Read Online Tower of Thorns by Juliet Marillier - Free Book Online Page B

would be a young man of fifteen now if he had lived. “True love breaks your heart,” I said. “If you want my opinion, there it is.”
Go away. Go away without another word.
    â€œOh, yes,” breathed Geiléis. “And yet, it is surely better to have had such a love and lost it than never to have known the joy of it at all.”
    I drew an uneven breath. “I couldn’t say, my lady.”
    â€œI think you could, Mistress Blackthorn, but I will not vex you further. I know when I am not welcome. Perhaps, another time, you will give me an answer to my question.”
    â€œCan true love triumph over the odds? The only answer I have for that is sometimes yes and sometimes no.” In the case of Prince Oran and Lady Flidais, it was a resounding yes, though their happy ending had not been achieved without cost. My own story had ended in sorrow. Cass and Brennan were dead; they were never coming back. And I was broken beyond repair.
    â€œThen the story could end either way,” said Geiléis. Her voice had shrunk to a whisper. “Thank you for your time, Mistress Blackthorn.”
    I closed the door after her, then leaned on it with my eyes shut, trying not to see Cass and Brennan in the fire, trying to block out the smells and sounds of that day. Wretched Geiléis! She knew I wasn’t going to help her, so why did she have to come prying with her silly questions and waking up the nightmare? True love and happy endings, pah! I paced, resisting the urge to throw something and the equally strong urge to burst into tears. Three strides this way, three strides that way. One fist striking the other palm as I went. Mathuin. It all camedown to Mathuin. I shouldn’t be here; I should be in Laois, in the south, making sure that man paid the price for his crimes. Making him atone for Cass, for Brennan, for all the women he hurt and shamed and abandoned, for all the poor wretches locked up with us in that foul prison, for Grim, for me, for everyone he wronged. I could curse Conmael too, for holding me back. Only I couldn’t, because if it hadn’t been for him I’d be dead, and the dead can’t wreak vengeance. Unless it’s a wonder tale, of course. There was nothing wonderful about my story. “A pox on it!” I snarled, striding toward the door.
    And there was Grim, balancing a heavily laden tray. “You talking to me?”
    Somehow we avoided crashing into each other. I retreated to sit on the bench, and he entered to set his burden on the table. Suddenly the stillroom was full.
    â€œNo. And don’t ask me what Geiléis said. I just want to sit here in the quiet.”
    One of the qualities that made Grim bearable to live with was that I didn’t need to tell him anything twice. If I wanted him to shut up, he shut up. If I needed him to talk, he talked. If I was in a foul mood, as now, he made a brew, gave me a cup, then got on with his own business. Often I didn’t need to tell him at all. The only time he’d done something I didn’t want was the time I tried to go back south on my own, and he followed me and stopped me. I couldn’t blame him for that. It turned out he was right; if I’d gone then, I’d have made a mess of things. The scary part was, that time he’d seemed to know me better than I knew myself. If anything was uncanny, that was.
    He set a cup beside me. “I’ll be off, then.”
    â€œStay,” I said. “If you want.” And, after a bit, “She asked me about happy endings. The kind you get in tales. Whether I believed in them. Whether they could happen in real life.”
    â€œMm-hm.” Grim filled a cup for himself, sat down, passed a platter of bread and honey. “Upset you.”
    â€œI’ll live. I just hope she’s done with her efforts to get something out of me that isn’t there in the first place.”
    â€œEat,” suggested Grim. “It’ll