Tower of Thorns by Juliet Marillier

interested. The wise woman was the prince’s friend. Moreover, she was clever and cautious. Not to be coerced, that one. What argument would influence her? What was it this healer wanted most in the world? Could it be that curiosity alone might draw Blackthorn west? Geiléis spent her days pacing as she thought up one unlikely approach after another and discarded them as quickly. At night, in her dreams, the thorns closed around her in a piercing, bloody embrace. Perhaps time would weigh her down until she went entirely mad.
    Each evening, at dusk, she told the story. Over and over she told it: the young woman in the forest, the mysterious tower, the precious day of discovery . . .
    He stirred, his dark lashes fluttering, his slow, steady breathing becoming a sudden gasp. Lily shrank back. The young man might havethe appearance of a handsome prince, but that did not mean he was a good person. It did not mean he would not hurt her. It came to her, rather too late, that she was alone in the tower with a complete stranger, that she had told nobody where she was going, and that she had no weapon with which to defend herself. The tiny ferryman was unlikely to be much help if this man decided to attack her.
    He opened his eyes. Ah, such eyes! They were deep and dark, and there were shadows around them, as if his sleep—if indeed it had been only sleep—had been troubled by unwelcome dreams.
    â€œI don’t . . .” he murmured. “I can’t . . .”
    â€œAre you all right?” Lily could not stop staring. The voice of common sense urged her to get to the stair, to be ready for a speedy departure, but she could not make herself obey. Oh, she gazed and gazed, and her whole body trembled with new feelings. “Are you hurt? You were lying there so still, I thought you were dead.”
    The young man struggled to sit up. His torn shirt revealed rather too much of his well-muscled body, which bore bruises and scratches as if he had been in a fight. Belatedly, Lily remembered her good manners and dropped her gaze.
    â€œWho are you?” the man said. “I thought . . .”
    â€œThey call me Lily. I live nearby. What has happened to you? I can fetch help—”
    â€œNo!” Such was the urgency in his voice that she looked at him once more, and saw a matching panic in his eyes. “No, don’t tell anyone I’m here, please!”
    â€œBut you’re hurt—”
    â€œI’ll be fine. See?” He pushed himself to a sitting position, then tried to stand. A woeful effort, as it turned out; his legs failed to support him. Lily was quick to kneel beside him, but hesitated to touch. “Really,” he said, “you had best just go away and leave me. As you see, I am fit for nothing right now.”
    Lily felt a pang of disappointment. Worse than disappointment.Was this mysterious stranger no more than some local lad who had taken too much strong drink and got into trouble with his friends? Had those friends perhaps left him in the tower as a rather cruel kind of joke? Now was the moment to step away, to go home safely and leave him to sort himself out. But she had not smelled ale on his breath. “What is your name?” she asked, sitting down on the floor a safe arm’s length from him.
    For the first time, the young man looked at her; really looked. He smiled, and her heart turned over anew. “If you are Lily,” he said, “then I am Ash.”
    â€œAsh.” It could not be his real name, any more than Lily was hers. This felt like being five years old again and playing a game of pretend. But different. There was a wanting in it that left her breathless. “I have a water skin with me. Here.” She took it from the little bag she was carrying on her back and handed it to him.
    Ash drank deeply, as if he had been long thirsty. “By all the gods, that tastes good. Tell me, Lily, what brings you