The Dowry Blade (35 page)

Kendra stepped away from the unsheathed blade.

Brede hooked the belt over her shoulder, so that she couldn’t lose the sword, then, centring her weight on her stronger leg and the hilt of the sword, she stood.

Her balance had changed. She wobbled dangerously, accommodating that unexpected imbalance, and put her foot to the ground. Even with the support of the sword, she could put no weight on the leg. The slightest pressure, even the fact of being upright, set pain clamouring through her, in a way that she hadn’t imagined possible. It was worse than the initial pain of the injury.

Brede collapsed back onto the bed.

Too soon
, she signed, reluctantly.

For all that, she would not give up, and gradually, the leg healed enough for her to walk, after a fashion. It took weeks before she could walk far enough to leave the cave, but there was a need in her now, a craving to move, to be gone.

Madoc had forgotten his purpose; he watched now, for the sake of watching, half mesmerised by the ways of this place. He had no understanding of how long he had waited, there was only a certainty that there was something here that he wanted, and that if he waited long enough, he would discover it.

When Doran at last found him, he scarcely recognised his general. The metal of his armoured coat was rusted, the leather cracked and mouldering. Madoc’s hair had been allowed to grow unchecked by comb or braid, into a tangled mass full of twigs and dead leaves. Were Doran not appalled at the change, he would have laughed.

‘General?’ he asked cautiously.

Madoc had not seen his approach, had not heard his horse’s hooves on the mossy rocks beside the river. He had become so used to listening for silences, that he did not recognise the sounds for what they were.

Madoc blinked at the sight of bright mail. He stared at Doran without recognition.

‘General.’ Doran tried again. ‘Have you found the sword?’

Madoc tipped his head back. The sword? He began to laugh, softly at first, but soon the noise bounced back from the great rock wall above the river.

‘The sword?’ he asked.

Doran lowered his head, and pretended an interest in his gloves, waiting for the laughter to die.

‘No.’ Madoc said, the splash of a stone into water.

Doran raised his head and smiled.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Let Lorcan wait, let him hire all the witches he can find to search for his precious blade. There are friends searching for you, General: friends who no longer look to Lorcan for leadership. You have many friends.’

‘Witches?’ Madoc’s eyes seemed to focus on Doran for the first time. Under that steady regard, Doran wondered if they had made a mistake. Madoc’s hand rubbed against his face, thoughtful; and Doran remembered Lorcan’s mailed fist striking Madoc. No, they hadn’t made a mistake. Madoc nodded.

‘Lorcan, without the Dowry blade – yes,’ he agreed. ‘If he is asking witches for help he must be desperate.’

Doran reached down a hand to help Madoc to the back of his horse, and tried not to flinch as the smell of decay invaded his nostrils. Madoc caught the look on his face.

‘Don’t wince at me, Doran,’ he said.

Doran did not reply. He turned the horse and retraced his route beside the river. He looked at the glittering sun-splashed water and wondered why it had taken five days for him to find a way into the woodland. Madoc glanced back, seeing one more shimmering doubt in the air. The witch was still here, somewhere, and so was the sword. Well, it could wait. When he had Lorcan, he would come back for the sword. He would burn down every tree if necessary, but he would find the blade.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Brede chose night for her first foray, fearing the brightness of day after so long underground. Even so, the moonlight seemed harsh, making her feel exposed. She shivered at the stirring wind, after the still closeness of the cave. Strange to feel the cave as safety, after years of longing for the wide sky of the Plains. She gripped the hilt of the sword, adjusting her awkward hold, so that she could put more weight on it and ease her leg slightly.

From the mouth of the cave, Brede surveyed the immediate territory, setting herself tasks. If she could walk to here, there was a boulder to rest against: to here, a convenient tree. She sat on a massive tree root, and planned her small battles, her fragile victories.

Brede laid the sword beside her and rubbed abstractedly at the scar across the back of her hand, the slight ridge, the momentary smoothness of scar tissue, pale even against the pallor of her sun-starved skin. Rhythmically she traced the length of that mark, trying to remember a time without pain, flinching from the memory buried in that scar and its sudden painless healing. She blanked her mind to the remembered touch of Sorcha’s hand on hers, holding that torn flesh together. Brede clasped her hand against her chest and sighed, a soft uncertain noise in the shadows.

The air stirred and Brede glanced back into the cave.

Kendra stood in the entrance, her head almost touching the rock that arched above Brede. She glanced about, watching for the searching man, the watcher who had invaded her world.

Brede at last saw her silent companion in light. What she saw didn’t surprise her, as it might once have done. Kendra was at least two feet taller than Brede. Her body must once had been lithe and strong, but she was old now. Her joints were gnarled, awkwardly twisted, but she still walked with grace, still stood with her back straight. Her skin was a silvery brown, and seemed so old, so used up and dried, that Brede winced, and rubbed her hand against her own forearm. Kendra’s hair was as grey as willow leaves. The slight breeze rustled about her. Looking at her, Brede no longer wondered at the choice of the sword as a crutch.

Kendra closed her eyes, not wishing to meet the mortal’s gaze, feeling herself reflected there, as she did not wish to be. When she opened her eyes, she gestured to Brede, the latest of her foundlings, her strong one.

Walk for me
, she suggested.

Brede picked up the sword, and hauled herself to her feet. Slowly, laboriously, she walked the few steps to the boulder that was her next landmark.

Kendra couldn’t bear to watch that painful journey. It took too long, this healing. She covered the same ground in two strides, and gathered Brede up into her arms. Brede moved to protest, but Kendra ignored her.

After the initial shock of Kendra’s arms lifting her, once the fear of falling had subsided, Brede enjoyed the feel of the bark-rough skin against her, it was a safe feeling. Kendra felt Brede relaxing into her clasp, and smiled. She carried Brede to the river that ran through her domain, and set her gently down.

There was a small still pool where the current had forgotten its urgent shifting, where Brede might strengthen her leg more swiftly, less painfully.

Brede stared at the water. It was so still, so quiet; but it was a river. Brede hesitated. Rivers had never held much luck for her, even in times of drought. Her mind flickered to another river, its waters tugging at her as she waded the shallows, the current trying to pull her further into its depths. She pushed that thought away, only to have another catch her, the noise of a horse racing through that same river, the bite of the spray thrown up to spatter her – and the warm body leaning against her; an incoherent jumble of thoughts dripped into her brain. Brede shuddered.

Precious
, they whispered in astonishment and gratitude, at the waters-edge of her memory.

Lost
, Brede screamed back across the distance of time, and closed her mind.

The stones were slippery; Brede gazed miserably at the expanse of rock for a while. Realising that she should not have taken Brede by surprise before; Kendra waited to be asked before she carried Brede to the pool’s edge.

The coldness of the water closed around Brede with a suddenness that made her wince and she clung to Kendra’s arm, suddenly afraid. Kendra stood patiently, awkwardly bent, until Brede understood that the water was shallow, that she was safe, and loosened her hold.

Kendra sat with her feet in the river, whilst Brede cautiously tested her muscles against the drag of water, breaking the stillness of the surface.

Kendra stayed motionless, save for her eyes, questing about in the darkness. There was no sign of Madoc, no scent of him. Kendra listened, tuning out the noise of the river, of the birds and animals, even their breathing, even their heartbeats – nothing. The man had gone. There was no need to fear for Brede’s safety.

Brede watched the moonlight break off the dark ripples of water with a quiet pleasure, unexpected contentment taking some of the knots from her muscles. She stayed for as long as she could bear the numbing cold.

Resting her hand on Kendra’s knee, Brede indicated her readiness to leave. Kendra stared down at her thoughtfully, before reaching down to pull her very slowly from the pool. The drag of the water was dreadful, and Brede struggled with a moan at the sudden reassertion of her own weight. Kendra cradled her gently as she pushed to her feet and stepped across the slippery stones in one stride. Brede was asleep in her arms before they were back at the cave.

Kendra was aware that Brede’s only thought was of leaving the safety of her woodland domain. For every improvement in Brede’s twisted, damaged leg, there was another sign of Brede’s determination to leave. Kendra was tempted to keep Brede with her, and nurture their fragile communication, but she had been tempted this way before and it was foolish, there could be no long-term bond between mortals and beings such as Kendra. So Kendra was careful of herself, pulling gently away.

Brede was aware that Kendra was withdrawing from her, and feared it. She had been spending more time away from the cave, relearning the skill of walking. She rediscovered hunger, thirst; and drank greedily from the river. She used her unsteady progress through the woods to gather mushrooms and berries, edible mosses, the occasional bird’s egg.

Brede put her weakness down to hunger, which was a constant now. Kendra encouraged Brede’s sorties, not for the exercise alone, but for the sustenance she discovered on her forays. As Brede spent more time away from the cave, as she found her own food, her reliance on the essence that fed Kendra lessened, and gave Kendra hope that Brede would survive without her. She would not allow Brede to fall to the Scavenger through any lack of effort on her part. Brede was her last charge, her last responsibility, and she would see her safe. But to do that she must find a horse. Horses weren’t commonplace in her land, stumbling in by accident, and that rarely. And so she must go outside her domain, to the nearest farm, and take a horse.

Kendra had not left the narrow strip of woodland that was her world for so long, that she had only a few broken images to supply her memory of what the rest of the world looked like.

She hadn’t always been tied to the wood. There was a time in her green and eager youth, when she had been tempted out of her safety, to follow a smiling lad, who had forgotten her as soon as he reached the next town; never realising he owed his life to her care, never realising what she was, or what she might had been to him, had he let her into his heart.

Time had warped for him, and when he at last left Kendra’s arms, his wife was long gone, hand-fasted to some new man down the valley, believing him dead. So Kendra had got her revenge for his leaving, his forgetfulness.

She wondered whether she wasn’t falling into precisely the same trap with Brede; pouring out her days on someone who would not remember her, who would dismiss her sacrifices as nothing. But no, Brede was not another smiling careless one. Kendra had seen the worried frown play across Brede’s face, when she had allowed her foundling to see her own doubts, her weariness: Brede wouldn’t forget her. They had communicated in their rough and ready silence, in a way the smiling one never attempted. For him, Kendra’s silence had implied devotion and agreement, which had rapidly ceased to exist. Kendra couldn’t remember, now, why she had followed him; but she was glad that she had, for it was to Smiling Conal’s farm she went, to steal a horse for Brede.

Conal had substantial fences about his field. Kendra stood in the shadow of the nearest trees, measuring the distances, trying to smell if Conal was about, and whether he kept dogs. She moved so slowly across the clearing that between the forest edge and his fence, that her movement would only be seen if someone were to look straight at her. The horses didn’t notice.

Kendra laid her hand gently on the dead wood of Conal’s fence. Her skin looked almost as dead as the bleached and dry paling. She gave a tug, and the post pulled from the earth as though it were water. One of the horses raised its head, startled by the unexpected movement.

She pushed the crossbar gently, and the fence folded in on itself. The horse looked at her curiously, puzzled at the sudden appearance of what appeared to be a tree. He walked towards her, stretching his neck out so as to investigate from as safe a distance as he could. Kendra offered a hand, and he scratched against her bark-like skin.

The other horse started out of its reverie, and whinnied shrilly. A dog started barking, and there was an abrupt jerky movement from the porch of the shack-like building on the far side of the field. The horse shied from Kendra, stepping away uncertainly. Kendra stared across the field at the bent old man woken from his afternoon nap. She didn’t recognise him, for this wasn’t Conal after all, the smiler had gone with the Scavenger many years past. This one might be his son’s son, or even further down the generational ladder. This one was not so tall, and not so ready to smile as his handsome ancestor.

Kendra sighed to herself, and resolved to banish any remaining tenderness for Conal’s memory. She beckoned the horse closer and took hold of its halter. She led the horse carefully over the broken fence. She ignored the cry of protest from the other side of the field. She might not move swiftly, but she was faster than the old man and the horse came willingly.

There was no sign of Brede at the cave. Kendra tethered the horse, and ducked under the entrance.

No Brede, but there was another.

What are you doing here?
Kendra asked, angry and taken aback.

Kendra,
the Scavenger said, in soft reproach.

The word span across the space between them and uncoiled into Kendra’s being. She stepped back, trying to escape the strange feeling of disintegrating.

What are you doing?
she asked, frightened now.

I’ve come for your soul,
the Scavenger replied.

It is not time,
Kendra protested, her certainty of that fact failing her briefly.

No? I thought I felt something –
the Scavenger turned her head thoughtfully from one side to another.
I thought I heard something dying? But here you still are.

I have no soul,
Kendra offered.

Yes you do. You’ve had a soul ever since you picked up that bleeding boy, and kept him from me. You have picked up a veneer of mortality. I can smell it.

Conal?
Kendra asked, startled into it, with her memories of him so recently woken.

Was that his name?
the Scavenger asked.
You’ve kept me from my work too many times for me to remember them all. I remember the first, and I will remember this last one. I look forward to taking them most, when you go wherever it is you go.

Have them now, and welcome,
Kendra signed, confident that the Scavenger could harm neither her, nor her charge. She did not hold Brede’s soul, nor did she need any soul she might have.

The Scavenger was startled at so easy a capitulation.

How will you manage without them?
she asked, not understanding even now, that Kendra was not mortal in the way the Scavenger understood.

She got no answer; Kendra had moved to the cave mouth. She had heard something, felt something, and was drawn by the cry, as she was always drawn.

But the Scavenger had told her that there would be no more souls for her to rescue, that Brede would be her last charge, and so, that cry must go unanswered. Kendra had a momentary fear that the cry might, after all, be Brede. She feared that she had been tricked into giving away her protection of Brede. She turned back to the Scavenger, her hands raised to ask, and saw the disappointed frown on the face of death’s messenger.

Kendra smiled. She had won.

Brede’s grip on the sword altered as she entered the cave, alerted to potential danger by the horse outside.

‘Greeting,’ she said politely, although there was a chill in her heart that made her tremble. Brede had never known Kendra be so still, so tense. Her voice was scarcely a whisper it had been used so little of late, but it hit the stillness and something of the tension broke.

Yes
, Brede thought, that immobility had been fear. Anger for Kendra’s dread reminded her tongue of how it once made words. She punctured the silence again.

‘Is that your horse outside?’

That other, the uncertain being that she couldn’t quite see, answered casually, ‘No, I believe it is yours.’

But there was nothing casual about this meeting. Brede sensed the purpose tightening at her throat. Although that other had spoken, Brede was aware of no voice. Mostly she was conscious of an absence, an emptiness about the figure, which seemed intent on drawing her in.

Brede glanced at Kendra, hoping for an explanation of the terror. Kendra smiled uneasily, still half listening to the crying out in the woods.

‘Who are you?’ Brede asked.

‘You don’t need to know that,’ the Scavenger said. ‘Not yet. But I shall not forget that you asked. I’ll even give you the advice that Kendra can’t bring herself to give. Leave here at once. The horse is for you, a gift from Kendra. Be grateful. You’ve made better progress than I would have thought possible.’