“Unfasten the cord, will you, Grim?”

While he holds the bird still, I fiddle with the fine cord that holds the letter carrier in place. Manage to get it off the leg, but I’ve undone the wrong bit so the message falls out. “Sorry,” I say, picking up the scrap of parchment. All covered over with tiny little writing, a wonder anyone can read the thing.

“That message will need to go back to Master Flannan,” says Brother Eoan. He’s checking the flight feathers on the damaged wing, running his fingers along each one in turn. “This is one of the Laois birds. He’s the only one who’s been using them.”

All of a sudden I’m cold. “Laois?”

“From the foundation at St. Brigid’s.”

Something not right about this. Seems all right on the surface but it’s not; I just know. “Long way for a pigeon to fly,” I say. “You’d need to be in a rush to hear someone’s Latin translation, to send it with a bird.”

Brother Eoan is smiling. “This one is doubly fortunate. Whatever caught her let her go before too much damage was done. And the next person to walk by knew exactly the right thing to do. She’ll be fine. I can repair the wing. She’ll need rest. No more long flights for quite some time. As for St. Brigid’s, as well as their scholarly correspondence the brethren there send and receive messages on behalf of their local chieftain. I believe they’re located quite close to his stronghold. Muadan, Maolan, something like that.”

“Mathuin,” I say. Something sinks its talons into my belly and squeezes tight. “Mathuin of Laois.”

40

Blackthorn

“Are you ready, Mistress Blackthorn?”

Geiléis herself was at my door, come to remind me of my mission in the tower. Hah! As if I needed any reminding that today was the day of reckoning. Here I was in my leather breast-piece, with the ax on my back—my aching shoulders told me how many times I had practiced getting the wretched thing quickly into my hand—and my knife in my belt. Ready? Hardly. Who could ever be ready for this? But I was doing it, ready or not.

That reminded me. True love’s tears. I’d picked a small supply of the leaves and dried them; they were wrapped in a handkerchief. “I’ll just be a moment more,” I said as I put the little bundle away in my pouch. What possible use the herb might be I did not know, but if I was heading out to break a fey curse, taking the little folk’s advice seemed a good idea. I cast a glance around the chamber. Anything I’d forgotten? A mage’s staff would be handy, or a cloak of invisibility.

“Mistress Blackthorn?”

I snatched one last item for luck, then followed her out. Stuffed the red scarf into the pouch as I went, on top of the herbs. That scarf had its own story. Grim had bought it for me at a fair, coming north last summer. I’d thought that inappropriate and had probably made my feelings obvious. The scarf had been a key clue in solving the mystery of Branoc the baker, who had abducted and hurt a young woman. It had served as a good-bye and as a call to action. The scarf wasn’t going to scare off enemies or behead the monster for me, but I took it anyway.