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body of water. I have grazing fields, a tract of forest, my house and outbuildings, a scattering of farms and small hamlets whose folk look to me for leadership. I inherited my property from my father, and I have never wed. Across the Bann lies Tirconnell, territory of the northern Uí Néill. My holding is in Dalriada. A bridge spans the river some miles farther north. It is too far away for my folk to use. But at a certain point, where the Bann runs along my border, there is a ford, passable at all times save in severe flood. It lies in a wooded area, the trees growing densely on either side of the river. In the middle is an island, and on that island stands a tower.”
    â€œThe Tower of Thorns,” murmurs Blackthorn.
    â€œYou know of it?” Lady Geiléis sounds surprised.
    â€œI remember the name from somewhere,” says Blackthorn. “It may be mentioned in an old tale, in connection with the river Bann. I do recall some mention of the ford and the tower together.”
    â€œThe Tower of Thorns,” says Lady Flidais. “That does indeed sound like something from a tale of magic and wonder. How did the place get its name, Lady Geiléis?”
    â€œThere are thornbushes growing on the island; it is a forbidding place. The tower is tall and lonely. For many long years, it has stood empty.”
    â€œAnd now?”
    â€œIt is empty no longer. Something has taken up residence there. A . . . a presence. Since its arrival a kind of curse has fallen over the district. I cannot find any way to break it. I am at my wits’ end.”
    Blackthorn’s bursting to ask more questions, plain to see that. But she keeps quiet.
    â€œMy home is isolated,” the lady goes on. “The folk who live within my borders are spread thin. We have neither wise woman nor druid. There is a monastery—St. Olcan’s—but this is hardly a matter for monkish intervention. The brethren know of the difficulty. Prayers have been offered up in their chapel for the banishment of evil spirits, but to no avail.”
    Monks. I’m liking this less all the time. I swallow down bile, make myself take slow breaths.
    â€œThe tower is not easily accessible,” says the lady. “Not only is it in midstream, but there are the thornbushes, growing densely all around the base. The place was built so long ago that nobody can remember who set it there.”
    â€œIf the Tower of Thorns stands all alone, out of folk’s way,” says Prince Oran, “why does this represent such a threat, Lady Geiléis?”
    â€œThe island on which the tower is situated lies close to the ford. That ford is the only safe river crossing on my land, and indeed the only crossing of any kind for long miles up – or downstream. The banks are heavily forested; to approach the ford, one must walk, or ride, or drive stock along quite narrow ways through those woods. Since the arrival of this . . . creature . . . those ways are no longer safe.”
    We’re all caught by the story now, whether we want to be or not. Amonster in a tower. It’s like one of those old wonder tales Blackthorn’s so good at telling. Only this one’s true. Has to be. Why would the lady come all this way and then lie to us?
    â€œThe creature does not come out; it does not attack. By day, it makes noises—howling, wailing, crying—from the top of the tower. All day. Every day. When darkness falls it becomes quiet. But . . . it is not only the sound, terrible as that is. The monster has brought with it a curse. A strangeness has fallen over my lands in the summertime. Folk set out on straightforward errands, and some hours later find themselves in unknown parts of the wood, confused and exhausted. Stock wander into deep water and drown. Cattle drop dead calves. Hens will not lay. This continues right through the summer, just when crops should be growing and stock fattening.