It was too wet to ride out to the settlement. Besides, I could not fix a day for the ritual until we were fairly sure of a dry spell, so there was no point in issuing invitations. It was too wet to gather herbs. It was too wet to do much at all. Cooped up indoors and unable to achieve anything, I came so close to boiling point I suspected folk might see the steam rising. The temptation to leave was strong; the more so because, even in such inclement weather, Flannan came down almost every day to talk with me in private. His argument was simple and convincing: the task Geiléis had given me sounded dangerous to the point of stupidity, and the fact that nobody really knew what was expected when, or if, I entered the tower, made it even more so. If we were talking of foolish risks, he said, which sounded more perilous—going south and working with a known group of trusted allies to bring down Mathuin of Laois or hacking through a hedge of poison thorn and climbing an old tower to confront a screaming monster?
