The Dowry Blade (12 page)

‘That’s what I thought,’ she said, welcoming the honesty of the face Sorcha turned toward her. ‘I thought you would be beautiful.’

Sorcha frowned, disturbed.

‘And how do you know which is the true face?’ she asked.

Brede shrugged.

‘You dress in a way that means people will remember only the woman in the silly blue dress, not who you might actually be. And you should look the way you sound.’ She wasn’t sure what she meant, groping after words for the way her mind was reeling, trying to find safe ground, and failing to do so; yet discovering a strange delight in the danger so evident in this exchange.

I’m talking to a witch
, she reminded herself, trying to find some modicum of caution, and finding instead, a rash delight.

Sorcha slowed her walk and nodded.

‘As should you,’ she said, casting a curious eye over the weapons once more. She caught the look on Brede’s face and responded to that delighted smile without thinking. Suddenly she frowned and cursed to herself.

‘I must leave you now,’ she said suddenly, and swung onto the back of her newly purchased stallion. The horse did no more than blink at the weight settling onto his unsaddled back. Before Brede had a chance to recover from the sudden change of mood, the witch was gone.

Brede stood aimlessly for a while and suddenly remembered all the
not safe
and
dangerous
that both Inir and Tegan had told her that day. She turned, and retraced her steps, hugging the thought of the witch’s smile to her heart, a most successful foil for her sudden disappointment.

Tegan waited patiently beside her new horse. She cast about her hopefully, wondering what had become of Brede, mildly anxious at her desertion.

‘What will you call him?’ Brede asked from an unexpected direction. Tegan frowned.

‘Something to encourage reliability.’

Brede loosened the tether, whilst considering the horse.

‘Colm?’ she asked.

‘For a war horse?’ Tegan said scornfully.

‘Devlin?’

‘No. I knew a thief called that once.’

Brede shrugged, pulling the horse’s head up to get a good look at him.

‘I know what I’d call him.’

‘What?’

‘Donal.’

‘I can’t call my horse
sweetheart
.’

‘I don’t see why not. He’s bound to respond to it. I don’t imagine he’s had much affection up ‘til now.’

Tegan frowned at the horse.

‘Donal?’ she asked. The ears flickered and he turned a sceptical eye upon her. She shrugged. ‘Maybe. I’ll see what else he answers to. What was your bay called?’

Brede was not amused at Tegan’s persistent joke.

‘The lady was called Sorcha.’

‘Lady? Have you set your sights so high?’

Brede pulled a face. ‘She’s a witch.’

‘Really?’ Tegan was oddly pleased to hear it. Some justification for the slight of Brede’s sudden change of heart.

‘Why that tone of voice?’

‘I wouldn’t mess with a witch. They’re all trouble.’

Brede wrapped the tether round her hand, wondering whether to persist. There were things she needed to know that perhaps Tegan could tell her.

‘I’ve not met a witch before. Hardly even heard of one. All I’ve heard has been bad.’

‘Exactly,’ Tegan said, wanting Brede to be cautious. Then her natural fairness made her add, ‘But you have met a witch before.’

Brede frowned.

‘I have?’

‘Yes. Edra.’

‘That’s different, I’m talking real power, not just healing.’

Tegan wasn’t about to underestimate Edra’s powers, not when she owed her life to her healing knowledge. Brede’s dismissal of those skills irritated her and she said so. Brede shrugged.

‘Eachan is going to judge me on this horse,’ Brede said.

Tegan hooked her fingers into the bridle, forcing the horse’s head round so that they were eye to eye.

‘Behave when uncle Eachan speaks to you.’

Brede laughed. ‘Not like that.’

‘How then?’

‘You’ll see.’

Tegan watched as Brede fidgeted needlessly with the bridle. Brede suddenly looked up, and it seemed to Tegan that they were too close.

‘How does it work?’

The too-close-ness became a chasm. Tegan sighed, knowing perfectly well what Brede was asking.

‘I’m not an expert. Song mostly, but don’t ask me why or how. Not everyone who can sing is a witch.’

‘And would you be able to tell if you were being spelled by a song?’

‘Of course. Unless the witch was very skilled.’

‘How skilled?’

‘Better than any I’ve ever met. I don’t really think you’ve been bewitched, Brede. I shouldn’t have said it.’

‘I’d rather I had. There’d be some excuse then.’

‘Excuse for what?’ Tegan asked, anxiously.

Brede shook her head thoughtfully, and did not answer.

Chapter Thirteen

Riding the horse back up through the city, Sorcha laughed to herself. She was still smiling when she reached the rooms she shared with the ruler of the country.

Seeing the happiness on her friend’s face, much of Grainne’s anxiety disappeared. Sorcha was no longer angry with her.

‘What causes such a smile?’ she asked.

Sorcha didn’t answer immediately, settling beside her friend’s bed, singing softly, partly to herself, partly to ease the pain in Grainne’s joints and lungs. When she could see that Grainne’s suffering was lessened, she said,

‘I’ve bought a horse, and I think I’ve found us a solution; and I think I like her very much.’

Grainne considered her.

‘When I sent to the Songspinner for a healer, I never expected you;’ she said, caught up in memory. Sorcha raised an eyebrow, and hugged her knees to herself.

‘Are you sorry?’

‘I asked for secrecy, and they sent the one person who might be recognised here.’

‘You have secrecy. You didn’t recognise me, how could anyone else?’

Grainne nodded. ‘You have changed,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘I would have expected you to be the same rebellious girl.’

‘But I am, really, and so are you.’

‘I don’t think so. I am a ruler, and you –’ Grainne searched for the words to describe Sorcha. ‘You are so disciplined, so confident, so – alarming.’

Sorcha laughed.

‘Alarming?’

‘You have so much power, so much control.’

‘Of course. I spent years training to get that control, I’m glad you can see the benefit.’

Grainne shook her head.

‘I still don’t recognise you.’

‘Grainne,’ Sorcha said, holding out a hand. ‘Grainne,’ softening what she had been about to say, feeling the weakness of her grip, ‘when you wrote to me, did you think I’d send anyone else?’

‘I wrote to the Songspinner.’

‘I
am
the Songspinner.’

‘I was afraid you were. Why are you here? Surely there are more important things for you to do?’

‘Rebellion, Grainne. I may be the strongest of my kin, but I’m not in charge, I have no skill for leadership. I get asked to do a great many things that I wouldn’t choose to do. This I chose.’

‘And do your kin know that you made that choice?’

‘You asked for secrecy.’

Grainne frowned, but she felt secure now, more alive – she even felt brave.

‘I do not deserve you.’

‘You think not? Then you should put right all your failings, until you do.’ Sorcha said, pulling away to walk restlessly about the room.

Grainne watched, not at all sure Sorcha was teasing. She recognised that restlessness as something that ought to worry her, but she could not find any corner of her mind that was willing to doubt.

‘I’m glad you found a horse. You need to work out some of that tension,’ she said, almost severely. ‘You were going to tell me more about your trip to the horse market?’

Sorcha returned to her perch on the bed.

‘I found a horse for me and a guard for you. Congratulate me.’

Grainne didn’t think it was the horse that caused Sorcha’s delight.

‘So,’ she said, softly, ‘are you in love so suddenly, sorcerer?’

Sorcha frowned.

‘Not yet,’ she said, suddenly cautious. ‘It takes more than a common interest in horses to make me fall in love.’

‘I won’t be jealous,’ Grainne said, ‘I’ll even try not to get in the way. I do realise that it is difficult for you to have a private life, cooped up in here night and day.’

Sorcha leant over and kissed her gently on the brow.

‘You needn’t worry. I plan to make it exceedingly pleasant to be cooped up here. You said you need a new guard, one not sullied by the arguments here. She’s perfect – one of Maeve’s I suppose, – she was with Tegan – that will make it easier – straight from the provinces, dresses as an assassin, moves like a dancer. She looks mean, but I don’t think she is, I don’t think she knows the meaning of the word.’

Sorcha hugged herself. Grainne rested a hand against her knee.

‘No problems at all?’

Sorcha’s eyes strayed into the darkness.

‘She knows what I am.’

‘Perceptive.’

‘Hardly.’ Sorcha sighed, and explained about the horse, and the plains’’ woman.

‘You know which Clan she’ll be, don’t you?’ Grainne said quietly.

Sorcha nodded sadly.

‘So where is this paragon? What’s her name?’ Grainne asked.

Sorcha felt suddenly foolish.

‘I forgot to ask,’ she said; ‘but I could find out.’

Grainne nodded, momentary exhaustion catching her unawares.

‘You’d best do that.’ She lifted her hand from Sorcha’s knee, and sniffed it experimentally. She recognised the smell. ‘You’re taking getting to know your horse a little seriously, aren’t you?’

Sorcha laughed, and started unlacing her dress.

‘It was a foolish notion, wearing such easily damaged cloth to a horse market.’ She pulled the dress over her head and flung it into a corner. Grainne wondered what had possessed her to imagine that rebellious streak had been quashed.

Eachan watched Tegan and Brede walk into the stable yard, laughing together like old friends. He had already caught up with Inir and asked several questions, none of which Inir could answer – nothing but Balin’s death had stayed with him from the last week. No more than Eachan should have expected. Eachan scratched his chin and wondered how Maeve felt about this so-called Marshlander. He walked towards the women, and focussed his attention on the horse Tegan led by the halter.

Brede looked up as he approached and glanced nervously at her choice. Eachan nodded slowly, reaching to sweep the mane to one side. He turned his head so that he could see Brede properly, and raised a joking eyebrow.

‘Not Plains bred, then. That isn’t particularly promising. Talk me through your choice.’ Brede took the halter from Tegan, and considered the horse, doubt hitting her a body blow.

‘The others were useless,’ she said shortly.

‘I dare say they were. You could have waited and traded with one of the private stables.’ Brede gave him a sharp look.

‘Private stables?’ she asked. Eachan didn’t answer, noticing that Tegan stiffened and shot a look at Brede.

Nothing to do with horses, that look.

Eachan nodded.

‘So, given the poor choice, why didn’t you wait? Tegan could have gone on riding Balin’s horse if she had to.’

‘Sweet tempered.’ Brede said cautiously. ‘Strong in the neck and shoulder. Deep-chested, reasonable back, about the right size for Tegan. Sound feet. No obvious bad habits.’

‘Nothing special?’

‘He smiled at me.’

Eachan roared with laughter.

‘He did what?’

‘You know what I mean. I can train a horse that asks me to buy him.’

‘And one that didn’t?’

‘That too, but why put myself to the effort if there’s no need?’

Eachan turned the horse about, judging him against Brede’s criteria. She was right; he did have an amiable expression.

‘Name?’ he asked.

Tegan and Brede exchanged a glance.

‘Donal.’ Tegan said, as though owning up to an embarrassing secret.

Eachan’s hand strayed to his blind eye, and he massaged the scar that puckered his eyelid gently.

‘A real lady’s horse.’

‘No,’ Brede said patiently, ‘biddable yes, but I can train him to war craft.’

‘All right. I bet you were as good at selling your horses as breeding and training them.’

‘I was.’ Brede said shortly, clamping her arms protectively across her chest. Eachan glanced at the knives in her belt and sighed.

‘So what sort of contract do you want? Are you independent of Maeve, or will you want to be away with her lot if they go off?’

‘Independent.’ Brede said firmly, her eyes on Tegan.

‘Fine.’ Eachan thrust his hand into his money belt. ‘Here: first month in advance. Go and get yourself some respectable clothes. As you are a part of the household your food and lodging is covered, and one green cloak or coat, state-your-preference, from the quartermaster. I’d advise you to buy your own mail – and don’t get it from the armourer here, she overcharges. And unless you particularly want to sleep in the barracks, I’ll want you sleeping here, above the stables.’

‘The stables, definitely,’ Brede said absentmindedly as she pulled the slip of paper from the pile of coins in her hand. She waved it at Tegan. ‘He had this ready. He knew I’d pick you a good horse.’

‘Of course he did,’ Tegan said amiably.

‘Of course I did,’ Eachan echoed indignantly. Brede grinned at him.

‘When do I start?’

‘When you’ve got your provisions sorted. Now go and get on with it.’

Maeve, at last, had control of the household guard. She was anxious at Grainne’s insistence that there be no guard at the inner door to her chamber, and that the guard on the stair should be different each day; it smelt of a lack of trust. Tegan wasn’t surprised by those precautions, and took comfort from them. She was content to leave Maeve to guard Grainne, whilst she used her eyes, as Grainne wished. Maeve was satisfied with Chad’s superfluous men, Oran’s team in particular; apart from Ula, Tegan was not. Tegan bit her lip against any comment. She had handed control to Maeve, and must live with her choices.

Silently, Tegan started a routine of walking the city watching for trouble. The first trouble she found was personal. When Chad left with those who chose to go with him, he left Killan behind; but Maeve had not chosen him to work with her team; she had been to talk to the Queen, and Grainne had been quite clear as to which of Chad’s people she would tolerate, Killan wasn’t one of them.

Tegan watched Killan sloping off down into the town, bedroll over his shoulder, leading his horse on a halter, and she wondered. She couldn’t honestly tell what she feared more, Killan’s influence on Maeve, or the possibility that he might have been left behind for a purpose.

Maeve watched Tegan’s scouting with anxiety, only partly aware of its cause – Tegan was sharing neither her concerns nor her findings. Silence grew between them, and Maeve sought out other companions, and found herself back in Killan’s company when she was not on duty, even though she had promised herself she would not seek him out. Somehow, he seemed to be there, at the inn when she went there with Ula or Inir, three times in a row. There was no denying Killan’s charm, he was good company, he made her laugh; he lit something in her that was damped down most of the time. Inir liked him too, and Killan took some of the burden of weaning Inir out of his grief from her, and Maeve was grateful for that lessened burden. She was not good at helping Inir, she had no idea how to do it, she didn’t know when it was right to be light, when to be intense, when to be silent; Killan had a gift for it.

The fourth time Killan slipped into the seat beside her and poached her ale, her silent acquiescence was sufficient. Inir and Ula feigned interest in some arm-wrestling at the next table. Killan’s hand found hers, and she felt the heat of his thigh against hers, and her heart skipped, the way it did before a battle. Her fingers twined with his and gripped tightly. She took the drink from him and downed what he had left. They stood as one, and wove their way out into the coolness of the night. He led the way back to his room in a house just within the walls. At the foot of the ladder Maeve pulled back slightly. Killan turned, his fingers still between hers, and raised their joined hands to his mouth, kissing between her fingers. His eyes met hers across their knuckles. He smiled, and she pushed him before her up the steps. He led her, feeling behind him for the rungs, his eyes locked on hers. Their hands did not loosen one from the other until she lay beside him on his bed.

‘I wasn’t going to do this again,’ she said at last.

‘I was,’ he replied.

Sorcha spent much of her time at the high window that overlooked the barracks, watching Brede, wanting to know more about her, but not trusting anyone to tell her the truth. She listened to the idle gossip of the barracks, standing almost invisible in doorways, singing a gentle discouragement to any eyes that turned her way. Mostly, the gossip was silent on the subject of Brede, but when she was spoken of, it was in relation to Tegan and Maeve, and there was much speculation, and laughter. Following Brede on her apparently aimless wanderings through the city, listening for word of her, Sorcha gained a disturbing impression of the mood of the city, which she did not confide to Grainne.

Brede forced herself to check the tattoo on any new horse in the tower stables, grateful to find only one more stolen horse; a black stallion that she recognised.

‘Whose horse is this?’ she asked Eachan casually.

The stable master glared at the beast, and leant against the wall.

‘Damned if I can remember,’ he said, a look of puzzlement on his face. ‘Nasty beast he is, I’d have a care of him, were I you.’

Brede drew her own conclusions as to his unusual failure of memory. Eachan was not from the plains, and to an extent, Brede resisted his authority because of it. Racial pride prevented her from believing he could be as skilled as the least of her tribe; but for all that, he had a tight hold on his work, it was unlike him not to know who rode a horse in his care.

Eachan found Brede’s refusal to acknowledge his mastery amusing. He admired her skill with the horses and her care of them. He learnt from her and called her ferocity stubbornness, not quite understanding her reasons; and slowly wore down her reticence.

Brede returned again and again to the horse market, searching for anything that might lead her to Falda. It became a ritual, part of testing the wind each morning. She grew familiar with the city, walking the main streets, the back lanes, the alleys and snickets. She discovered the many markets: livestock, meat, vegetables, leather, silver – slaves. Brede forced herself to spend time at the slave market, watching for the sharp profile and dark skin of Plains folk, trying to understand. While she searched, giving close attention to the many women wearing a bondservant’s collar, and grateful for the overt protection of her green cloak, Brede searched for the witch; although she scarcely realised that she was doing so.