Deep Water

by Pamela Freeman

  Leof

  LEOF WALKED OUT of the hall feeling like he was going into battle. The feeling was the same: the absolute necessity of not showing others how he felt, in order to save lives. In battle, it was the lives of others he held in his hands; the men under his command, who needed him to be calm and disciplined and rational, or they would die. Now, if he showed how he felt, he would die. Any officer who desired a warlord’s wife knew the penalty was death.

  He had to fill his head with warnings because he could still feel Sorn’s pulse leap under his fingers and see the flush sweep up her cheeks as he touched her hand. As he had, all unwittingly, looked into her eyes and wanted her.

  He had let it happen because he had thought he was in love with Bramble. Without the memories of her — on the roan, at the inn, in bed, absurdly, terrifyingly, high in that pine tree — occupying his mind and making him guilty, he would have considered whether it was wise to spend so much time with his warlord’s young wife. He would have noticed her with his mind, instead of with his heart. Would have appreciated the gentle grace of her walk, the firm curve of her smile. And, appreciating, kept his distance, aware of the danger. Gods knew he would have relished the sight of her in any other circumstances; would have smiled and cozened her into bed in a heartbeat if she’d been just another girl.

  As it was, he had been blind, and walked into a snare of his own devising. Worse than blind, because he had snared not only himself but her in the net. At least, he thought he had.

  She had been brought up as the lady of the fort, which meant that she was trained to hide her feelings; trained to be calm, serene, unflappable. The flush on her cheeks when he had unthinkingly touched her hand could have meant any number of things. Anger at his impudence. Surprise. Warmth at simple human contact. Swith knew she got little of that, especially with her lord away. His touch could have meant nothing to her, or been a petty annoyance. She might not even have realized how he felt. It was over in a moment, after all; how much could she have read in his eyes?

  The thought should have been a relief, but instead it wracked him with doubt and the desire to know. To be sure.

  He went about the rest of the day doing all his duty plus some extra, like inspecting the smithies, and made sure his work was exemplary. He might betray his lord in his thoughts, but he would never betray him in reality. It was a fine, noble thought, but every time he assured himself, he remembered disobeying Thegan’s orders to capture Bramble. He had betrayed his lord for a woman once before . . .

  He debated whether to have his supper in his room or in the hall with Sorn. If she had not guessed, if she thought his touch a momentary inattention to etiquette, he could still present an unruffled front and they could continue as they had been, with their dignity unimpaired and loyalty intact.

  He walked into the hall and up to the high table and saw immediately, from the paleness of her cheeks and the determined way she tilted her head up to face him, that she had wrestled all day with the same snares as he had, and come to the same conclusion. Underneath the tension and the concern, he realized that he felt a kind of triumph — not as pure as joy, not as simple as happiness. They couldn’t possibly have joy or happiness, but still, she felt it too, and something in him exulted.

  So he sat down beside her, as always, and greeted her formally, as always, and as always she asked him how the preparations for war were progressing. He told her about the smithies and their output of helmets and swords; she inquired if the fletchers needed more feathers; they discussed killing several of the swans for the feast on Thegan’s return and harvesting the feathers.

  “I have heard that fletchers like swan feathers,” Sorn said, clearly inviting comment not just from him but from the other officers, making the conversation general. She steered the talk between Leof, Gard and Wil on to a discussion of arms and armament and then fell silent, as was fitting for a woman during such talk. Leof carefully did not look at her except when he offered her bread, or salt to season the kid with olives. Carefully, she smiled her thanks and gazed on him and the others impartially. It was a pretense so well devised that he realized she must have been aware for much longer than he had; he wondered how many meals he had shared with her, not knowing that she played this difficult role. How many times had he made it harder for her, unthinkingly blind?

  Well, now they would pretend together, and together construct a bulwark against betrayal.

  “My lady, would you have more kid?”

  “Thank you, my lord, but no. I am satisfied.”

  A small ironic curve showed in the corner of her mouth and then disappeared so quickly that he wondered if he had truly seen it. Satisfied was the one thing she must not be, and she knew it. He must resist the temptation to increase their intimacy, even by talking together in public.

  “The sweetmeats, perhaps, my lady?”

  “Just one, I thank you.”

  So, he thought, no great play of denial. She was alert, too, to the desire for secret signals and to the danger they represented. There must be no layers to their talk; no secrets shared; no hidden understanding. What is hidden may be uncovered. What is fed, grows. Sorn was far more in control of this situation than he was. Far more practiced. She had sat through many such meals, he thought, and not just since I arrived. Meals where what she felt and what she showed were completely at odds.

  Leof wondered about her childhood. He had heard that her father had been a hard man and for the first time felt that sudden empathy, the quick wrench of the heart which can herald love, not just desire. No! he thought, appalled. Not that. But helplessly, although his face showed nothing, as it showed nothing when he led his men into battle, he conned the way the fire slid shadows across her face, the way her eyelids curved when she smiled, the sudden flash of green when her gaze sharpened on a serving maid who flirted too openly with one of the sergeants in the lower hall. He moved away a little so that he could not smell her scent, rising softly from her warmed skin.

  “We will need more heavy drays,” he said instead to Wil. “But we cannot leave the farmers without a way to harvest, or there will be dearth and death before spring.”

  They launched into a discussion of the best way of balancing the needs of the warlord and the needs of the land, and Leof was successful, for a time, at ignoring her. Until she rose to bow good night, and the men rose with her and bowed back, and their eyes met — as she met all their eyes, for that was the etiquette, and there must be nothing, not even a lack of courtesy, to show that they treated each other differently. But at that moment he saw, behind the calm, behind the courtesy, behind even the hidden desire, fear.

  He worried over that glimpse all night. What was she afraid of? Betrayal? Love? Or the thing he did not want to acknowledge… was she afraid of Thegan?

  Inwardly, he knew she was right to be afraid. Thegan would be unforgiving. No warlord would countenance any hint of infidelity in his wife, the producer of his heirs, even if the woman was innocent. There must be no whisper to taint the rightful inheritance of the Domain. It was only twenty years since the warlord in the Far South Domain, old Elbert, had had his wife garrotted because she danced with another man at the Springtree celebrations. He’d had no trouble getting a second, younger wife, because all the observers had agreed she’d brought it on herself. Though there’d been no children from the second marriage, so maybe the gods thought otherwise.

  It came down to inheritance. If Leof cuckolded Thegan — the thought popped into his head unbidden, full of danger and excite-ment — Leof’s sons could inherit the Domain. Which made him wonder why Sorn had not borne children. Thegan had a son — only one, true — and he was an attractive man who had not been celibate since his wife died. Before his marriage to Sorn, he’d had a dozen women that Leof knew of for certain, and no doubt many more. But there were no bastards, none in Cliff Domain, at least, and none that he knew of here. Warlords commonly flaunted their bastards. Not Thegan.

  His thoughts turned to Gabra, the son in
Cliff Domain who had never had much of his father’s love, that Leof had seen. He wondered whose son Gabra might be, and whether Thegan had accepted him unknowingly, cuckolded, or had arranged for his birth. Pimped his wife? No, no, that was not possible. Bramble’s warning echoed in his head: Don’t trust him. Feverishly, Leof plunged back into memories of Bramble, using her as a preventative against treason. But his memories of her had been leached clean of desire, and they were no use as a defense against desire for Sorn.

  Perversely, his lack of desire for Bramble made him readier to believe her warnings. Or was it just easier to think that betrayal was excusable if committed against someone unworthy of his loyalty? He punched his pillow and forced himself to go over the inventory of spears and slingshots in the armory until his thoughts grew quiet and he slept a long time later, then rose in the early light, determined to continue pretending until the pretense was made real.

  That morning he supervised the construction of a drying house, on the edge of the fort plateau, just inside the walls. By autumn they would have half a herd slaughtered and the meat drying for winter stews and campaign food. He skipped lunch to oversee the laying of the foundation stones for the new gate in the southern wall. That had to be done right. Any gate was a potential breach in a time of siege and if the foundations weren’t strong the fort would be lost.

  He approved of all the fortifications Thegan was introducing at Sendat. In Cliff Domain, not only was the warlord’s dwelling fortified, but most of the towns. There had been years past, when the Ice King’s people had raided, that those towns had been glad indeed that some warlord, sometime, had put time and silver into building proper defenses. So it might be at Sendat. Soon.

  Bramble

  HEARING CAME BACK first, but it was dulled. Bramble strained to make out the sound of voices. Then sight returned, but the light was dim. She could see candle flames flickering, or was it oil lamps? There were a dozen of them in a small room, but still her eyes saw vaguely. Everything seemed fogged. But she was seeing through a man’s eyes, that was certain.

  The man blinked several times and made an effort to see and suddenly everything came clear, although she could feel the strength he was using to pay attention. Only the body lay open to her: she could barely feel this mind. It was opaque, shut off. Not from her, she didn’t think. This was a mind which habitually guarded its thoughts. She tried to get a sense of what he was thinking, or feeling, and was disoriented. He thought in intricate layers, convoluted and intertwined, like the threads in a complex weaving. Thoughts linked to other thoughts in endless speculation. She could make no sense of it, catch not even one clear emotion. This mind was alien to her in a way none of the others had been, not even the goat girl on the mountain. This mind was old, and it schemed.

  “Oddi,” a voice said respectfully. His gaze sharpened on the speaker — Asgarn, his wiry hair catching the light from the candles and seeming fairer than ever. “Are you ready, Oddi?”

  Oddi, Bramble thought. That was the name of the old man at the Moot, the one who held the Mootstaff, the one who had made Acton into the lord of war. He had been much stronger then. Age had caught up with him.

  Oddi nodded, and Bramble could hear the bones of his neck creaking. Very old. But he still held the power in the room.

  She wondered about him. He had let Acton make his speech at the Moot. He had made Acton lord of war. But now, as Acton stepped forward to bend one knee in front of him, she sensed no affection in him; no softness. Whatever he had done for Acton, he had done for reasons of policy.

  “Acton,” Oddi said, his voice clear but not loud. “You have served this council well as our lord of war. You have avenged the deaths of our people and secured this territory for our people.”

  Agreement rose in chorus. “Well done,” “Aye, that’s so,” “A great lord of war!” Bramble realized that the shadows held a big group of men. Chieftains? she wondered. The same men who were meeting in Asgarn’s hall when Baluch saw Hawk’s attack?

  “We are in your debt,” Oddi went on. “To pay this debt, we are minded to grant you this steading for your own, to hold as chieftain in your own right.”

  Astonishingly, Acton was shaking his head. He sprang to his feet and moved back a space so he could look down at Oddi. “I thank the council, but this is not my desire.”

  A murmur of surprise went around the room.

  Oddi frowned, but didn’t seem entirely surprised. “You reject this gift?”

  “I mean no disrespect, but the steading cannot be mine. There is someone who has a better right.”

  Oddi spread his hands. “Swef is dead, and you were his heir. Surely his steading falls to you, by both right of inheritance and right of conquest?”

  Acton shook his head. “There is still one alive who should have precedence. Wili.”

  A buzz rose from the men, half-angry, half-astonished. “A woman?”

  “Swef’s niece. If he had not adopted me, she would have inherited his steading. Has she not the right to keep it? And if we speak of the rights of conquest, the lord of this steading died by her hand, not mine. Has she not earned it?”

  There was silence, as Oddi calculated. He exchanged glances with Asgarn, who looked thoughtful. They nodded at each other, pleased in some obscure way Bramble couldn’t fathom.

  “Is there dissent?” Oddi asked. Although the men shifted uncomfortably, no one spoke.

  “Very well,” he concluded. “If Wili was Swef’s heir, he would have found her a husband to run the steading for her. This council will do as much. We will consider who best might be chosen.” Again he exchanged glances with Asgarn. Hah! Bramble thought. They’d better ask Wili first. She’s been through too much to put up with being parceled off like a prize heifer.

  As though catching the thought, Acton spoke. “I think, hon-ored counselors, that you had best consult Wili about that. She is no untried girl, to do as she is told just because a man tells her to.”

  A stir went through the room as the men realized what he meant. What Wili had suffered.

  “True,” Asgarn said. “She has earned the right to choose her husband.”

  You’re sure she’ll pick you, aren’t you, you arrogant bastard? Bramble thought. But only if she doesn’t have Acton around to compare you to.

  Oddi looked at the two of them, now standing side-by-side, both tall, both blond, both strong. He pursed his lips, as though wondering which of them Wili might choose.

  “There is still the matter of our debt to you,” he said to Acton. “Is there something you desire?”

  Acton nodded, for once intense and serious. “There is.”

  “Tell us.”

  “The river outside this steading leads to the sea. To the only port in this land. T’vit, they call it. Along the coast there are only cliffs. T’vit is the one harbor.”

  “And so?”

  “In the bright days, before the Ice King came, we were a prosperous people. Our prosperity came from the sea. From trading.” There were noises of agreement from the men listening. “If we are to be prosperous again, we need a port. If you wish to reward me, give me T’vit.”

  Oddi sat back in his chair, astonished — and surprised at being astonished. That emotion Bramble could read clearly. Oddi was rarely surprised; he was used to being several steps ahead of anyone else. “T’vit . . .” he said softly.

  “Two boats of men,” Acton said eagerly. “Give me boat builders and two crews and next summer I will take them down the river and secure us the port. Then our boats can take the dragon’s road as they used to. To the Wind Cities and further.”

  The audience of chieftains liked that idea. “Bold thinking!” one said approvingly. “Trust Acton to see the way clear!”

  Oddi looked at Asgarn. Asgarn was smiling, and so was Oddi. What were they scheming? Try as Bramble might, she could not read Oddi’s thoughts. Acton, the big idiot, didn’t even notice. She could have hit him.

  “It is a good request, and a fitting reward. Bu
t if you are to take this port for our people, Acton, you must take it as our lord of war.”

  Acton nodded, although Asgarn shot Oddi a look of astonishment and chagrin. Oddi smiled sourly at him. So, Bramble thought, Asgarn isn’t entirely in his confidence.

  “Thus you will act with our authority, and what you annex will be ours to administer,” Oddi added.

  Light dawned on Asgarn’s face, and he began to smile. He turned it into a smile of congratulations for Acton, but Bramble was not fooled. Nor was Acton.

  “But I will be given T’vit, if I take it? That will be my reward?” he insisted.

  Oddi looked around the room, checking with the other chieftains. The dark figures nodded, one by one. “T’vit itself will be yours. This is our oath.”

  Acton smiled widely. “I will take it for you. That is mine.”

  This time the sea came to reclaim Bramble; she even smelt its saltiness and heard the slap of waves on a beach, before the waves rolled her away into deeper water.

  Her hands were busy, cutting up onions. She could smell the sharp tang and her eyes were stinging. The hands belonged to a woman, and they were familiar. Wili. Bramble relaxed a little. Wili’s was a good mind to be in.

  “They want to marry me off to Asgarn,” Wili said, and glanced over her shoulder to where Acton was perched on a stool, honing his dagger on a small whetstone.

  “Oddi?” he asked. Wili nodded. “What have you said to him?”