The Dowry Blade (14 page)

They lay in far-from-companionable silence; the only sounds the slosh and slap of water in the tubs, dripping from one of the cisterns. Maeve stared at the ceiling, at the curls of steam dissipating in a stream of sunlight, and sighed. The water was getting cold. She got her feet under her, forcing herself upright against the drag of the water. Brede glanced in her direction, and continued the slow washing of her hair.

Maeve wrapped a towel securely about her, and turned to up end the tub, emptying the water into the runnels in the stone floor. Not really thinking about what she was doing, her grip was not as secure as it could be, and she let the tub fall.

Brede heard the curse, and the sodden thud, and grinned to herself, as water slopped over the edge of the tub, soaking Maeve’s towel.

‘Leave it,’ she said, ‘I’ll empty it when I’ve done.’

Maeve rounded on her, anger rekindled.

‘You think you can manage that?’ she said, scornfully.

‘Yes, despite your best efforts to maim me. I’ve not lost the strength that nine years at an anvil gave me,’ Brede said, biting down on her own swift anger. ‘I told you I don’t want to be a warrior. I know my limits. Why do you want to make me into something I’m not?’

Maeve glared at Brede, white with anger, then abruptly shook her head, and laughed, unwilling to compound her earlier misjudgement. She pulled another towel from the pile between the tubs, discarding the wet one. She was about to turn away when Brede spoke again.

‘Did you see Grainne watching us?’

Maeve nodded, feeling again the abrupt surge of conceit, which had made her force the pace so dangerously. It had worked against Brede, but against a more experienced opponent it would have been rank idiocy. Not that Brede knew that. Maeve sank slowly onto the edge of the tub.

‘Did you?’ she asked, wondering that Brede could have divided her attention from the fight.

‘No. Tegan told me. Grainne wants to see me. Can you think why?’

Maeve frowned.

‘Are you asking me what service she wants of you, or why she chose you?’

‘Both.’

‘I don’t know. If she asked me, I would tell her not to trust you; but she won’t ask. You are a no more than competent fighter but also eminently expendable, which might be the reason she chose you – so whatever it is she wants you for is likely to be dangerous, or secret – so don’t tell me what it is when you find out.’

Brede nodded slowly, recognising the lukewarm praise in Maeve’s terse words. She started to pull herself from the water, and gasped as her back locked and refused to let her up.

Maeve laughed.

‘I don’t think you are going to be emptying any tubs, Brede, not when you need help to get out.’ She hesitated, wondering whether she could bring herself to help, watching Brede try to get a purchase on the edge of the tub with arms that would not take her weight. ‘Can you get your feet under you?’

The tub was narrow and awkward. Brede scrabbled until she had one knee under her. Her back eased. Carefully she got her other foot flat to the bottom of the tub. She pushed up slowly and steadily until she could sit on the rim.

‘Ahh, Goddess,’ she gasped, past caring what Maeve thought of her.

Maeve draped a towel over her shoulders, shrugging away Brede’s muttered thanks. She retired to her own tub and emptied it carefully, giving Brede time to clamber out with a semblance of dignity. They viewed each other with wary curiosity.

‘There’s something you could tell me,’ Maeve said cautiously.

‘What would that be?’

‘What is there between you and Tegan?’

Brede stared at her, wondering how to tell her the truth.

‘A death,’ she said.

‘Tegan says she is indebted to you for her life.’

‘She would say that. It’s not how I… but you don’t want to know what there is between us. You want to know what there has not been between us. We haven’t been lovers, Maeve, if that is what has been causing you pain. We could never be that.’

Maeve would like to know why Brede was so adamant, but the trembling in Brede’s hand, where it held the towel close, warned her not to ask. She had pushed too far, words would make Brede dangerous, in a way that no other threat could. She saw, in that trembling, the spark that she had hoped to see on the practice ground. It made her uneasy. Maeve left Brede to empty her tub, if she could, and went in search of cleaner clothes, and what she hoped would be an honest conversation with Tegan.

Chapter Fifteen

Tegan walked slowly, loose limbed with released tension, towards the barracks. Eachan had given her one sharp glance and vanished towards the stables, his opinion of Maeve unvoiced. And Tegan’s opinion of Maeve? She hardly knew, but future was finding room in her brain again. She stopped at the bottom of the steps. Her breath came in short angry gasps. She leant against the wall, wondering what she had sent Brede into. With her breathing easier, she dragged her heavy limbs up the steps and into the darkness of the barrack block. No one was around except Inir, sitting silent and brooding in the darkest corner. He glanced up as she came in, saw who it was, and subsided back into his shadows. Another problem. She was not equal to his grief. She nodded to him, and climbed the ladder to the upper floor, trying not to let her weariness show.

Tegan sank onto her bed, and lay on her back staring at the low vault of the ceiling, measuring the depth of the darkness and the play of light from the slit of window at the end of the room. She closed her eyes, but nothing could block out her thoughts. Up again to pace across the small room, from one stone wall to the other. Her wound was pulling; she concentrated on that; anything rather than the look on Maeve’s face earlier. Gently Tegan stretched her arm above her head, grazing the ceiling with her fingers. It hurt. She was almost glad. She located her pack, and the salve Corla had made for her.

Maeve took the steps up to the barracks two at a time. Her wet hair was loose on her shoulders, her shirt and jacket unlaced; she carried her guards bundled under her arm. She strode into the darkness without a glance, making straight for the ladder. She stopped at the bottom, her head raised, listening for sound from above. Her sharp hearing caught a faint rustle. She put her foot to the first rung, and climbed the ladder as though scaling an enemy wall in the dark. Not so much as a creak from the wood to betray her presence.

Inir watched, and was uneasy at the sudden change from bustle to stealth. He edged off his bed, and crept forward. As he reached the bottom of the ladder he heard Maeve’s voice above him, astonished into laughter.

‘What on earth are you doing?’

Inir’s mouth twisted into a smile. He patted the ladder gently, scooped up his money belt, and went out into the sunlight.

Tegan pulled her shirt together. She held out the little pot of salve. Maeve dropped her guards, and came to sit on the floor in front of Tegan. She crossed her legs, and straightened her back, flicking wet strands of hair back behind her ear. She took the salve, and sniffed it.

‘Ugh.’

‘It’s not meant to be a perfume.’

Maeve dipped her fingers into the salve and offered her hand. Tegan frowned, then pulled her shirt up so that Maeve could smear the greasy mess onto the shiny ridge of new skin.

Maeve hesitated, her fingers not quite touching Tegan’s flesh. She took a good look at the wound, then put her hand lightly over it, letting her fingers slip to and fro, feeling the thickness of the ridge, probing gently for the edges of the pain. Her expression softened, and she let her hand lie against Tegan’s ribs, warming her with the light pressure of her palm.

Tegan looked down into Maeve’s face, into an expression molten with loneliness and relief and desire. She placed her own hand over Maeve’s. Maeve shifted her eyes upwards, meeting Tegan’s gaze.

‘You are angry with me.’

Tegan nodded. Maeve frowned.

‘I did not kill her.’

‘Why not?’ Tegan asked.

Maeve slipped her hand out from under Tegan’s. Tegan let her go, massaging the stiff skin herself; and waited while Maeve worked out what to say.

‘I didn’t want to enough.’ Maeve glanced away, finding her soiled shirt an adequate place to wipe the remaining salve from her fingers. She shifted onto her knees, meaning to stand, but couldn’t summon enough will. She sank back onto her heels, and looked up at Tegan. Her eyes focussed on the curve of Tegan’s breast, above the still circling fingers against the scar tissue. She bit her lip.

‘Tegan.’

The fingers stopped moving.

‘Maeve?’

‘I’ve talked to Brede.’

‘About me?’

Maeve nodded. Tegan wondered what Brede would have found to say about this, after an entire winter of saying nothing.

‘I’m sorry.’ Maeve said quietly.

‘You didn’t trust me.’

‘No.’

‘You were right not to.’

Maeve flinched. She reached and pulled Tegan’s hand into her own.

‘What do you mean? Brede said… ‘

‘And it was the truth. And I would never have asked her, but if she had…’

‘Why didn’t she? Not because she didn’t want you. Any idiot can see she worships the ground you walk on.’

Tegan laughed.

‘Not anymore she doesn’t. No, that wasn’t it. Think about it, Maeve. She’s Wing Clan. Why do you think I let her have Guida?’

Maeve’s hand tightened convulsively about Tegan’s.

‘Ah. And she still made sure you lived.’

‘Touch and go.’ Tegan pulled her hair back, revealing the ghost of bruising.

Maeve reached to caress that bruise.

‘So, that is all there is to tell. I can’t despise a heart that can throw all that at me and still have the sense not to sleep with me. So you were right not to trust me, Maeve, but you can trust Brede. Killing any woman I look at will do you no good, if I am the cause of the trouble.’

Maeve listened to the tone of Tegan’s words, and caught a tremor of regret, or pain. She looked away. Tegan worked her fingers free of her grasp, and ran her hand over Maeve’s wet hair.

‘So now you tell me about Killan.’

Maeve’s breathing jumped suddenly. Tegan laughed.

‘I’m not stupid, and I’m not as jealous as you, but you aren’t going to sit there making me tear my heart out for you to inspect and get away with it. Come on, I’ve seen you together.’

‘You can’t be jealous of Killan?’

‘Can’t I?’

‘There’s nothing to it.’

‘Meaning you don’t sleep with him? I don’t believe that. Killan isn’t a patient man. If he wasn’t getting what he wanted he’d have gone with Chad, not slunk off to some back alley.’

Maeve leant both her forearms across Tegan’s knees.

‘Do you remember how old I am?’

Tegan frowned slightly.

‘Twenty-five. What does that have to do with it?’

‘There has been nothing but training, fighting – and Riordan – all my life.’

‘And me.’

Maeve smiled, a deep, loving smile.

‘And you.’ She leant her head into her arms, so that her words were addressed to Tegan’s knees, muffled, hot against her skin.

‘I’ve had no childhood, no adolescence. This winter was torment. Not knowing if you were alive, so afraid for you, so alone. And I had the command... Everyone but me had a partner – Corla has started sleeping with Riordan – I needed you to talk to. And then Killan – he’s silly, he’s brash, but he’s funny. He makes me laugh. And he’s surprisingly perceptive, under all that teasing.’ Maeve struggled to explain the why of it, trying to see how Tegan was taking her explanation, but Tegan’s face was in shadow. She continued less confidently. ‘He can stand on his own, he wasn’t my – he didn’t expect – I didn’t have to be – responsible for him.’

‘And you liked that?’

Maeve frowned, rubbing her brow against her arms, not sure what the answer to that was.

‘Not exactly, but once I’d given up being responsible it was impossible to start again, with him at least. It was easier not being. There were no decisions.’

Tegan buried her fingers in Maeve’s hair, a convulsive movement. Maeve glanced up, hoping to find understanding in Tegan’s eyes, finding misery.

‘Every action is a decision.’ Tegan said, her words jerky with withheld emotion. A tear spilled from her eye, splashing Maeve’s hand.

‘Don’t.’ Maeve reached up, cradling Tegan gently, ‘Please, Tegan, don’t.’

Tegan sobbed and dragged her hands free of Maeve, to hide the rictus of anguish that her mouth was twisting into, despite her best efforts. She took a deep breath, then another, shrugging Maeve away. She went to the window.

‘I resisted – something that meant – Goddess knows what it might have become. You gave in to something that meant nothing? What does that say about us, Maeve?’

Maeve pushed herself upright, beginning to find anger again. She strode to Tegan, dragging her about to face her.

‘It says that my body is my own to bestow where I please, and that my heart is yours and not free to be purloined by the first – what? –
enemy
? who offers me something other than a knife’s edge. It says that you can’t tell the difference, and that you value my heart at very little worth.’

Tegan shuddered, watching Maeve’s face, convulsed with anger and pain, with truth.

‘Maeve.’ She reached a shaking hand to Maeve’s face, stroking tender fingers across the frowning brow. ‘Maeve.’

Maeve turned her lips into Tegan’s hand, kissing her palm at first gently, then catching a tiny fold of skin between her teeth, desperate to be understood. Another hand closed about the other side of her face. Maeve closed her eyes, standing passively, feeling every inch of her skin awakening to Tegan’s gentle touch against her neck, the pressure of lips against her collarbone. She let go a held breath and gathered Tegan against her.

‘Missed you,’ she whispered. ‘Goddess, I missed you.’

Chapter Sixteen

Brede made herself as presentable as she could. She did not know how to approach this meeting. Should she go armed? She decided not. She dawdled about making sure her belt was hanging straight, that her hair was neat, putting off the time she must commit herself to the stairs that led to Grainne’s private quarters.

She tried not to think about what she was doing or where she was going. She strolled casually as far as it was safe to stroll. The stairs then. She was allowed through the guard at the bottom with scarcely a glance. They knew she was expected. Corla watched her hesitant progress up the steps with amusement.

The stairs were still a wonder, so permanent, such an arrogant use of stone. Standing now, surrounded by stone that had stood for four generations already, Brede wondered once more why she was here, why she was not riding the plains, leaving nothing but the occasional footprint to be destroyed by the next gust of wind.

As she reached the top of the stairs Cei nodded her through a half-opened door and closed it behind her. Beyond that, another open door, unguarded. She hesitated. Should she wait, or knock, or walk in? Tegan’s advice surfaced.

Be yourself
.

Brede had never knocked on a door in her life. She pushed the door further open and cleared her throat. That was as polite as she could manage.

She stood in the second doorway, looking down at the two women seated in front of the fire. There should be no need of a fire; the weather had been fine and warm for a week. The room was unbearably hot; the tall shutters at the balcony window were tightly closed. Brede waited. The younger woman, who sat at the feet of the other, looked up and beckoned her in. She had been half expecting this, but it still threw her off balance.

‘Close the door,’ Grainne said.

The Queen gestured to a seat. Brede was surprised. Perhaps Grainne did not care to be towered over. She sat, grateful not to be kept standing in the unexpected heat, and waited to be told why she was there.

Grainne felt the comfort of Sorcha’s touch against her knee, the faint hum of song that only she could hear, keeping her alive. She glanced at the warrior, who was so out of place here, covering her discomfort with a show of indifference. She liked her for it. She saw a woman in her prime, strong, awkward. She saw dark hair, sharp features, long limbs and those restless hands, unconsciously tracing the grain of wood.

Brede returned Grainne’s stare. She saw an old woman, a worn, sickly face; a thin body wrapped in too many clothes, hands that shook. She saw power, sickness, fear, and pride.

‘What do you know of the war?’ Grainne asked at last, mesmerised by the constant restless movement of Brede’s hands – not the question she had planned. Brede was jolted by the unexpected question, and had to dredge deep beyond her prepared speeches for an answer. Her hands stilled, curled about the arms of the chair.

‘It has lasted too long. I’ve lost family and friends to it, not always to those you call your enemies,’ she said; and then, ‘your majesty.’

Grainne wondered how to get to her original intent now, with that bald statement lying between them.

‘Where were you born?’ she tried.

Brede shrugged.

‘The place of my birth hardly matters. I am born out of Wing Clan. I am daughter to Ahern, who was murdered by warriors; possibly yours. I am daughter to Leal, of the Marshes beyond the western forest, land currently held by your enemies.’

‘Wing Clan?’ Grainne asked thoughtfully, her worst fears on that count confirmed.

And it being Wing Clan, she wondered what the woman was doing here. She touched the back of Sorcha’s head. Sorcha looked up, frowning slightly.

‘Why are you with Tegan’s mercenaries?’ she asked.

Now there was a question. Brede considered it, struggling with her sense of the stone about her, longing for a breath of wind to stir the staleness of the air. Her fingers resumed their tense exploration of the smooth wood of the chair arms. Tegan’s advice drifted back into her mind.

Be honest
.

‘I look after their horses,’ Brede glanced at Grainne and saw from her frown that this would not do. ‘They offered me a way out from the Marshes. I took it.’ Honesty of a sort.

‘Do you consider them to be your friends?’ Sorcha asked, interested for her own sake as well as Grainne’s.

‘No, I wouldn’t say that.’ Brede kept her answer short, unsure of how far she herself believed what she said.

‘Then where are your loyalties?’ Grainne asked, beginning to tire.

Brede again considered. She couldn’t answer, as she would like, that loyalty was a concept to match the permanence of the stone about them. An uneasy memory of Leal stirred in her mind. She didn’t trust loyalty; it made unreasoned demands.

‘I don’t know. I’ve yet to find them.’

Grainne nodded. The fight she saw earlier confirmed Brede’s reservations about committing herself to either friendship or loyalty for her warrior companions. So far at least, the woman had been truthful.

The ache returned to Grainne’s limbs, and she knew that she must leave the rest of the questioning to Sorcha. She rested her hand once more on Sorcha’s hair.

Sorcha got to her feet. Brede stood without thinking. She glanced at the white-faced woman sitting beside the fire, noticing the sudden care with which she breathed. Sorcha opened another door and beckoned Brede out of the room, into a smaller chamber.

‘Wait there,’ she said, and closed the door.

Brede was glad to be out of the heat. She pulled her scarf loose and flicked her braid out to lie free of her collar. She could hear movement in the next room, faint voices. A swift, unexpected drawing in of breath. Brede winced, tuning her ear away from it.

She wandered to the window, and peered out of the narrow opening. She could just see the exercise yard, chequered by sunlight and deep shadows. The height made her uneasy, but she appreciated the vantage point. Brede wondered how long she had been watched, and what it was that Grainne wanted of her. She stepped quickly down from the window as the door opened once more, twisting awkwardly; her bruised back making her gasp.

Sorcha saw that abrupt backward step, heard the gasp of pain. She ignored it, shutting the door firmly behind her. She gave Brede her full attention for the first time, freed of her constant support of Grainne for the while. She liked what she saw.

Brede was taller than Sorcha; she seemed strong, if awkward. Sorcha reminded herself of the fight she had seen, of the occasional almost-beauty of Brede’s movements. Not always awkward. Sorcha smiled, as she had not intended to.

Brede returning her appraising look, smiled in response. She reminded herself that this woman was a witch, and her smile faded. Sorcha moved forward and sat in one of the low-backed seats. Brede joined her.

‘Who knows that you are here?’ Sorcha asked.

‘Tegan and Maeve. The guards on the stairs – Corla, Oran, Cei.’

‘And what did Tegan and Maeve say?’

Brede sighed at that.

‘Tegan said to be honest with Grainne, and not to stand on ceremony. Maeve said I was wanted for something secret, and likely dangerous, and not to tell her what it was.’

Sorcha nodded.

‘You listen to advice then?’

‘To Tegan’s.’

‘Why hers?’

‘She is usually right,’ Brede said, which was only part of the answer.

‘Why do you think you are here?’ Sorcha asked.

Brede shrugged, and winced as her bruised back caught her again.

Sorcha took a breath. There were more questions she could ask to test the ground before committing herself, but she didn’t believe she needed to.

‘You know that Grainne is dying?’

Brede gazed at her, a considering, watchful look. The question lay between them. Sorcha felt a strange release at having finally said it out loud, to someone other than Grainne, and having been offered no surprise or outrage.

‘Is it true then?’ Brede asked, remembering her snarled conversation with Tegan, feeling guilty. ‘I thought it was superstition.’

Sorcha shook her head.

‘It has nothing to do with the famine. She has been poisoned, slowly and systematically, by someone she trusts, and she does not yet know who it is.’

Brede stirred disbelievingly. Sorcha gave her a considering look, reading that movement correctly.

‘She has been ill a little over three years. People forget quickly what they do not wish to remember. The myth about the Queen as a symbol of the earth is a convenient propaganda tool for Grainne’s enemies. It is an excuse for Ailbhe to march his red-bannered monster onto our lands, to claim them for his own.’

Our lands
? Brede questioned silently.

‘I heard a rumour that Ailbhe was dead,’ Brede suggested, taking the opportunity to confirm the warrior’s gossip that had so disturbed her.

Sorcha nodded in agreement. She had heard that.

‘Back at the edge of winter, when the rain began, they started saying the earth had been watered with blood, that the ritual sword was missing from its place, and that Ailbhe had parted company with his head.’ She shrugged. ‘It did rain, the sword is gone, Ailbhe is dead, and I don’t know the cause of his death. If there is a connection, I am not aware of it, are you?’

Brede almost answered that, but caution kept her silent. She remembered a line of red-bannered warriors on a hill, and a blooded sword, a sword now in her keeping. And Ailbhe
was
dead.

‘And my part in this?’ Brede asked to cover her momentary lapse.

‘Grainne finds it hard to trust anyone when there may be poison in everything she touches. She has no bodyguard because she can’t afford the risk that intimacy would bring from someone implicated in that poison. You’ll have heard rumour and counter-rumour; you’ll know that there are factions and disagreements in every corner of the city. You’ve not been here long enough to have drawn up your battle lines. You’ve not taken sides.’

‘I’ve taken Grainne’s pay,’ Brede said hesitantly.

‘Spoken like a true mercenary.’

Brede perceived a touch of scorn in Sorcha’s words and hit back.

‘And you
aren’t
paid for your services?’

Sorcha laughed aloud.

‘I am paid, yes. But it is in my interests to keep Grainne alive.’

‘Is that what she wants?’ Brede asked.

‘For now it is,’ Sorcha said – too swiftly – wanting to believe it. ‘Grainne wants an end to this war,’ she continued, ‘Ailbhe’s death has complicated that. The rumour that she ordered it makes it harder. If she dies, those who are loyal to her would take the war to the borders.

‘No one wants Ailbhe’s boy, Lorcan, a fourteen-year-old, to rule two countries. And with us firmly committed to war with Lorcan, the rebels would take the opportunity lent them by our weakness; the Horse Clans among them.’ Sorcha’s eyes searched Brede’s face, and she shook her head. ‘Those loyal to Ailbhe would want vengeance; those loyal to Grainne would fight for her memory. Somewhere this has to end, and her death won’t resolve it.’ Sorcha wondering what Brede was making of this. ‘Grainne wants all the factions drawn together. She
wants
to talk peace. You half believe that she brought the famine on us by refusing to marry Ailbhe. Yet it is raining, the sun is out; the crops are beginning to grow. We have to remind people of that. She must stay alive. That is my task, but those who don’t trust her, will not trust me. If they see a witch at her elbow, they will be suspicious, the more so if they see no bodyguards. You have to be that guard. You have to be visible and you have to be alone.’

Sorcha glanced at Brede’s impassive face. She hadn’t yet given any indication of her feelings. Sorcha kept talking. ‘We don’t know who has been poisoning Grainne. They are not yet aware of my presence. I want to trick them into the open. You are unknown, you may tempt them out of hiding.’

‘One guard isn’t enough. I have to sleep. You must have asked others.’

‘No.’

‘Just me? You’ve seen me fight. So, perhaps, has your poisoner. And every one of Maeve’s warriors knows that there is no guard at that door, and they know me. I’m the
stable-hand
–’ Brede shrugged. ‘How can you expect me to do this alone?’

‘You don’t believe that fiction of Maeve’s, do you? You’re exactly what we need. You do not allow yourself to get carried away. You were a model of control out in that yard today; you didn’t even care that Maeve beat you in front of everyone. I doubt I could be so controlled.’

Brede shook her head.

‘I cared.’

Sorcha inclined her head, inviting further comment.

‘I hated it.’

‘But you didn’t let your anger get the better of you.’

‘
This
time.’

Sorcha shifted awkwardly, under Brede’s dark brooding gaze. If she wanted she could discover what Brede meant, but this was not the moment.

‘If anyone does attack Grainne she will want them living to be questioned, not some bloody corpse that can’t answer for its actions. You control yourself; you will not kill out of hand, nor out of misplaced loyalty. You treat your sword as what it is, a necessary tool, not a lover.’ Sorcha took a breath, steadying herself, sure now that she had Brede’s attention, that something she had said struck a chord. ‘So no, you’re not an inspired fighter. You do not need to be. It is only Maeve who sees a problem. You’re wasted looking after the horses.’

Brede opened her mouth to protest. The horses needed her. Her eyes met Sorcha’s, and the protest went unspoken.

‘I know,’ Sorcha said, almost patiently, ‘Wing Clan. Horses. I remember. But you are needed here. Eachan can see to the horses without your help, he can’t do this for us. You are to be the visible guard. When Grainne must be in public, she must have a guard; that will be you. In private, who is to know?’

‘Your argument is flawed. I would notice. Many people will notice. Anyone planning to attack Grainne would see me, a barely competent guardswoman, living on insufficient sleep, and be certain they could overcome me. The uncertainty of there being no guard at all would keep them away better. You have to have more than one guard or your feint is pointless.’