Blackthorn stood steady beside her as the wailing began. As the sun rose fully, and the forest awoke, and the last of the mist dispersed. As the lament went on and on, punctuated now and then by brief silences during which Geiléis imagined him sucking in a desperate breath. Where did he find the strength to go on?

Something made her turn her head. Blackthorn was no longer watching the tower; the healer’s gaze was fixed on her as if she would read Geiléis’s very thoughts. Which was ridiculous. This woman was no seer. Folk who gave themselves the name of wise woman might be skilled in herbal healing and good at birthing babes or setting broken limbs, but those were ordinary human talents, nothing more.

“This disturbs you very much,” Blackthorn observed.

“It would disturb anyone. Obviously.”

“But you choose not to stop your ears. And you said you had become used to it, you and your household.”

“Believe me, I have no reason to lie to you on such a matter. I have learned to tolerate the sound, yes, as have all of us who live here. That does not mean I am any less troubled by it. It does not mean I would wander unguarded in those woods during the summer. That would be foolish indeed. The crying alone is bad enough. But I believe that even if it were silent, the monster would still affect everything close to the tower: people, livestock, wild animals, the land itself. This place is slowly dying, Blackthorn.”

The healer’s gaze, already intense, sharpened further. “What do you mean?”

Geiléis reached to close the shutters. Today, she could not keep her morning vigil. I’m sorry, she thought, as the Tower of Thorns with its distant window vanished from view. At dusk I will be here. I promise. I will tell the story. “Let us talk further over breakfast. I will join you soon.”

• • •

They sat at the table, the healer, her man and Geiléis, with Senach a discreet presence by the door.

“Ask your questions,” Geiléis said. “This place must seem strange to you. Tell me how I can help.” She hoped she could find answers that would serve.

“Strange,” echoed Blackthorn. “It is that, certainly. One question immediately springs to mind. You said the place was dying. When you told your story at court, you mentioned failing crops and sick animals. Yet here we are, sitting down to an ample breakfast. Where do your supplies come from?”

“Much of this comes from St. Olcan’s. The monastery gardens are extensive. The brethren also have grazing fields and their own house cows. And Father Tomas is generous; he does not judge me for the oddity of my situation.”

“A strange curse indeed,” observed Blackthorn, “that lies over your own land and that of your nearest neighbors, but does not affect these monks at all. Do you believe Christian prayer has the power to protect folk against this creature’s influence?”