The Dowry Blade (44 page)

‘Will none of you look at her youth, and pity her? Can’t you see how she was deceived by the pride you bred in her? Look at her, Songspinners, see what you’ve wrought. Why give her a sword if you don’t intend her to use it? That was the path you set her on with your teaching, do you now condemn her for following your instruction? She has made her choice, and you haven’t the right to gainsay it.’

Brede’s voice shook, and her leg was afire with protesting muscles as she finished. She stared wildly about her, unsure of the effect of her words, or where they came from; afraid that perhaps Sorcha had spoken through her, giving her this unexpected eloquence. She was too angry to care what the truth of the matter was. Their faces were closed to her. Brede recognised that look and her heart went out to Ashe, who had no kin, as Brede had none.

‘Are you finished?’ Aneira asked. She would not be put at fault by a no-voice who knew nothing of their ways, of their vows; vows which Ashe had broken, intentionally or otherwise.

‘Are you finished?’ Aneira asked again, her voice trembling, despite her years of learnt control.

Brede nodded, unable to force another word out. She turned, walking as firmly as she could to the door. She stared at the wood for a second, anger and humiliation seething in her blood, then she threw up her hands in the sign for
open
. The door swung open gently. Brede stepped through and smiled, a small, cheap victory that one, but perhaps they would not be so swift to call her
no-voice
again, even in their minds.

Out in the courtyard, Brede didn’t know where to go, what to do, so she made her way to the stables, where she buried her face in the mane of her horse. It was not used to her yet, nor was it accustomed to being used as a comforter, and stepped smartly sideways, away from her. Brede swore at the beast, and thumped it gently on the shoulder. More used to this kind of behaviour, the horse edged back up, and allowed her to lean against him.

None of this had been how Brede imagined. She had allowed her own purpose to be waylaid by Ashe’s needs. She was abruptly furious, not with the witches, but with Ashe. This was supposed to have been her resolution, an ending, and now here she was, caught up in someone else’s life.

Brede inspected the horse. She could just saddle the beast, ride away, and leave them to their arguments. She had done her best to make them understand what Ashe had done. Brede knew that if she were Aneira, she would condemn. She knew it; she understood the motivation, but the injustice rankled. She couldn’t ride away, not yet. There was unfinished business of her own, and there would be no space in the Songspinners’ minds for her, until they had finished with Ashe, and so she must stay beside Ashe, waiting her time.

Brede sensed rather than heard movement behind her, and turned swiftly, ready for a blow, but there was no hand raised against her. It was only then that she realised that she had walked out of the hall without the aid of the sword.

Saraid backed away, startled by the sudden movement and the angry expression.

‘We need you,’ she said, ‘somewhat to our surprise. You seem to hold knowledge that we need, both for Ashe and for Sorcha. You must forgive our lack of hospitality, but this day has brought us unexpected pain, and we have not recovered our usual equilibrium.’

Saraid smiled wryly, accepting the lack of grace in Brede’s nod, knowing they deserved no more.

‘If you will accompany me, I will arrange for you to use the bath house, it is a good way to ease the discomfort of a long ride. If you will, I need to talk to you at length about Sorcha, when you’ve rested and eaten.’

Diplomatic. Brede knew that she offended them, and that she smelt of deprivation, of beggary. If Saraid wanted to ease her discomfort, she could do so more effectively with her voice. Brede shrugged off her irritation. She would like to be clean. She hadn’t been really clean for more than a year.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Saraid led Brede to the bathhouse, which was not how she expected it to be: no tubs, no hot water, instead wooden benches, heat, and steam, more like the sweat lodges of the plains.

Brede stripped her soiled, ruined clothing from her. She struggled with her blood-spattered boots, and was grateful they were so loose; any tighter and it would have been impossible to remove them herself. Brede hoped that the witches, now that they had remembered how to treat a guest, would find her something clean to wear. She laid her aching body down on the nearest bench. The muscles of her damaged leg trembled now that they were released from tension. She couldn’t control the jumping spasms. She shifted, awkwardly, again and again, trying to find a position that stopped the ceaseless twitching.

When Ashe entered the bathhouse, she found Brede weeping. Brede turned away, trying to hide her tears, her pain, her nakedness.

Ashe considered her. A thing of bones strung together with nothing but the sinews of her will. A pattern of raised scars, some light, some deep. Scarcely a body at all, a mass of harsh experiences, etched into her living flesh.

Ashe wrapped the robe she carried about Brede’s shoulders, crouching beside her, rubbing her arms gently, trying to ease her. Brede choked the tears into silence, abruptly finding them ridiculous. She covered Ashe’s hand with her own. Ashe pulled away gently, and began to untie Brede’s plait. Brede submitted to her attentions. It had been years since anyone unbraided her hair – the last time rose before her eyes, and it was not Ashe’s fingers she felt against her neck.

Despite the heat of the steam, Brede shivered. She allowed herself to remember Sorcha’s voice from Ashe’s lips. There was more to this than she could begin to understand. Ashe moved away, to get water for her to wash her hair, and Brede sighed in relief. She felt hemmed in with confusion.

And when was the last time for this?
Brede asked herself sternly as she rubbed soapwort into her scalp. She liked to be clean; it allowed her to think that there could be a future. She squeezed the water from her hair, combed it with her fingers. So much grey, worse than she had thought, the dirt had been hiding some of the streaks. It was not vanity that made her sigh, but fear. She sighed again, impatiently, and gave herself over to the heat.

Ashe lay on the far bench, her eyes closed, listening to Brede’s breathing. She felt the cold and loneliness leaching out of her pores with the dirt. She listened to the water dripping out of Brede’s hair, fast at first, then slower and slower, comforting, sleep inducing. Then it stopped. Ashe opened her eyes, staring up at the ceiling. She listened. She couldn’t hear Brede’s breathing.

Ashe sat up, staring, but it was only that she slept. She calmed the panic that had raced her pulse. Brede should not sleep here, but to wake her, Ashe must touch her. She hovered over Brede, not wanting to disturb her, not wanting to wake her. Very gently, she touched Brede’s shoulder. The last time she woke the swordswoman that way, she had been cursed at. She was prepared for that again, but Brede did not curse. Out of her sleep, she reached for Ashe, speaking Sorcha’s name. Ashe moved swiftly out of the range of her reaching; Brede would hurt less if she woke to empty air under her seeking hand.

Brede opened her eyes. Ashe sat at her feet, her short, mousy hair curling slightly on her forehead from the steam. Brede was sure she had heard Sorcha calling her name. She rubbed her eyes, angry with herself, angry with her body for the longing that made such a fool of her, playing tricks on her mind; angry with Ashe for not being Sorcha.

Ashe stared at her hands, trying to work out how to say what she needed. She held them helplessly before her, and then stretched them out to Brede. Brede forced her body into a seated position, forced the heat-induced lassitude from her limbs. Her leg cramped immediately and she gasped.

Ashe’s hands found something to do – working the injured limb, forcing the cramp into subsiding, thinking the muscles straight, singing in her mind, spinning the tune with her fingers. She could feel the muscles responding, feel the pain lifting away, layer after layer; could feel it clinging to her fingers, working its way into her own bones. She pulled away sharply, and the pain was gone. Brede took hold of her fingers gently, turning her hands over, shaping them for her, into a question.

‘How did you do that?’

Ashe shook her head, bewildered. She had wanted to end Brede’s pain, and she had simply done what she would have always done, except she had used her hands instead of her voice. Cautiously, she shaped a question of her own, having to invent some of it, but it was clear enough what she meant, counterpointing Brede’s question.

How did you open the door?

Brede shaped the sign for open. Yes, she had done that.

I will teach her such songs to spin on her fingers
– had she said that?

‘Intent,’ Brede said aloud. ‘It has nothing to do with the method at all, it takes intent.’

Ashe shook her head. This was different; she had never felt pain creeping into her when she used song to heal. This was harder, more costly.

Brede ran her hand experimentally over her leg, testing the points that normally gave her pain.

‘Will it last?’ she asked.

Ashe shook her head again.

Brede flexed her leg, she couldn’t believe the lack of pain. She hugged Ashe to her, in unspoken thanks. Ashe felt Brede’s body against her own; warm, grateful. She wrapped her arms about Brede, hugging her back, her own gratitude needing expression.

She felt the rushing of Brede’s pulse, as she rested her forehead into the curve of Brede’s neck; she felt the almost imperceptible tightening of her arms about her. She moved her head slightly, so that her lips brushed Brede’s skin; then a fraction further, lifting her face, her mouth, confidently, to Brede’s; waiting.

Brede’s body remembered this; remembered what it was like to be without pain, to be hanging that second from commitment, from pleasure; remembered anticipation. Brede’s mind pinned the memory, painted in the colours, the scents, and told her when, where, and with whom: Brede’s body recoiled from the memory. Her mind revolted, screaming at her,
dead, dead
– but she could still be gentle.

Ashe knew, the second their lips met, that there was something wrong. There was a sadness in the touch; it was not a kiss of welcome, but of ending. She pulled away gradually, looking into Brede’s face. Her eyes were clear and calm, she smiled, but there was nothing there for Ashe.

Brede turned away from the necessity of looking at Ashe. Silenced, she shaped words on her hands, explaining. Ashe covered Brede’s hands with her own. She took herself away, plunging herself into the cold water in the end room grateful for the icy sting that forced her to let go her held breath, forcing her to feel. She scrambled out quickly. She wished she need not wait for Brede.

Brede buried her face in her hands, sitting cross-legged on the bench, a position she hadn’t been able to take since that fall into Kendra’s territory.

It is worse now
, she told herself severely.

Brede picked up the robe, pulled it over her head. She picked through her belongings, rescuing Sorcha’s talisman. She rebraided her hair, plaiting the row of stones into it. She fastened her belt over the robe, tucking the hem into the belt at one side, to keep her feet free of its folds.

As she walked from the bathhouse, Brede was disconcerted to see Ashe waiting for her. She followed her silently to the guest quarters.

Ashe felt rejection for the second time in a few minutes. There were two beds made up in the guest room, one for Brede, one for her. She was no longer part of the family here. Brede was more concerned that they must share the room, given what had just occurred; but there was a warm fire, and food; and she was hungry and tired, and her leg was already beginning to stiffen again. The sword had been brought. Brede wondered briefly which of the Songspinners forced herself to carry it, or whether they kept a few no-voices about for such menial tasks. Stiff or not, she didn’t intend to use the sword again. She wrapped the blade in her bright green cloak, and pushed it beneath the bed, then gave her attention to the meal that lay ready.

Ashe picked at the food, Brede wolfed it. Brede slept sound and long, too tired for anything else; Ashe lay awake until the early hours, turning over her mistakes in her mind. Wearily she added to the list of her crimes. She had never before encountered difficulty such as this. Where she loved, she had been loved. Where she desired, she had been desired. But she had never had a ghost as a rival before, let alone a ghost who had taken her body and used it.

Sleep took a very long time to reach her.

And when Ashe woke, she was in her own bed, and the sweet ordinariness of the sounds about her, and the scents of home were a balm to her, allowing her to believe that she had never left, that none of it had ever happened.

She could hear a murmur of familiar voices, Saraid and Islean, beyond the door, arguing as usual.

Another layer of sleep dissolved into wakefulness and the weariness in her limbs tried to warn her, but Ashe wasn’t listening. She opened her mouth to call to Islean, but no sound came –

– and then she woke.

Ashe opened her eyes. Late morning sun streamed through the window, failing to warm the cold air. She peered at the remains of the fire, cold and grey on the hearth. Her aching limbs reminded her of what she couldn’t do, and what her sisters had chosen not to do. They hadn’t eased her aching; they had chosen not to expend even that small effort on her behalf. They had made her alien, a
no-voice
.

Ashe wondered how long it took for bruises to heal without help, how long it would take for the anger in her heart to ease. She pushed away the bedding, put her feet to the cold floor. She flinched from the stone slabs, and tried to stretch the tiredness from her muscles. She stirred the ashes in the hearth, hoping for a remnant of heat.

Brede stirred, having been silently wakeful for an hour or more. She propped herself on one elbow, to watch her companion as she laid a new fire, and tried to light it. Brede knew better than to help, Ashe would not thank her for her assistance.

Brede did not feel well. It had been so long since she had eaten a proper meal that her guts were rebelling at the spicy food she’d eaten. She crawled out of bed, and left Ashe to her fire making, more pressing matters on her mind.

Ashe pretended not to notice that she’d gone, that she had given her no greeting. She did not persuade herself, and flung the flint across the room. It sparked against the wall; despite its refusal to do any such thing near her patiently laid kindling.

Saraid and Islean had been waiting for them to wake. They watched the no-voice leave the guest room and were about to enter when they heard the crash of the flint against the wall. Despite herself, Islean laughed. Ashe looked up from the fireplace. Saraid sighed, and muttered a few notes of song. The kindling flickered into flame and Ashe had to pull her hem away to prevent it from catching fire. She resented the ease with which Saraid lit the fire, resented that her help was needed.

Saraid ignored the expression on Ashe’s face and placed the bundle of papers she carried onto the windowsill. Ashe picked them over. They were blank. Here, back in civilisation, there were people who could read. Not that the witches had much use for the skill, they relied too heavily on their voices to choose to write often, but since she had no other way to communicate with anyone but Brede, Ashe would write. Her writing was rusty, and her failure with Brede had put the possibility from her mind. She caressed the smooth creamy pages. Yes, she would write.

She smiled at Saraid, at Islean. Islean continued to look stony. It was her paper, which she could ill afford to spare for Ashe’s scribbling. She was the record keeper, she wrote down the dangerous songs, that were not safe to be spoken. She had allowed only old paper, scraped clean of ancient words and music. She passed Ashe a bottle of ink, and one of her own pens.

Saraid cleared her throat. It was too easy to catch the habit of silence, it alarmed her.

‘We want you to write everything, especially which song you used. Tell us how you met this Brede, and why she agreed to champion you. Everything you can think to tell us, Ashe. I can’t stress the importance of this. You can take as long as you need; I have to talk to your companion about Sorcha today. You won’t have her to speak for you, so you may as well use the time to explain yourself. It was thoughtless of us not to provide you with writing materials before. For this I apologise.’

Ashe took up the pen, broke the seal on the ink and with a hand that trembled slightly, wrote her first words, her first direct communication with her sisters.

She wrote
Thank you
.

The stark plainness of the words did not show the tone she wished to use, one that made it clear exactly how little she thanked them for. Brede’s hands could, and did, give the tone of what she said, hesitant or emphatic, plain or dismissive. There were limitations to writing. She thought of the pain edging into her fingers as she touched Brede: most certainly there were limitations.

Ashe collected the papers carefully together, and placed them on the bed. She resealed the ink, and laid the pen beside it. Then Brede came back into the room, which at once seemed crowded. She bowed slightly to the witches.

‘Good morning?’ she said, making it a question. Brede flustered them; they were out of sorts, not knowing how to deal with this towering woman, this killer, this cripple. Brede enjoyed it a little; she had forgotten how intimidating she could be. Saraid responded, mindful of her duties.

‘Good morning. I hope that you are rested?’ She didn’t give Brede time to answer. ‘I need to talk to you about Sorcha, as soon as possible. Ashe won’t need you today, so it would be convenient to speak to you this morning.’

As though she were a servant, to be dismissed when not of use. Brede shaped that for Ashe, even though she would not understand. It soothed her to share the thought with her. Ashe saw that it did not mean the same as the words that issued from Brede’s mouth, but no more than that, her mind was elsewhere. Brede answered Saraid,