I had not given much thought to the monster. Flannan’s plot had squeezed it out of my mind, and I had almost forgotten that in order to retain credibility with Grim, at least, I would actually need to attempt the task Lady Geiléis had entrusted to me. As we rode, I pondered what the word monster really meant. Monsters in ancient tales were often a disconcerting mixture of man and creature. They rose from swamps or lurked in dark forests, ready to leap out and sink their teeth into the unwary traveler. Monsters were ugly, fearsome, strange; they tended to attack without asking questions first. They might be dragons that demanded tribute in the form of young women to devour, or giant dogs that enveloped folk in dark clouds of nothingness. Every storyteller knew the tricks for making such creatures as terrifying as possible. But in my book, the vilest and worst was the human monster: a man like Mathuin of Laois, whose actions made it clear he was devoid of any good qualities. Compassion, for instance. Kindness. Fairness. Justice. The ability to put himself in someone else’s shoes. All humankind was flawed; I’d learned that over and over. We all had times when we failed to display those fine qualities. But they existed in us, provided we could dig deep enough. They seemed entirely lacking in Mathuin. Did that make him less than human? Or could even a monster like him somehow find a better self? It was hard to believe.

“All right?” Grim had ridden up alongside Flannan and me. “Long ride.”

“I’ll live. You?”

“Be glad to get there, monster or no monster. Sure you’re all right? Looking a bit white.”

“I’m fine. Tired, that’s all.”

Lady Geiléis must have heard me. She reined in her mount and announced that we would stop for a brief rest before tackling the last part of the ride. We were close by a sizable body of water, almost a small lake. Ducks swam, wading birds foraged in the shallows, and willows dipped their long branches into the water.

The men-at-arms moved into their practiced routine, laying blankets on the grass for us to sit on, unpacking food and drink, tending to the horses, and as usual saying very little.

“Come, sit with me,” Geiléis said, patting the blanket beside her. “You look exhausted.”

“I need to stretch my legs first. I’ll walk a little way along the shore.”

“Don’t stray too far, Mistress Blackthorn.”

I set off without replying. Grim made to follow but checked himself. He’d be assuming I was heading off to relieve myself in private. This was not like the times when he and I had been on the road together. Where each of us might once have stood guard in turn on such occasions, in present company that would cause eyebrows to be raised, not only Geiléis’s but most likely Flannan’s as well. Clearly, my old friend had not yet worked out what Grim and I were to each other.