Blackthorn goes to give Flidais a check-over, make sure the baby’s growing right. Looks happier when she gets back. Flidais has said she’d never ask Blackthorn to go somewhere if she didn’t want to, and nor would the prince. Just as well. If they did, Blackthorn would have to tell them the real reason she couldn’t go, which is Conmael. And that story’s not getting told. Once it’s out, folk will know who we are and where we came from. Only one step from there to Mathuin finding us. That bastard wouldn’t care about me. But sure as sure, he’d try to stop Blackthorn from talking.

Once I hear what Flidais has said, I’m happier too. Though not as happy as I’ll be when Lady Geiléis is gone. Still got that funny feeling about her, the feeling I get when I know trouble’s coming. Blackthorn says not to worry, she’s not going to take a foolish risk by heading off to the border. Turns out she thinks a ritual won’t make things much better at Bann anyway.

“It’ll take more than that,” she says. “Master Oisín will have to stay up there and work it all out. Talk to people. Listen to their stories. Find out what brought the creature to the tower and why it’s stayed there. Who drove it out the last time, and how, and why it came back.”

Seen that look in her eye before. “You’re interested,” I say.

“Not interested enough to risk my whole future. And don’t tell me I did that once already. I’ve learned my lesson.”

“Mm-hm,” I say. Keep the rest of my thoughts to myself. We’re cursed, her and me. Cursed to a life full of nasty surprises. Soon as you start thinking it’s plain sailing ahead, the worst storm in the world blows up. Still, a man can hope. If not, what’s the point of going on?

• • •

Thought I knew Blackthorn pretty well: how she’s feeling, whether I should stay around or leave her alone, what she needs doing. How she’ll be if one thing happens or another. Then another visitor comes to court, and I find out how wrong I am.

We’re out beyond the walls. Blackthorn wants to gather an herb that grows down on the rocks near the sea. Little crawling plant with flat leaves, looks like it’s trying to hide in the cracks and chinks. Easy to miss. Blackthorn says she can use it in a salve for sore joints. Lots of folk ask her for that, so she’s planning to make up a big batch. Gather it first, then soak the leaves to get the salt out, then grind them up and mix them with a lot of other things. Littlefoot, the herb’s called.

She’s busy gathering. Not an easy job. Has to find the stuff first, then make sure she doesn’t take too much from one plant. Doesn’t want to kill it. She’s crouched down, picking and muttering to herself. Can’t quite catch the words, but I know it’s a kind of prayer, thanks for letting her take the herb and sorry at the same time. I’ve offered to help but she says no, my job is to keep an eye out for trouble. So that’s what I’m doing when the traveler comes in sight. Walking along the road toward the fortress with a dog at his heels, big handsome thing, shaggy gray. Fellow’s got a pack on his back, a staff in his hand, no weapons I can catch sight of. Wearing a scholar’s robe. Looks harmless, but you never know. Dog sees us first and heads in our direction. Fellow clicks his fingers, calls it back. He gives me a nod, then catches sight of Blackthorn, who’s on her haunches with her back to him. Traveler freezes on the spot, staring. That’s a surprise. Her and me, we try not to catch the eye. I’m big, she’s got that bright red hair, but we’re not as startling as all that.