“I give thanks for this good earth beneath my feet,” I murmured. “I give thanks for the sun that warms it and brings forth the new shoots. I give thanks for the rain that nourishes great oak and creeping moss, filling the flowing river and the tranquil pond. I give thanks for the clear air I breathe. I give thanks for the gift of life.”

A shaft of sunlight pierced the canopy. Not, I was quite sure, in response to my prayer, but remarkably well-timed all the same. It illuminated a patch of open ground. On first glance, what lay there seemed like a jumble of sticks, as if a very small person, gathering firewood, had taken fright and dropped its load. But no; there was a pattern here. A long stick in the center, and beside or across it shorter twigs placed to make ogham letters. I’d been left another message. Let a cloud not obscure the sun before I’d managed to read it. Willow—a strongly feminine tree. Holly—something to do with battle, defending oneself. Elder—the end and the beginning. Birth, death, rebirth. This was full of insight. As I examined the other letters, I saw that there were two layers of meaning. At least two. For there was a simple message too, spelled out by the letters: Strike hard. Strike true. Free us.

The sunlight stayed just long enough for me to memorize the letters. Then the clouds came in, and there was no reading them. I made my way back to the main track without difficulty—the confusion that had gripped me before was gone—and down to the ford. Odd: the position of the sun told me it was close to midday. How could it be so late already? Had I been taken into some other place, some other time, so I could read and understand that message? Had I stood there for hours in contemplation of its meaning?

Now here I was on the riverbank, with the ford before me. I’d misremembered how far out the island was, and the difficulty of wading in those deeper waters. The fact was, it would be stupid to attempt it on my own. All very well when Grim had been there to carry me over. Today, if I slipped on the way, I might drown. Then the curse would not be broken, and Grim would carry a new weight of guilt to add to those he already had on his shoulders. Not that it was his fault he was not with me, but he would see it as his failure. That was the way his mind worked.

I’d have to turn and go back. If it really was so late, it was remarkable that Geiléis didn’t have a search party out looking for me. “Sorry,” I whispered, looking across to the tower. “Not much closer to finding the answer.” Strike hard, strike true, free us. Strike what? The thorns, to hack a path through? Or was this after all to be some kind of battle? I’d chopped a lot of wood in my time, but using an ax in combat was not quite the same. And free us? Not only the king in the thorn, but all the small folk? Weren’t they already free, out in the forest?