The dining chamber was unsuitable; too central, too many doorways. Her own quarters would be inappropriate, though there was no denying they were private. Geiléis settled herself in a small chamber near the main door, a room where visitors had been received in happier days. Her guards could be close at hand but discreetly placed. Better if Master Flannan did not know the potential danger his document represented, and what peril he consequently faced. If the thing turned out to be harmless, he need never know how close he had come to the edge of a sharp blade.

“Master Flannan, welcome.” Dau spoke courteously at the front door. “Lady Geiléis wishes to speak with you privately. This way.”

She rose; greeted the visitor and invited him to sit down. Dau poured mead, then departed, closing the door behind him. Save for the voice from the tower, muted by distance and the thick stone walls of the house, all was quiet. Geiléis scrutinized the visitor. His demeanor was less than buoyant. It was distinctly lacking in the excitement she had expected. Had he failed? Was this a reprieve? But he did not look despondent either. He seemed, rather, to be holding something in. Over that, a well-practiced air of calm control.

“Have you brought the document?” The question burst out, despite her best intentions.

“I don’t have it with me, Lady Geiléis. The senior archivist has very strict rules—”

“Even for a copy on a wax tablet? I cannot believe his authority stretches so far.”

“There was no need to bring the original text, in any form. That would be pointless, since no one here would be able to read it.”

“But—”

“Fortunately,” Flannan said, and she got the odd sense that he was playing with her, as a cat plays with a mouse, “I can remember the translation word for word.”

“Ah.” So he had done it. He had unlocked the code. “And is it what you believed?”

“It is most certainly a tale about the Tower of Thorns, and the monster within, and how he came to be there, Lady Geiléis. An old tale. A very old tale. It seems this monster has been in the vicinity of your home for far longer than anyone believed. That makes me wonder.”

Gods, her heart was going like a blacksmith’s hammer. She must appear calm. She must not alert him until he had told her everything he knew. “May I hear the story?”

“Of course. You will be interested to learn that the details you have mentioned are present in it. Midsummer Eve. A woman to cut through the thorns and break the curse.”

“Tell it, please. If possible, exactly as it is set out in the document.” Oh, gods! Brother Gwenneg had written down the whole story. This man would have to die, and all because he possessed a scholar’s natural curiosity. She felt cold sweat break out on her skin.

“Very well. It begins with a young woman named Lily, only child of the chieftain of Bann. Living in this house, in these woods, at a time when the island on which the tower stands was a place of greensward and burgeoning wildflowers. A time when there was no monster, no wailing voice, no hedge of thorns, no magic. Or if there was magic, it was not a curse, but only the presence of the fey . . .”