Waterborne Exile (21 page)

“Erin? Is that you?”

The shape moved, unfolding and lifting as whoever it was straightened up. “You’re awake?” It was Marten’s voice, clouded by sleep and more harshly formed than usual as a result of the wine he’d drunk.

“Yes, I suppose so.” Her head pounded with the effort of speaking. What had happened? All she could remember was… what? Ripples spreading across the surface of the wine… She’d put water on to boil… “Have I been asleep long?”

“You collapsed. Do you not remember?” Marten had moved to stand between her and the fire.

She sensed he was uncertain – he’d never witnessed the sight overcome her before. His hesitancy now suggested he found it every bit as repellant as Weaver once had. She swung her feet down to the floor and sat up straight. “I remember.” The dryness of her mouth told her she must have spent some time in the grip of her sight. It hadn’t seized her like that for a long time. She’d begun to hope–

“Did you have some kind of vision?” Marten’s question was almost casual. And she had nothing to gain by lying. He knew what she was – he’d known even before she had herself. “I tried to wake you – but I couldn’t. And yet you weren’t asleep.”

“It was a vision. But there was no clarity to it.” There in the dark she could hope he might not see her lie for what it was.

Marten snorted. “That means, I take it, you will not trust me with what you saw.”

“I– No.” And yet didn’t he speak the truth? “Sometimes visions are sharp and clear. This one was all confusion. I was swimming through dark water, free, swimming towards a cairn. And when I got closer I could see the cairn was made of bones – bones of all different sizes. Bones of men, and women… And children. And on the top rested the ornate dagger you still have in your possession.”

She heard Marten snatch in his breath. “Why does that startle you? The dagger? You do still have it, don’t you?”

“After a fashion. My wife tried to surrender it to the elders’ care, but they refused to take it.” His voice was tired. “There’s still no sign of your servant.”

“Erin? She’s not my servant.” Was Marten trying to change the subject? “Sometimes she stays out all night.”

“So you’re not expecting her back?”

“She’ll be back at first light, if not before.”

“You shouldn’t be left here alone.”

“I’m not a child that needs to be watched over lest it hurt itself.”

“I know you’re not a child.” In the dark she knew the freemerchant took a step closer.

“Marten, go back to your wife and make amends.”

“She threw me out.” He spoke so quietly his words scarcely stirred the darkness.

“Oh, Goddess. Go back to her. Have you no sense?”

“Very little, it would seem. I who have fed kings from the palm of my hand.”

Alwenna stood up sharply. There’d be no more sleep for her that night. She moved over to the fire and stirred the embers into life, adding some dry sticks which flared up obligingly. Now she could see Marten’s expression. His face was drawn, shadows making him appear even gaunter than usual. She stepped past him and poured herself a beaker of tepid water, swallowing it down in a bid to calm her headache. Marten watched her, his attitude belligerent.

“Do you want to pick a fight with me, Marten?”

“Far from it, my queen.”

“Go back to her. The pair of you have too many years together to throw it away like this.”

“If I stood at your side I would not consider it thrown away.”

Alwenna made a gesture of impatience. “At my side is a dangerous place for anyone to stand. Have you not noticed?”

“You’ll find I’m no coward.”

“Neither was Weaver. It didn’t help him in the end.” That was a better barrier to put between them than any other words she could have chosen. The names of dead lovers had such power…

Marten bowed, setting his hand against his shoulder. “When your grief is done, my queen, you will find me waiting.”

“No, Marten. That is not so. Your people will welcome your return, but not with me on your arm.”

“Have you seen this, my queen?”

“I know it. I do not need to see it.”

Marten sat down again at the table, one long leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee. “Then tell me what I must do. Unless it be return to my wife with my tail tucked between my legs. That I do not wish to hear.”

“Then we would never get on, Marten, for I am done with telling people what they wish to hear – unless it should serve my own purposes. And I do believe you should go back to her – as soon as may be.”

“You cannot mourn for ever.”

“Can I not? I shall be the judge of that.” She studied Marten. He was lean-built, with the slight stoop at his shoulders common to the tall. Would he be all eager haste, or take his time? The latter, she guessed. But it would not do. “Your wife already hates me.”

“Then what have we to lose?” He watched her closely.

“Everything.” A flicker of heat deep within her began to build. She squashed it ruthlessly. “But most of all we will have the satisfaction one day of telling her how she has misjudged us both.”

“No, my queen, she’s judged me aright. But I’ll hope to be present the day she apologises to you.” He picked up the wine bottle.

“Leave it on the table. You’ll go back to her sober and respectable, at the very least.”

“Respectable? Like this?” He ran a hand through his uneven cropped hair. “I’ll be the laughing stock for years.”

“What? You’ll take their punishment lying down? I never imagined you to be so biddable, Marten.”

“I planned to be less docile, but you aren’t willing, my queen.”

“Well. Let me make amends. Why not shave it off? You would be the first freemerchant with no hair at all.”

Marten grimaced. “The braids are at the very heart of what we are.”

“So let them see you are not afraid to stand alone.”

“By the Hunter, yes. You’re right.”

It took a few minutes to heat more water. Alwenna set to work with Marten’s knife, carefully shaving the roughly chopped hair away. The remnants of the shorn locks dropped to the floor as she worked soap into a lather and cleared another patch of scalp. Marten sat preternaturally still as she worked, his neck muscles tense. Occasionally her swollen belly brushed against his shoulder. Her back was aching from stooping over him before the job was done. She stepped back, stretching. “Should I take off the beard as well?”

Marten ran his hand over his scalp. “We ought to do this thing right.” His smile was tight, almost nervous, but he raised his chin so she could begin. First one pass up his throat to the tip of his chin, then another. It was rough and would need to be repeated. As she began the third pass he set one hand on her hip.

“Marten, I have a knife at your throat. Be very careful what you do.”

He raised his chin further and lifted his free hand, gently drawing her wrist aside. “For pity’s sake, kiss me. Just this once.” The hand on her hip tightened.

After a moment’s hesitation she stooped and pressed her lips to his forehead, then straightened up and pulled away. “Do you want me to leave you with half a beard?”

“I want a great many things, my queen, but for now I’ll be content if you finish the task in hand.” His eyes were filled with scarcely suppressed laughter.

She pushed away his hand and stooped again, cautiously scraping the blade over his skin. She could see the pulse point in his neck, one slip and his crimson lifeblood would spill over her fingers… She closed her eyes and willed away the image. When she opened them she was able to continue, feigning a brisk manner, until his face was clean-shaven, without any mishaps. She could remember Weaver, similarly clean-shaven as they left Highkell, after what felt like half a lifetime ago. He had borne a shaving cut on his chin – had that been a sign of things to come? There were no such ill-omens here, in any event. She straightened up, stretching her back again as she stepped away from Marten.

He ran his hands over his head, exploring her workmanship. His face and scalp were pale where his skin had been guarded against the sunlight. “A fine job you have done. May I count on your services again in future?”

There was a flurry of footsteps outside and two voices, laughing. The door burst open and Erin stepped inside, her laughter dying as she saw Alwenna and Marten together at the table.

“My lady, beg pardon–”

Behind, a young man bumped into her, knocking her off balance so she staggered further into the room. Laughing, he caught his arms about her waist. Erin nudged him hard with her elbow, shushing him, and he stopped short, gaping at Alwenna and Marten.

The youth released Erin and bowed. “I bid you good morning, my- my lady. Pray forgive the intrusion.”

With a scraping of the wooden bench across the sandy floor Marten pushed himself to his feet. “Malcolm, a very good morning to you. I need not ask how you have spent this night.” Marten’s eyes moved from Malcolm to Erin and back again. Malcolm stared in amazement as he recognised his own father, beardless for possibly the first time in his son’s life.

Malcolm blushed even deeper. “Sire, I…” He looked up, as if realising for the first time the import of finding his own father seated at Alwenna’s table. “I beg your pardon.” He spun on his heel and left them there, his footsteps hurrying away down the slope outside as the first light of dawn spread over the hillside.

It was risky. Too risky. But if she stayed here she would be buried in a shallow grave next to her brother before the year was out. And if they marked her grave at all, it would bear the name “Miria”. And – may the Goddess be her witness – that was not and never would be her name. She must seize her chance, now.

Her hands shook momentarily as she daubed the blood on her bedlinen, and on her clothing. She could lose everything if her deception should be discovered now. But what did she have now that she could not easily bear to part with? Only her life. And that was hemmed about by the rules of the order. She would break free, and live to damn them all, hypocrites that they were. She smeared more of the blood between her legs. “Goddess, forgive me for this blasphemy. I do what I do now to protect the life of your loyal servant, blessed as I have been by your bounty. Grant me this boon, that I may avenge the death of my lord before his child is brought into this world. Grant me this, my Goddess, grant me my freedom, grant me my life, grant me my own name, Ilsa, and I shall serve you to the end of my days.”

They were poor enough words, without the cant the priests used, but they were her words. And they were honest words. Perhaps the only honest words she’d uttered in her life.

She took a piece of clean linen and rubbed at the bloodstains on the sheet, as if she’d been trying to clean away the evidence of her supposed failure. Weaver’s blood, it was smeared over her hands and was already drying black and dark beneath her fingernails. She could hear others stirring now, in the rooms on either side of hers. It was time.

Standing by the bed in her soiled shift, bloodied linen in one hand, she drew in a lungful of air and screamed.

Footsteps came running to her door and it was thrown open without ceremony.

She kept her back to the door, staring at the bed, willing tears to spill from her eyes.

“Goddess spare us, what is this?”

Whatever did the fool think it was? But, thank the Goddess, it was Curwen. The devout priest would not question her tale – if she guessed aright he would not dare so much as look at her, in her unclean state.

“The Goddess has… withdrawn her blessing.” She punctuated her words with convincing sobs as the tears began to pour down her face. Now she’d started she would struggle to stop. Tears were useful things, granted the right audience. “She has turned away from me.”

She turned her tear-stained face to the priest. “Please, take me to his holiness, that I may receive his blessing.” She reached out an unsteady, bloodstained hand and the priest took a hasty step back. Other faces appeared at the door, curious to see the cause of the disturbance.

Moments later a gown had been thrown over her and she was being shepherded by a concerned group of priests through the palace to the prelate’s rooms.

Outside his door they waited as he was roused from his devotions. Her head was beginning to ache from the effort of keeping the tears flowing. Goddess, she hoped she didn’t have long to wait, she couldn’t keep this up for much longer. Finally the door was opened and she was admitted to the prelate’s presence.

She dropped to her knees before him.

“Prelate, I have failed.” She hung her head low, never for a moment raising her eyes to his, puffy and tearstained as they were she still feared he would divine the truth from her.

“You ungrateful wretch. After all the order has done for you.”

“Please forgive me, prelate. Tell me how I may serve the order. I will do anything to prove my loyalty. Anything.” She knelt before him, risking a quick glance up at his face before folding her head to the floor in obeisance. “Anything, I swear it.”

“The order has no need of one with your taint.” His sandalled foot turned away. Dark hairs sprouted from his toes, she noticed.

“If you must send me away, I will go because it is your order, sire. But at least send me where I may continue to serve our Goddess. I could not bear to live if she turned her face away from me now.”

“How dare you make any claim to our Goddess’s attention?” He turned away.

“Your holiness, she marked me with her favour once. I will devote my life to her in whatever way I may. I don’t care how dangerous it is. I beg you permit me to continue to serve the Goddess. I cannot turn away from her now. I owe her everything.”

“You would do anything, child?”

“Anything, I swear.” She kept her forehead to the floor, tensed for a blow as he took several steps away, then returned to study her where she knelt.

“You will fast for nine days, and take nine lashes in silence at the dawn of each day, to prove your loyalty. If you prove yourself sound in that way, I shall find a way for you to serve the Goddess.

Nine lashes? Each day? Goddess, that was harsh. But she bit back the words of protest that sprang to her lips. “I thank you, sire, for the chance to prove myself worthy.”