The Dowry Blade (17 page)

‘I do not believe that she does. What is it that you and she are afraid of?’

Grainne shrugged slightly.

‘Sorcha has her own secrets. She’ll tell you or not as she pleases, it is not for me to tell.’ Grainne tugged gently on the hair bracelet. ‘I need to be sure of you. I know what you think of my choice, I certainly know what Phelan thinks of it. I also know why you accepted my offer. You believe I would have you killed if you refused.’

‘Would you not?’

‘Who would I ask to carry out that order? I can’t trust many people.’

‘Maeve.’

Grainne laughed.

‘Yes, for that task, I think I might trust Maeve.’ Grainne peered hard at Brede, trying to see her expression in the half-light.

‘If you want to go, you may.’

Brede’s eyes locked with Grainne’s, startled.

‘But if you go it must be now, before we grow dependent upon you. Take your horse, and go back to Wing Clan, tell them who was responsible for the last Gather. Tell them what really happened. Tell them we want an end to this.’

Brede waited to see if Grainne would regret those words. They gazed wordlessly at each other for several seconds.

‘Why now? Why not five years ago? Why not nine? When did it become important to you that Wing Clan forget their injury at your hand?’

‘Ailbhe is dead, that changes everything. Lorcan is a child; his army will be weak. Now is our chance to force them to a peace.’

‘And this is your greatest need, Grainne?’ Brede asked quietly. ‘The Clans back under your control?’

‘No. I want the Clans at peace, with me and with my heir. There is no point in continuing the war. I want peace.’

‘What about the rest? The Clans are not the only alienated peoples to have taken up arms against you.’

‘They’ll come to terms if I am not fighting Lorcan, they are taking advantage of the fact that we can’t fight so many enemies at once. The Clans are different. They have better cause to fight.’

‘And what of the one who is poisoning you? Will that one be satisfied with Lorcan as liege? Will you live long enough to bring this about?’

‘I must.’

‘So what is of most use to you, Grainne; my presence as guard, or my absence as emissary? I can’t do both.’

‘Which do you want to do?’ Grainne asked, curious despite herself.

Brede sighed, and walked to the shuttered window, peering through the slats at the faint tinge of dawn.

‘If I’d wanted to go back to the Clans I’d have done so before now.’

‘And what keeps you here, when the threat of a knife between the ribs is not part of your decision?’ Brede’s hand slipped on the window ledge, hearing an echo of Sorcha’s words.

‘Sorcha, potentially. Is that why you want me gone?’

Grainne looked away, considering whether she would really risk her own safety rather than see Sorcha with another woman. At last she smiled.

‘Yes,’ she said, waiting for Brede to respond.

‘Is that knife back?’

Grainne had to think about that too.

‘No.’

‘So, what is this war about? What was so important that it lasted thirteen years, only to be dropped now?’

Grainne considered Brede’s sudden change of direction. She supposed that Brede was refusing to see her as anything but the Queen. And being Queen, she pulled her thoughts together and tried to explain.

‘Ailbhe always wanted the power for himself, he was never content to be Aeron’s consort.’

‘So you think he killed Aeron. And she was your – sister? Cousin?’

‘Niece.’

Brede nodded. ‘Reason enough for war.’

‘More complicated than that. When she died with no daughter, I was her heir. Ailbhe and his kin would’ve had me hand-fast with him, so that he could keep the throne. I could not, when I suspected him of a hand in her death. And he wouldn’t have been satisfied to be my consort either. I’ve no doubt I’d have died before I could’ve had a daughter.’

‘So there was no way for Ailbhe to gain by Aeron’s death?’

‘Of course there was, but not once I refused him. He misjudged my resolve, my loyalty. But once I am gone, a male relative who is blood of her blood can succeed.’

Brede watched Grainne thoughtfully, wanting to say
You’ve really flown in the face of the wind, haven’t you?

Grainne turned restlessly away from Brede’s gaze.

‘So,’ she said softly, ‘I was forced to be the ruler I never wanted to be, to stand between Ailbhe and his ambition. And I did it, for the country, for Aeron’s memory, out of duty. And I thought I was right to do so. And now someone I trust is trying to poison me. When I find out who that trusted someone is...’

Brede shook her head. ‘And then what?’ she asked.

Grainne had not looked beyond her final proof, her justice, if she could have it.

‘Then Ailbhe will have lost.’

‘He is already dead,’ Brede reminded her gently.

Grainne rubbed her temples. ‘At the hand of my Aeron’s son. I can’t believe she spawned him. I must make peace of some sort with that viper. If I do not, the war could last forever.’

‘Is it still within your control to end this?’ Brede asked.

Grainne sighed, bemused by her memories, and her anger and resentment at fourteen years of her life wasted and ruined.

‘Barely in my control, but it is my responsibility. The second that I allowed that circle of metal to touch my brow, it became my war, my fault. Perhaps even before, when Aeron died, it became my task.’

‘There was no war then,’ Brede protested.

‘You think not? No battles perhaps, but war, yes. You have handled that sword; can you tell me that you do not understand the way you can be drawn into the scheme of things, until you can no longer find a way out, until your own needs and wants mean nothing? Haven’t you heard Sorcha? There has always been a war; I didn’t choose this, it chose me, but it is mine for all that. Even when I don’t wear that crown, I can feel it pressing against my head, burning into me.’

Brede took a breath to interrupt, and hesitated. Grainne’s eyes focussed on her for the first time in a while. She was trembling with effort, beads of sweat on her brow. Brede laid a steadying hand on Grainne’s wrist. Grainne considered the hand resting against her skin, and recovered herself. She had forgotten that this was an ill-educated Plains woman, not Sorcha, to whom she spoke.

‘Take your rest,’ Grainne whispered. ‘I shall sleep again for a while. No one shall disturb us yet.’

Brede returned to her couch, where Sorcha lay, tangled in her blankets. Patiently, she unravelled the coverings from Sorcha’s sleep heavy limbs, and worked her way under the covers beside her. The bed was far too narrow for them both, but somehow she managed to get reasonably comfortable, and would have been almost content were it not for the thought of the freedom that she had allowed to slip away from her once more.

Chapter Nineteen

Eachan was aware that it looked strange, to have the master of the Queen’s horse going from gate to gate, garth to garth, asking after horses of Plains breeding. It helped nothing that he did not know what he was looking for, beyond a woman a little older than Brede, a child, gender unknown, aged around nine; and a particular breeder’s mark. Nonetheless, he judged it safer that he go than Brede. The owners of the private stables would be curious about him, but they would as like as not set the town guard onto Brede.

So, when Eachan walked in at Doran’s gate his mind was on horses, and his own dignity, so he did not at first recognise the man standing in the shade of the long porch running the length of the building. He had no reason to recognise the woman, and it wasn’t the owners of the house he particularly wished to speak to, so he turned his blind eye to them, looking for a servant. Even so, as he waited for the child to find the stable mistress, there was something about the way the man held himself that impinged. He stepped into another shady corner and watched as Killan detached himself with many backward glances for the woman on the porch. Doran’s wife, or his daughter, Eachan supposed, but it was too far away to tell which. He wondered if Killan had spotted him.

Just as Killan sauntered through the gate, the child returned to say that the stable mistress was not within the garth, and offering to take a message. Eachan pressed a scrap of paper into her hand with a rough sketch of Falda’s mark on it.

‘Tell her I would talk to her about any horse she has with this mark, and whether she knows the whereabouts of the woman who bred them.’

The child nodded, and smiled happily when the sketch was followed by a heavy copper coin.

‘I know this mark,’ the child said, ‘I’ll tell her what you say.’

Eachan turned out into the street, his brief glimpse of Killan forgotten.

Sorcha’s yet more discreet enquiries took her places even Eachan would hesitate to search. Sorcha could walk where she pleased, unchallenged, unseen if she so chose, and she walked into many private lodgings, and even into Grainne’s guest hall, where even Grainne went only when it could not be avoided. She found entire households accommodated there, and retinues of bondservants, and some fine horses, many Plains bred, but there was not a hint of Brede’s sister, and she returned dispirited and thoughtful, and would not tell Grainne where she had been.

As she wandered quietly about the halls and garths, Sorcha could not help but notice that there was a certain atmosphere that all these places shared, a feeling that they were waiting for something, that breath was being held. What was being awaited, and why, she could not yet fathom, but she felt it even within Grainne’s walls, even in the courts of the barracks. She felt it from the mercenaries under Maeve’s command, and wished she could ask Maeve what she had noticed, but there was no telling what Maeve’s involvement in that collective held breath might be. Sorcha did not trust Maeve. She could not put her finger on why, but there was something about the gossip in the inn on the corner of the square and the groups that formed and reformed there that made her uneasy. She found herself watching the liaisons and groupings, the pairing and bonding with a fascination that was not solely for the danger they might offer. She saw that she was not the only one watching. She saw Tegan watching, and Ula. And Ula watching Tegan, and watching Maeve. There was something about Ula, something more observant than was called for, something sharp, but at the same time generous, and Sorcha wondered, and watched more closely, so that it happened she was there to witness the making of a particular wager.

Killan put his arms about Maeve’s waist, and kissed the back of her neck. He felt the momentary surprise, then acceptance of her body, moulding itself against his. He sighed, and closed his eyes, drinking the scent of her hair. She twisted about, and pulled out of his arms. He opened his eyes.

There was something about her expression, something cleansed perhaps, as though a threatening cloud had passed. He reached, but didn’t touch.

‘Ah. I feel surplus to requirements.’

Her eyes widened slightly and shifted away from his face. Guilt: he recognised the signs.

‘Tegan –’ she began.

He reached out, shaking his head quickly and placing two fingers against her mouth to still her words. ‘Tegan,’ he said, resignation making his voice atypically dull. When he was certain she wouldn’t try to explain, his hand found somewhere to hide inside his sleeves, as he hunched his shoulders, feeling unaccountably forlorn. He was concerned to find he minded. Maeve had been fun. He tried to find something to say, but his wit and tongue seemed to have deserted him.

Maeve looked anxiously into Killan’s face and found something between hurt and anger there. He turned away sharply, as though it pained him to look into her eyes. Impatience hit her. Surely he wasn’t pretending he cared?

Killan rubbed his chest thoughtfully, then turned his shoulder just sufficiently that they could each pretend they weren’t together, not apart, not – his feet took him to the row of barrels. His hand beckoned the keg mistress, found coins, curved about a mug. The sharp fire of the alcohol hit his tongue, the back of his throat, his chest, his stomach, his mind. He glanced about the tightly packed room, focussing on each face in turn, aware, of a sudden, that he was glowering and made a conscious attempt to stop. Shoulders back and down. Brows up and relaxed, hands loose. His eyes rested on a dark-haired woman he could not place. Her eyes met his coolly and she turned slightly away, almost scornful. He shrugged and he forgot her. There was Ula. She raised her head and met his gaze. He shook his head, found a smile he didn’t know he possessed and bestowed it on the next face that came into focus.

Inir smiled uncertainly back.
Inir? Well, why not?
Killan shouldered his way to Inir’s side, making his walk relaxed, his body open and welcoming, shedding his irritation and disappointment, thinking himself into another mood, consoling, warm, subtly sexual. Yes, Inir would do.

Ula rose abruptly from her comfortable corner, made an excuse to Oran, and wove her way towards Maeve.

Maeve watched Killan, wondering what the opening comment of that conversation would be. Inir was part of her crew – if Killan had unkind things to say, she would rather they were not to one of hers. She was too hot, an uncomfortable flush on her face, her collar suddenly too tight and rough against her skin. She loosened the fastening, and put the cool metal of her mug against her cheek. A hand touched her shoulder and she twisted in the tightly packed crowd to greet Ula.

‘Did I see what I think I saw?’ Ula asked, with a mischievous smile setting crinkles about her eyes. ‘Did you just let Killan loose?’

Maeve’s mouth quirked uncomfortably.

‘You could put it like that.’

Ula laid a finger gently on the frown that knit Maeve’s brow.

‘And you feel bad about it?’

‘A little.’

‘Don’t.’ Ula sipped her ale. ‘He’ll have a new victim within half an hour.’

‘Victim?’

‘A new intimate friend, then.’

Maeve found indignation welling up at Ula’s low opinion of Killan, and of the worth of her own affection for him, and the effect upon him of her rejection.

‘Nonsense,’ she said sharply. Ula grinned.

‘Then I wager you a measure of best ale if I’m wrong, against a kiss if I’m right.’

Maeve narrowed her eyes at Ula.

‘And I thought you and Oran would grow old together.’

‘We will. It’s just a kiss. I’m no Killan.’

‘You don’t care for him much.’

‘He’s a complete bastard, my love. But he is also a charmer. Everyone loves him, he’s all and everything to whoever he’s with, and that changes so quickly – about now, I’d say.’

Ula waved her mug in Killan’s direction.

Inir bent his head slightly to hear Killan, his hand rising to rest on Killan’s back, below his shoulder blade. Killan’s hand fell against Inir’s neck in something that approached a caress, pulling him into an intimacy that might be secrecy, or something more. Maeve shivered with jealousy, then shook herself out of it – what Killan did wasn’t her concern now.

‘Inir doesn’t count, Killan’s been helping him over Balin.’

‘There’s helping and helping. I give it another ten minutes before they leave together.’

Maeve shook her head.

‘Go and buy the beer, Ula.’

Ula grinned and fought her way to the barrels. Before she was back at Maeve’s elbow, Inir and Killan had gone.

‘You owe me two coppers for the beer,’ she said, ‘and a kiss.’

Maeve handed over the money, and bent her head to kiss Ula chastely on the side of her mouth. Ula moved her head slightly, meeting the kiss full on. She heard Maeve’s intake of breath and pressed slightly harder, feeling Maeve’s almost involuntary response and taking full advantage. Maeve drew back, the too hot, uncomfortable feeling about her collar once more. Ula rested her hand on the back of Maeve’s neck, keeping her close enough that what they said couldn’t be overheard.

‘Whatever it is that Killan has, that draws people to him, you have it too.’

Maeve reached and untangled Ula’s hand from her hair.

‘Tegan is back in my life, I’ve everything I want.’

Ula stepped away.

‘Not you, Maeve.’

Maeve frowned, out of kilter and hoping she was still being teased.

‘Don’t flirt, Ula, someone might think you mean it.’

Ula shrugged.

‘So, I can expect Tegan to be less grumpy can I?’

‘Tegan is always grumpy.’

Ula laughed, and Maeve forgot about her rough, too tight collar.

Sorcha moved away, reassured that after all, the complexities of the shifting loyalties of Maeve’s mercenaries were just about whose blankets were currently tangled with whose.

Inir walked, loose-limbed at Killan’s side, more than slightly drunk. His step seemed too light – his
heart
seemed too light. Somehow this felt like betrayal, but he couldn’t quite place why. Not Maeve, that was certain, he knew better than Killan how irrelevant that anxiety should be now. No, it was Balin he was walking away from, each step of greater significance than the effort of muscle, the compact of foot and shoe leather and cobble. It was time, somehow. Time to let go, time to try again, time to have a little pleasure.

Killan’s lodging was in a tall house that burrowed into the wall of the city, leant confidingly into the stone, a drunk in a doorway. The stairway was no more than a ladder, dark and awkward. But at the top of the stair, beyond a curtain, they came out into light and space. Inir looked round sharply, blinking and appreciably less inebriated. The shutters at the window were thrown back, and the window itself was near as large as a door. A single chair stood in the way of the window, with a small table beside it, and the rest of the room was a substantial bed, and a welter of clothes and gear in apparently random piles on the floor. The table was meticulously clean and clear of everything except a knife, and on the wall above the table a series of shelves held household wares.

Killan grinned at Inir’s survey.

‘This isn’t what I want you to see,’ he said leading the way to the window.

He stepped through, leaning his weight on the open shutter and swinging out of sight. Inir followed cautiously, less certain of the pitch of the roof, and the potentially slippery shingles beneath his feet. As he straightened and got his balance, he gasped.

‘Worth seeing,’ he agreed. The roof of the house came almost to the top of the city wall, and caught the last of the evening sun. Laid out below them, the city sprawled. The lowest reach of the Tower was almost on a level with their viewpoint. The barracks gate was clearly visible. Inir laughed.

‘It feels as though you could step off the roof and be at our gate in a couple of minutes.’

‘It takes a bit longer than that,’ Killan grinned in false modesty, ‘but a lot faster than by road.’

Inir shook his head. ‘What? You’ve taken up flying?’

‘No. But it is just about possible to get the whole way up there on the roofs. Or it would be if it weren’t for the river.’

‘Ah, the river.’ Inir searched the view below him. ‘I can’t see it.’

Killan placed a careful hand on his shoulder, wary of unbalancing him, and pointed.

‘The tall building there, that’s the mill, it’s just beyond.’

‘It looks completely different from here, but now you’ve said it, I can see the wheel, and the weathervane on the inn the other side –’ Inir knelt and peered down into the street below. Killan grabbed a handful of sleeve.

‘Careful, the roof isn’t in good condition.’

Inir moved his hand back quickly, and sat back onto his heels, resting his back against Killan’s legs. Killan smiled to himself.

‘My eyrie, my kingdom.’ Inir glanced up, and Killan offered him his hand, to help him back to his feet. ‘The best view in the city, warm in the sun, and not overlooked.’

Inir glanced up at the wall behind the house. Killan shook his head.

‘The sentries never quite make it up here. The privy is in that tower,’ he pointed to his left, ‘and in winter there’s a fire, so they don’t walk this stretch often, with the river below to keep unwelcome strangers out.’

Inir frowned, trying to work out the geography. The frown smoothed as he fit where he was into his mental picture of the city’s defences. He looked at Killan thoughtfully, aware that his hand was still in Killan’s.

‘Still,’ Killan said, ‘there’s not enough sun left to stay out here long tonight. Shall we go in?’

Inir nodded wordlessly, caressing the base of Killan’s thumb with his own. Killan’s hand tightened about his.

‘Are you staying?’ he asked softly. Inir nodded again. Killan turned immediately, and led Inir in through the window.

Ula and Oran stumbled in through the barrack gateway, laughing and rain-soaked, just as the guard changed. Ula caught Cei’s cold look and sneered.

‘You should get out more, man,’ she said, over-loud. ‘There’s been good sport this evening, even you would have enjoyed it.’