got to be the man I should be. Funny thing is, if I told her the story, she’d say, It’s all right, Grim; you needn’t go. She’d understand. I know that. But I can’t tell her. Can’t tell anyone. It’s my worst thing, my dark thing, like hers is Cass and Brennan burning and her not being able to reach them. If I told the story out loud, I’d break into so many bits even Blackthorn wouldn’t be able to put me together again.

Best not think too much. Shove my feet into my boots, grab my weapons, out the door and off up the hill. Don’t want an escort. Don’t want anyone seeing me like this. Cold and shaky, bringing up my breakfast under a bush, then bringing up bile and water, then retching on an empty stomach like my whole guts are going to burst out. As if I had poison in me. Which in a way I do. Made my own poison, haven’t I?

I reach the spot where I turned back last time. Still can’t remember much of the story Blackthorn was telling, the clurichaun story. From what she said, I spoiled that tale for her, turned it dark and bloody. Clurichauns with axes chopping at each other. Folk screaming in terror. Folk running, running. Only they weren’t quick enough, and they died. All dead. Even Brother Galen. And all he wanted was to save his book . . .

Can’t make my feet move forward. Can’t take that one step farther. St. Olcan’s is up ahead somewhere, not far at all. Wouldn’t take much effort to get there. No need to tell them about any of it. Just walk in and say, Come to do the thatching. Pity I can’t get in there while they’re all out, finish the job, go away before they come back. But they’re monks. Monks live by a pattern. Know that pattern like the back of my hand. Over the monster’s miserable voice I hear a bell now, and I know it’s the bell for Terce. Don’t need to be there to see them, in my mind, walking along the path to the chapel, two and two, faces all peaceful in the morning sun. Just think about that. Don’t think about what came after. Take another step, you coward. Take another step, you failure. Take another step, Bonehead. Take a step for every one of them that fell in his blood because you couldn’t save him, because you weren’t strong enough, weren’t brave enough, weren’t good enough. Because you weren’t enough, never were, never will be. Wretched apology for a man. Mathuin was right to lock you away. What good did you ever do in your life? What good could you ever be to anyone?