The Dowry Blade (30 page)

Maeve followed, sending a silent word of gratitude to the Goddess for Tegan’s good sense. She could not meet the eyes of the silent guards at the tower gateway, but she heard the soft hiss of anger as she passed. They dismounted in the courtyard, and Eachan came, grey-faced, to take Lorcan’s horse. Maeve allowed Lorcan a few paces away before she turned urgently to Eachan.

Eachan turned his blind eye toward her. Maeve scowled, wondering if she would have to live with the scorn of her old friends forever. She hurried after Lorcan, catching him at the foot of the stair, where Tegan waited.

Tegan’s eyes locked with Maeve’s. She could think of nothing to say. She led Lorcan up the stairs. Maeve followed, a careful few yards distant, disassociating herself from Lorcan, and from Tegan.

Lorcan could scarce hide his impatience, pushing past Tegan as soon as they reached the door to Grainne’s chamber. He barely glanced at Grainne’s body, as he turned to search the presses and chests. His hand closed on the crown almost at once, and he flung it onto a chair, then continued searching. Tegan stood stiffly to attention, her eyes following him.

‘Where is it?’ he asked her at last.

Tegan thought how to answer that. Lorcan was not Grainne; he would not encourage the easy familiarity Grainne had allowed.

‘Sir?’

‘The sword.’ Lorcan’s eyes narrowed, as he stood before her, close enough for her to see a fine glimmer of sweat on his face. Too close.

‘I don’t know,’ Tegan said, wondering how he knew the sword had ever been there; but even as she spoke, her thoughts twisted and she realised that she did know, precisely, where the Dowry blade was. She unfocussed her eyes so that she need not look at Lorcan’s face.

‘I do not think that is the truth,’ the new king said, very softly.

She saw Maeve’s blurred presence move forward, and recognised that movement for protest, Maeve pleading with her to be sensible.

Tegan forced Lorcan’s face back into focus, and saw the determination that sat so uneasily on his still childish features. She knew with sickening certainty that she would, eventually, tell Lorcan everything that she knew. But for now, Tegan drew her body up straight and returned his gaze as levelly as she could.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Approaching the gates, it was evident to Madoc that many things had changed while he had been out on the Plains. The red banners on the city walls told him so. He had considered removing his green coat, but decided not – a wise decision.

The guards were civil enough, his rank, and the fact that at least one had seen him about Lorcan’s camp, gave him sufficient leeway to gauge his position while their captain accompanied him to the tower. He kept his eyes sharp on that short journey, taking comfort from the mixture of green and red coats in the streets. This had not been a bloody change of government. The captain left him, to walk nervously in an anteroom until the door opened.

‘Madoc.’ The general turned to see who had called him by name, and was relieved to see a face he recognised, a green coat with a red sash hastily tied about the sleeve.

‘Doran, I see things are not as I left them.’ Doran nodded, lifting a cautioning hand. He came fully into the room, closing the door and laying his outstretched hand on Madoc’s sleeve, guiding him away from the door.

‘I’d have sent word, had I a way of knowing where to find you. Grainne and Phelan are dead. Lorcan is in charge.’

‘In that order?’

Doran looked at the general blankly, then saw the implication of it.

‘No. Phelan first, two days ago, at Grainne’s hand; Grainne within hours of him, accident probably. Lorcan chanced upon the aftermath and took advantage.’

‘So that’s why everyone is being so polite.’

Doran’s face twisted.

‘Not everyone.’

‘How has Lorcan taken Phelan’s death?’

‘Indifferent in public, angry in private.’

‘Did he suspect?’

‘Yes, but the situation was muddied, thanks to Maeve.’

‘Maeve?’

‘She didn’t take to being ordered to slit Killan’s throat. Took matters into her own hands. She’s provided an excellent confusion, without realising what it was she was hiding. She thinks Phelan’s treachery was solely towards Grainne, and it is so evident she believes what she says that even Lorcan struggles to push his search for traitors.’

Madoc smiled his relief, and started to plan once more.

‘So, why does Lorcan still doubt?’

‘The Dowry blade is missing.’

‘Of course it is.’

‘Yes but it’s not so simple. Phelan did not have it.’

‘How is that?’ Madoc asked, alarmed.

Doran shrugged. ‘I know where the blade was. It is not there now.’

‘So where is it?’

‘I don’t know, but someone does.’

‘Who?’

‘I think, perhaps, Tegan.’

Madoc removed his gloves, and leant against the wall, squinting at Doran’s closed expression.

‘Lorcan is in a difficult position without that sword, and with Phelan gone, who do we think his heir could be?’ Madoc asked softly.

‘Heir? I think the only candidate is the girl – Grainne’s third cousin – what is her name?’

‘Armorel,’ Madoc said impatiently. He had made a study of the possible claimants; he knew perfectly well how the situation stood.

‘Yes,’ Doran agreed, misinterpreting Madoc’s frown. ‘But Lorcan does not take her seriously.’

‘So, without the sword – and without Phelan –’

Doran laughed, a short fox bark. Madoc and his lieutenant shared a smile.

‘You’re not considering seeking the sword yourself?’ Doran asked.

‘Not yet. This is a time for consolidation. If I were to turn on my heel so swiftly, how might Lorcan react? No, the situation is more – interesting than I anticipated. I don’t want to raise suspicions. I shall stay here until Lorcan gets his answers for himself.’

The night air was ice cold; the muggy, midsummer warmth had vanished as swiftly as the light. The travellers shivered over their meagre fire. The flames provided only a semblance of heat, but enough smoke to discourage the ever-present insects.

Neala licked the last fat from her fingers and glanced furtively at the remains of her next-kin’s meal. Brede caught the wistful expression and passed the bone to her.

Sorcha pulled her cloak tighter and allowed her eyes to stray about their meagre encampment searching out dangers she had no idea how to face – listening for the soundless step of death. Her eyes lit and caught upon Brede’s saddle, and beneath that, a length of metal; nothing but a faint glint in the feeble light of the fire. At last she forced herself to move. She pulled the sword out.

‘What is this doing here?’ she asked.

Brede glanced up, and slid away from Neala. She took the Dowry blade and pushed it back beneath the saddle straps.

‘I brought it away with me. The Goddess never intended Lorcan to have it.’

‘What have you done, Brede? You’ve brought away the
one
thing that matters to Lorcan now that Grainne is dead. Without this, his claim to be King is almost sure to fail. He’ll be after us as soon as he finds out who has it.’

‘How would he find out?’

‘How long do you imagine it will take Tegan to work out where this has gone? Or Eachan? How will they protect you in the face of Lorcan’s capacity to harm them? You’ve put them in danger, and Goddess knows what you’ve brought down on us. I must take it back.’

Sorcha took up the sword once more, shivering with disgust.

Words would not come: as soon as she shut her eyes she fell, drowning in the silent depths of the Scavenger’s eyes, drowned in Grainne’s death. She pulled the air to pieces with her song, but could find no words. She stilled her voice, shuddering, and forced her eyes open. She was still by the smouldering fire, out on the plain. She flung the sword from her, and scattered the remaining embers of the fire, fearful now of pursuit.

‘Where can we go? What must we do?’ she asked.

‘Put the horizon behind us,’ Brede said gathering up her saddle, and the Dowry blade.

Sorcha forced the pace all night and all the next day. Dusk was long gone, and full darkness had closed about them before she at last permitted a camp to be made for the night, and even then she scanned the darkness, certain that she could hear the soft rustle of a familiar tattered brown robe, sure that any moment that strangely beautiful face would be lit by their fire, the dark wells of those eyes drowning her once more.

‘What is it?’ Brede asked, watching her restless pacing.

‘We must set wards.’

Brede caught an unfamiliar emotion in her voice.

‘You can’t do it?’ Sorcha shook her head sharply, and Brede reached to take her hand. ‘What is it?’

‘The Scavenger,’ Sorcha said at last, and Brede felt a tremor of released tension flow through her arm. ‘It touched me,’ she whispered. ‘It fought me for Grainne, and it won. I gave everything I am, and the Scavenger won. It took something from me; it
knows
me – it – it has my
scent
.’ Sorcha met Brede’s gaze. ‘I’m not imagining this, Brede, I swear to you. I can no more sing a spell than I can – than I can raise Grainne from the dead. I can’t spin the simplest spell to keep us safe. Even you could make a better stab at it.’

Brede stepped back, waiting for Sorcha to realise what she’d said. Sorcha raised her eyes to meet Brede’s gaze, and frowned.

‘I’ll set wards,’ Brede said. ‘What do I do?’

‘Pick a tune you are easy with,’ Sorcha said, grateful for the distraction. ‘Something short, with words that you can adapt to tell the song what you want it to do – something purposeful.’

Brede couldn’t remember a single tune, not a single song, as though she had never sung at a fireside, never got roaring drunk at a Gather – Plains songs weren’t particularly purposeful.

‘
Roll, turn, spin
?’ A sleepy voice suggested from behind her.

Brede threw her next-kin a glance of gratitude. A simple melody, with childish words that could easily be turned to her use. She managed to stutter out a warped version of the song’s chorus. Sorcha eyed her critically, building a fragile humour from her fear.

‘The song won’t do it for you,’ she said. ‘You need to persuade it.’

Brede nodded.

‘Purposeful?’ she suggested.

Sorcha agreed.

‘Well?’ Brede asked, flinging herself back to the ground and gathering up her blankets.

Sorcha said nothing, startled to find that what had begun as a distraction had become protection after all. Something she had always known filtered into her mind, the subtle strength of Brede’s voice.

‘They’ll serve their purpose,’ Sorcha said, weakly. ‘Can you not see them?’

Brede shook her head. ‘I’ve never been able to.’ She turned her gaze to Neala. ‘You: go to sleep or Sorcha will sing you a sleep skein.’

Neala laughed, and settled back into her blankets.

‘Except that I can’t,’ Sorcha murmured, seeking the comfort of Brede’s arms. Brede instinctively stroked Sorcha’s hair away from her face, as though the darkness in her mind could be brushed away with the same ease.

Sorcha shuddered at that touch: death could be gentle; there could be no comfort in tenderness.

Chapter Thirty-Three

So many days now, with no sign of danger – Brede had begun to relax. They were far into the plains, with no hope of cover, when the clouds at last spilt their burden of rain. And then, at last, there was a smudge of motion on the horizon, far to the east. Brede watched, uncertain. She did not believe it was the feared pursuit. Not even Lorcan would send so many at such speed as a hunting party, not even for the sake of the Dowry blade; but it might still be an army. She wasn’t used to identifying horses in rain – most of her herding experience was gained during the drought, when a cloud of dust would have been the first sign, visible from much further away. So she waited to bring the blur to her companions’ attention until it finally solidified, and was indeed a herd of horses.

Brede encouraged Guida into motion. She felt Neala tense against her.

‘It may not be Wing Clan,’ Brede warned.

Neala shrugged. ‘It’s a Horse Clan.’

Brede laughed at Neala’s pretended calm. The first time she joined a herding on these plains she had almost choked on her excitement.

Closer now, the horses were clearly visible. The herders had seen them; their pace had increased noticeably, and three of the outriders were diverging, making towards the strangers.

Brede’s breath came short, waiting for hailing distance, but the riders wheeled into a defensive stand, waiting for the strangers to come to them.

Sorcha pulled Macsen in, slowing his pace. The herders each carried a spear, where once the only weapon on the plain had been a sling and a handful of stones. Brede rode further and stopped within range of those spears, and waited for the herders to speak. She searched for a face she recognised.

‘What do you want?’ asked the older of the two women.

Brede baulked at the use of a trade language but replied in her native tongue.

‘I look for kin. I am blood of Wing Clan.’

The woman relaxed slightly, but her eyes stayed wary.

‘Who are you?’

‘Brede, daughter of Ahern. And you?’

‘Muirne, daughter of Toole and Brenna.’

‘You are Wing Clan then?’ Brede asked eagerly. ‘I didn’t recognise you. Does Toole still keep that vicious stallion he bought from Cein?’

‘Toole is dead. The horse is a good stud beast, but still unmanageable. He runs in my string now.’

‘I am sorry for it. Will you tell me, is Carolan still riding with Wing Clan?’

‘Your sister’s hand-mate is with this herd –’ Muirne shook her head slightly.

Brede felt Neala’s grip tighten, and shook her arm free of her niece’s clasp.

‘I have Carolan’s daughter with me.’

‘His daughter?’ Muirne was frowning now, and unease fluttered under Brede’s ribs.

‘Falda was carrying a child,’ Brede said cautiously, ‘when we lost her at the last Gather. She was taken into captivity and bore her child safely, but she died four years ago.’

Muirne’s frown vanished once more. She urged her horse forward; until she could look Neala straight in the eye, could search for signs of her parentage. She reached out a hand and smiled.

‘Well, and what did she name her daughter?’ she asked, as though this were a chance meeting beside a horse ring.

Neala stretched awkwardly across Guida’s neck, and took the hand she was offered. With quiet dignity, she introduced herself. Muirne laughed aloud.

‘Your sisters will be glad.’

‘Sisters?’ Neala asked, wondering how swiftly her unknown father had forgotten her mother.

‘My daughters. I hand-fasted with Carolan six years ago.’

Brede swallowed the muddle of emotion at Carolan’s hand-fasting, at least Neala had been offered some form of acceptance. The last time she had seen these riders they must too have been children. In that dreadful searching, they had shivered and wailed as Wing Clan gathered them safely together, like herding foals away from their mothers. How many had been lost – she did not recognise any of these three riders from that last memory, nor from earlier memories of the child-herd running in amongst the horses and their elders at the Gathers, shrieking and whooping and laughing.

Muirne reached again and absentmindedly rubbed her hand along Guida’s neck; she found the tattoo.

‘Falda’s,’ she said softly. ‘We have a few of her mares still and many of their offspring,’ she smiled at Neala. ‘You will have a good string to start your herd.’

‘Me?’ Neala asked confused.

Muirne nodded, and raised her eyes to Brede. ‘You too, we found a few of yours running loose after you’d gone. Carolan and Devnet kept them for you, in case you came back.’

Brede gazed at her in silent astonishment.

‘I have horses?’

Muirne laughed. ‘We buy or steal any horse we come across with an uncancelled mark.’

Neala twisted to glare in triumph at Brede and mouthed
You see?
Brede clasped her shoulder and gave her a gentle shake.

Muirne glanced at Sorcha.

‘So,’ Muirne said, recovering her poise. ‘You and Neala are kin. Who’s this?’

Brede twisted slightly to beckon Sorcha forward. Macsen behaved, stepping delicately and docile, holding his head so that any horse breeder would know he had more mettle than he chose to show. Sorcha murmured him to absolute stillness, and spoke.

‘My name is Sorcha.’ She faltered, what was she, now? ‘I am Brede’s – hand-mate.’ Sorcha chose that word with care, regardless of its limited truth. She caught Brede’s startled, pleased glance, and smiled slightly.

There was a hostile stirring and the young man murmured ‘City dweller,’ at the sound of Sorcha’s accent.

‘So are you riding one of Brede’s or Falda’s horses? He’s clearly Plains bred.’

Sorcha glanced helplessly at Brede.

‘No,’ Brede said. ‘He’s another stolen at the Gather. One of Cloud’s, but I don’t recognise the mark.’

The man started forward at that, and Muirne nodded to him, saying ‘Murtagh will know.’ He rode across to Sorcha and searched Macsen’s neck.

‘Macsen,’ he said. Sorcha started. He glared at her suspiciously, and Macsen sidled, feeling the tension between them.

‘Macsen is what I named him,’ Sorcha said quietly. Murtagh considered.

‘Well his breeder is long dead, it serves well enough for the horse to bear his name as well as his mark; though by rights this horse should come back to Cloud.’ Murtagh shrugged, relinquishing Cloud’s claim.

Muirne stared anxiously after the disappearing herd.

‘Murtagh, ride after them, tell them to wait.’

Murtagh dipped his spear point slightly, kicked his horse into an easy canter, and chased after the receding herd.

Muirne spoke swiftly. ‘Murtagh is one of the few of Cloud left. They ride with us now; they were no longer viable as a Clan.’ Brede nodded, mind reeling at the thought of a Clan so depleted. Muirne bit her lip. ‘A lot has changed since the last Gather; I hardly know where to begin telling you – it really isn’t the same.’ Muirne shook her head, and turned her horse abruptly to follow the herd.

Brede caught her breath at the size of the herd. Muirne frowned at the glance she swept across the herd.

‘It is enough,’ she said curtly. ‘We don’t have so many Clan members to feed these days. You were not the only one to give up the plains.’ Brede was about to protest, but Muirne hadn’t finished her explanation. ‘We can move more swiftly with this number, and they are the finest beasts I’ve ever raised. They fetch a good price when we choose to sell.’

Murtagh came forward from the waiting herd. Brede recognised the man with him at once. Carolan glanced apologetically at Muirne, who did no more than raise a shoulder. Brede grinned at him; close kin, someone who had been a friend, a counsellor to her youthful, half-forgotten self.

Carolan considered the woman before him, searching her face for the child-woman he remembered – wincing away from the metal-clad warrior that girl had become. At last he allowed his eyes to drop to Neala, another child-woman, he realised at once, another warrior. He measured the serious, eager, frightened, demanding countenance Neala offered him and opened his arms in welcome, beyond speech for the moment.

Neala ran to her father’s horse, placing her hands against rein and saddle. She looked up at him, a little solemn, but ready to forgive him for being a stranger with a new hand-mate and daughters. Carolan leant to her, offering a hand and Neala sprang up to sit before him on the saddle, managing the leap neatly.

Carolan gathered up his reins, encircling his newfound daughter, holding her gently, wonderingly. He inclined his head to Brede.

‘We’re almost at a watering place. We’ll camp there, and you can tell us,’ he hesitated. ‘You can tell us.’

With the horses corralled and fires lit, Carolan gathered his people to him. They huddled beside the main fire, waiting for the strangers to speak.

Carolan hugged Neala close to him, remembering, with fleeting clarity, the moment when his hand slipped from Falda’s as they ran from arrows in the darkness of the last Gather. He was not about to make the same mistake now.

Brede scanned the faces about the fire, uneasy with the role of news-bringer. She would rather sit quiet by a fireside, and drink, and later explore her new-found herd. She would rather talk privately with Carolan about Falda, although Neala would have more to say than she could – no: it was the private mourning she craved, surrounded by people who had known, had loved her sister. She found she could remember some faces from that terrible morning after all. This woman, she remembered as an older girl, drawn and trembling, cradling her lifeless young brother against her – she would not be parted from him, crazed with grief. Well they had all been crazed then, Brede as much as any other. Brede’s heart lurched with sudden realisation – all crazed – yes. All this time she had been blaming Devnet for something not of Devnet’s doing, nor within Devnet’s power to mend.
Not Devnet’s fault:
she had felt the same pain and fear as any of Wing Clan that dreadful morning. If Tegan could be forgiven, how not Devnet?

Brede found her suddenly. She met Devnet’s gaze, and tried to make that dagger-intensity soften.

Devnet
– Brede forgot to breathe.
Devnet
– her first lover, her first real friend; but now –

Devnet watched Brede with curiosity. She observed how strong she was in the shoulders, how her face had thinned and her eyes deepened. She moved like – like a warrior, surprising, impressive. There was just a hint of the young Brede, in the way her hair refused to stay bound, in the way her hands wouldn’t stay still. Devnet let her glance encompass those hands, stirring uneasily, pushing the mailed sleeves up her arms, exposing scars that hadn’t been there before. Strong, capable hands. Devnet remembered, and smiled.

Sorcha watched for the Scavenger. She examined each face, each stance, and couldn’t recognise anything that Brede had claimed for her kin. No strength of mind or spirit presented itself, in the ninety or more Plains folk before her. Pride, suspicion, even fear. And something else, something even less welcoming. Sorcha searched for it, and caught the gaze of a woman sitting the far side of the fire, one leg bent under her, and her chin resting on the knee of the other, hands clasped about her shin. The tension, the curiosity, the intensity of her gaze alarmed Sorcha. The haze from the fire between them made her face seem to waver, but her eyes did not. It was not Sorcha she watched, but Brede. The woman smiled a slow, feral, threatening smile. She closed her eyes slightly, and turned her head. Brede started at the break in the contact.

The shuffling and murmuring died to a waiting silence. Brede rose to her feet, feeling that her welcome was not as certain as she would like.

‘Greetings to Wing Clan,’ she began formally, ‘from your kinswoman, Brede, daughter to Ahern of Wing Clan.’ She smiled suddenly, warmed by a sudden recognition of what those words meant.
Kin
. ‘There are some here who remember me, across the ten years we’ve been apart. I had a sister, hand-fast to Carolan of this Clan. We all thought her dead at the last Gather, but it wasn’t so – Falda was taken into slavery. She bore a child away from the plains, away from her kin, in bondage,’ her voice failed her for a moment, ‘to a man named Madoc.’

She felt rather than heard the stir in the crowd, and hesitated, looking about for who had reacted, trying to divine why. She caught up the thread of her tale again.

‘My sister died in bondage, her child was sold. But I have found her, and brought her home to her father. She is called Neala. I claim her rights for her.’

Brede waited for Carolan to acknowledge her claim.

‘I recognise this child as my daughter; I offer her a share of my fire, a share of my herd, a share of the sky. Would any gainsay her?’

A soft murmur of acceptance spread about the fire. The rain was easing, making it easier to distinguish individual voices. Carolan squeezed her hand gently, and Neala, in her turn, stepped forward.

‘Greetings to Wing Clan, from your kinswoman, Neala: daughter to Carolan and Falda of Wing Clan. I accept my share of the fire, the herd and the sky,’ Neala grinned round at her kin, ‘joyfully, after much hope and long waiting.’

She was welcomed with laughter and whistles. She looked anxiously at Carolan, and he nodded, beckoning her to sit beside him. Carolan inclined his head to Brede. She smiled, more confident now. Riding the wave of good humour, she gazed at the Clan, and picked Devnet from the crowd again. Devnet’s face was a mask of fury. Brede glanced quickly at the people on either side of Devnet, they were edging away, and there was furtive wariness in the glances that shot from other groups, at Devnet, but also at Brede.

‘You speak ill of a friend of this Clan,’ Devnet said. ‘You speak ill of kin.’

Brede glanced at Carolan, confused.

‘Madoc is hand-fasted to Wing Clan,’ Carolan muttered.

‘What?’ Brede asked in shock, her tongue running ahead of her mind.

‘Devnet,’ Carolan responded, still keeping his voice low.

‘Devnet?’ Brede took an uneasy breath. ‘Well, there is more I would say concerning Madoc.’
How to say it?
‘Some more things that you won’t wish to hear, Devnet.’ Brede took a steadying breath. ‘He is a general in Grainne’s army. Did he tell you that much, at least?’