by Cherry Potts
‘So,’ Brede said, resting her sword point in the slippery mud, ‘when do we leave?’
Here it was then. Tegan looked uneasily about the clearing, regretting that Brede had chosen to ask that question with a sword in her hand. She glanced at the blade in her own grasp and tightened her grip slightly.
‘The thaw comes earlier in the east,’ she said. ‘I am expected back within three weeks of that.’
‘How long will the journey take?’
Tegan shrugged. Brede waited, a breath of unease stirring her.
‘It should take me about nine days.’
‘But we’d be slower together; we should be leaving in the next few days.’
Tegan gazed steadily at Brede.
‘I shall be travelling alone.’
She saw Brede’s eyes flicker and waited for her response.
Brede gazed at Tegan. She took a difficult breath, anger closing her lungs.
‘You owe me,’ she said finally. ‘You owe me a life. You, and all your kind.’
Tegan wasn’t expecting this – not after all this time. She had thought they had resolved this long since.
Damn that horse, she thought, despairingly.
The point of Brede’s sword came to rest on her collarbone. A light, controlled touch.
‘I think it is time we settled this,’ Brede said.
Tegan frowned, angry at allowing herself to be so misled. She had been training Brede in how to cut her throat, after all.
Stupid. She allowed her eyes to measure the length of the blade against her neck, the steadiness of Brede’s hand, the anger in Brede’s eyes. She stared at Brede’s troubled face, not yet afraid, and saw that it wasn’t just anger that had that metal against her flesh.
Having started this, Brede wasn’t sure how to continue. The anger was not sufficient to allow her to simply turn the edge of the sword against Tegan. Hurting, she wished Tegan to hurt, but that did not answer her anger.
Tegan registered Brede’s hesitation, and dismissed regret from her mind. Her own responses gathered in the face of Brede’s challenge, but she would not allow her instincts to have full rein yet, there was still a remote chance –
‘There is nothing to settle. We’ve talked this into the ground. I did not kill your sister. You don’t even know that she is dead. If you want to leave here, there is nothing to prevent you. You don’t need me. Go back to the Horse Clans. Go back to Devnet.’
Brede sighed.
‘Go horseless to Wing Clan?’ she asked quietly.
Tegan felt the contempt that quivered down the length of the sword. She tried again, beginning after all to be afraid – to feel that she had underestimated Brede.
‘If I’m not back when I’m expected Maeve will come looking.’
Brede shrugged.
‘Let her come.’
‘I have not raised my sword against you,’ Tegan observed.
The hilt still filled her hand, the point still rested in the mud. It would take only a flick of her wrist to have Brede’s guts spilt on that churned earth.
‘I know,’ Brede said – she had been wondering why that sword had stayed motionless; she had been aware of the involuntary tightening of her muscles, flinching away from the vulnerability of her position. Her arm was beginning to ache.
‘This isn’t a matter for swords,’ Tegan said.
Brede would have liked to agree with her, but some part of her, the part that was feeling hurt and angry and disappointed, some part of her that had kept silent for months, was now roaring for vengeance. She would have liked to force that roaring back to rational silence; she would have liked to be able to let the sword drop, and to say, This is only jealousy, this is only hurt pride; it will pass;
She would have liked to be able to say, I think I am going mad; give me a reason to back down.
Brede said none of these things, but she listened to the tightening of her muscles and to the rational tone that Tegan used, and knew that it was a cover – that Tegan had decided to kill her.
Tegan had taught her well, but Brede was fighting that training. She did not push her advantage, her blade against Tegan’s bare neck. She sensed the clenching of Tegan’s muscles, and stepped swiftly away, just out of reach of the upward slicing sword.
There is no point in dying for the sake of a sure blow at your opponent.
So: now they faced one another in earnest, and something in the dynamic had changed, it was no longer Brede’s initiative. Tegan had been a warrior for a long time; she had learned to separate her mind and sword from her heart. This was nothing to her now, but a meeting of metal, but they were more evenly matched than Tegan cared to admit.
Tegan made the first move, swiftly in under Brede’s guard and back, but the blow missed. Brede’s eyes narrowed. Tegan lunged again, and again Brede wasn’t quite where she had been.
The ground was slippery underfoot, already churned from their earlier practise, but now this was real. Brede couldn’t concentrate, she found herself questioning – not attacking – exactly as Tegan had predicted.
Brede was not afraid, she did not think that she would be killed; she believed she could keep out of trouble. What she questioned was whether she was willing to kill Tegan to prevent her leaving. There was no logic to it, but there was still that roaring, raging bitterness, that wanted blood. Brede gave in to the rage, allowing it to guide her to seek weakness, to take advantage of Tegan’s pain, her shortened reach, her difficult breathing. So she kept Tegan moving, kept her stretching, kept her slipping in the mud, and made no move to strike at her.
Tegan saw that cold calculation – the almost casual way that Brede forced her to the moves that were so hard for her. She also saw the many hesitations, the uncertainties. Tegan changed her tactics, making no more swift darting movements, she moved in close, forcing Brede to defend herself, not by slipping away, but by using the sword. Brede did so correctly, but with no great instinct for the skill needed. She managed to keep Tegan occupied, until she was forced to break away, to return to her circling, trying to catch her breath. Neither had yet drawn blood.
Tegan saw another of those flickering uncertainties cross Brede’s face, and leapt back into close contact, still breathing hard and short from the last bout. She caught Brede a glancing blow, scarcely a scratch; a wasted opportunity. Tegan kicked out. Brede stumbled, slipped in the mud, and went down on one arm – not her sword arm. Tegan jumped away from the swift arc of metal that threatened to take her legs off. She waited for Brede to get back to her feet.
Now Brede was angry with all of her being, not just the part that already raged. Her hands were slippery with a mixture of mud and blood. Her braid was coming undone, and hair was beginning to fall into her eyes. Tegan was waiting for her; waiting, as though this was still a lesson; she was about to learn something about waiting. Brede moved. She moved so fast that Tegan, weak as she still was, did not have time to dodge the blow, nor to parry it.
Chapter Nine
Brede groaned in despair. She threw the sword down and crouched beside the discarded blade, her arms clasped to her body as though it was her own flesh she had torn. Her lungs did not want to co-operate, determined to wrench her body with sobs of misery. When at last she could breathe easily, Brede wiped her face, smearing bloody mud into her skin. She pulled the tie out of her hair, and rebraided it, ruthlessly tight. For the first time she realised that she was bleeding. She pulled the remains of her sleeve apart, using the ruined cloth to bind the long tear in her flesh.
She shook with misery and the sudden release of tension. She whistled Guida to her and began loading the swords into the saddle pack, putting off the inevitable decision – where to go. Her half-formed plan to search for Falda in the city faded to foolishness, and she couldn’t imagine what her Wing Clan kin would say if she went to them bearing a sword.
Brede leant her head against the horse’s shoulder, abruptly unable to continue. After a moment she forced herself away from the warmth of Guida’s
skin and walked back to where she had left Tegan sprawled in the mud. She stared at the bloody tangle of Tegan’s hair, feeling again the force with which the sword hit Tegan’s body, hearing the impact of Tegan’s bones on winter-hard earth. Such finality that sound had. Brede hardly dared touch her – hardly dared not touch her. She stood uneasily over Tegan, then knelt and turned her face to the light, straightening her limbs; gentle now. Her hands shook. She narrowed her eyes against that trembling and forced herself to wipe the mud from Tegan’s face. Cold skin, unnaturally pale beneath the smearing of earth and blood – and the faintest flutter of a pulse at her neck.
Brede blinked, startled, thinking that perhaps she had felt only her own tremor of exhaustion against Tegan’s skin.
Tegan’s eyelids flickered. She opened eyes that were unfocussed and confused. Her seeking gaze fell on Brede, and she watched a long silent moment.
‘Not going to finish me off?’ she asked at last, barely a whisper, her words not as jaunty as she had hoped – she sounded old and afraid.
Brede sat back on her heels, flooded with relief.
‘No,’ she said, and waited to see what Tegan would do.
Tegan put a cautious hand to her head, feeling the bruise rising on her skull. Slowly she raised herself on one elbow. Not good – the trees swam in and out of focus, and her hearing was equally unreliable. Brede was saying something, but Tegan couldn’t make out what it was, losing the words in a roar of blood. Bile rose in her throat and Tegan forced herself more upright, afraid of choking. She was barely conscious of Brede’s arms, supporting her as she retched.
Tegan took a shuddering breath, and unravelled herself from Brede’s arms. She squinted at the younger woman, still struggling to find a horizon to hang the sky on, still fighting to make sense of noise and movement.
‘Is cracking my skull sufficient? Are you done?’ she asked wearily, her voice still no more than dry rasping, she wasn’t sure that her words made sense outside the ringing roaring cacophony of her skull. Brede did not answer, wandering away from her, out of range of Tegan’s willingness to focus. She curled herself back onto the earth, hugging her aching body, trying to gauge her hurts, her ability to stand, whether it might not be better to close her eyes and give in to the whirl of darkness that sought to swallow her.
Out of nowhere Brede’s voice, harsh in her wounded hearing, water against her lips, cold against the angry ridge of bruising under her hairline. The familiar feel of Brede’s hands, seeking out her needs – Tegan tangled her hands in Brede’s, pushing her away. She forced her eyes to focus, barely able to open one of them.
‘What was this about?’ she asked.
Brede wouldn’t meet her gaze. Tegan forced her body more upright, and leant unsteadily towards Brede. She reached to rub the dried blood from Brede’s cheek. ‘I think we have misunderstood something important,’ Tegan said softly.
Brede sighed. It seemed pointless. She resisted the temptation to catch Tegan’s hand and hold it against her face. She glanced sideways at Tegan, and wondered how to say the words. It would make her look a fool, it would make her vulnerable, and it would change nothing. She pulled away from Tegan’s touch and shook her head.
Tegan cursed. Stupid stubborn – ‘What has this resolved?’
Brede stood abruptly, walked away. She whistled the horse to her, and pushed the last sword into the pack.
Tegan watched Brede, knowing what she wanted. She thought about what she felt about that possibility an hour ago, and what she thought about it now. All that separated those responses was anger. She struggled to her feet.
‘Damn you,’ she said under her breath, furious with Brede for her silences.
Brede settled herself into the saddle. She walked the horse across the clearing to Tegan.
‘That’s my horse,’ Tegan said aggressively, suddenly afraid that Brede was going to leave her here, virtually helpless.
Brede ignored her words and said stonily, ‘Are you coming?’
‘Where?’
‘You tell me. East, to begin with. I wouldn’t want Maeve to have a wasted journey.’
‘How can I trust you?’ Tegan asked. For answer, Brede reached into the saddle pack, and wrenched free one of her knives. She flicked it into the earth at Tegan’s feet.
‘If you get up behind me, you can put that between my ribs, if you’re so minded. Or you can walk home, and defend yourself against every footpad and army deserter you meet. Or you can trust me. Decide.’
Tegan picked up the knife, a slow cautious stoop; careful of the ocean of confusion her brain swam against. She was grateful for the smooth feel of the hilt in her hand, it was the sort of trust Tegan recognised. As an answer, it sufficed. She pulled herself up behind Brede. She held the knife and seriously considered thrusting it into Brede’s side. Tegan changed her grip, pushing the knife into her belt. Brede tried not to wince from the feeling of the hard metal of the hilt pressing into her back. Tegan shifted her position slightly, and the pressure was gone.
‘Have you left anything behind that you’ll need?’ Brede asked.
Tegan thought about that. She had most of her belongings on the horse. She said so. Brede nodded.
‘What about food?’ Tegan asked.
‘I have supplies hidden up in the shepherd’s hut. I wasn’t sure we wouldn’t have to make a run for it.’
‘You thought Adair might turn ugly again?’
‘Him, or one of the others.’
‘And your mother?’ she asked.
Brede snarled.
‘What do you care about my mother? What is she to you, but a woman whose daughter you killed?’
‘You owe her a goodbye. She’ll think you are dead.’
‘No she won’t. She’ll think I’m a heartless bitch who doesn’t deserve to be called her daughter, the same she would have thought it if you had killed me just now. I don’t imagine you’d have taken my corpse back to her?’
‘No, I would not,’ Tegan answered fiercely. ‘But you are live enough to carry yourself back, and you care enough about your mother not to let her suffer, or you wouldn’t have stayed with her so long.’
Brede said nothing, but she pulled the reins sharply and kicked the horse into motion, back down to the village.
Brede did not dismount at the gate – she did not trust Tegan alone with the horse.
As they reached the forge, Faine stepped out from the doorway. She halted abruptly at the sight of the horse, and at the look on Brede’s face.
‘We’re leaving,’ Brede said.
‘So I see.’ Faine rested her fists on her hips and gazed up at Brede.
‘Will Leal be all right?’ Brede asked.
‘I think so.’ Faine leant in through her doorway, and called out ‘Leal, come say goodbye to your daughter.’
Leal pushed aside the leather curtain. Her hands found her hips in unconscious echo of her sister.
‘You’ve decided then.’
‘Yes.’
Leal gazed up at her daughter, trying to imprint her image in her mind.
‘I’ve a mind to say goodbye properly, Brede; get off that blasted horse and come here.’
Brede laughed uncertainly, then unravelled the reins from her fingers, and slipped to the ground. She refused to even glance behind her, willing the horse to stay where she was. She heard Tegan shift forward on the saddle, the leather creaking slightly under her weight.
Leal hugged her daughter fiercely, pulling her head down so that she could speak privately to her.
‘There’s blood on your sleeve.’
Brede tried to nod, but Leal had too tight a grip of her.
‘It will be all right,’ she whispered.
‘How can it be? Dear Goddess – how can you trust her?’
‘I don’t know. I do, that’s all.’
Leal glanced beyond Brede at Tegan for a second, taking in her battered exhaustion. She wasn’t sure what it meant.
‘Good.’ Leal released her tight hold at
last. She smiled wryly. ‘Which way does the wind blow?’
‘Towards the future,’ Brede responded; and for the first time in nearly ten years it was the correct response.
‘Follow,’ Leal said.
Brede clasped her mother to her, briefly burying her face in her hair. She turned swiftly away, to catch Faine into an embrace.
Faine pushed her away gently.
‘Be strong,’ she said clearly, including Tegan in her farewell, ‘stay safe.’
Tegan laughed weakly, acknowledging Faine’s use of the ancient warrior’s valediction. She walked Guida a few steps forward, offering a hand to Brede, to help her up. Brede rejected the offer, a feral grin softening the rebuff, and sprang up behind Tegan in a smooth Clan move.
At the gate Adair stood, his back pressed against the bars, arms crossed, brow creased. Guida danced under the combined confusing tensions of her riders, trained to battle but not sure who was asking what of her.
Brede couldn’t think what to say.
‘I’m not going to ride you down, Gate-keeper.’ Tegan said keeping her voice light and cheerful. ‘You wanted me gone and I’m going, so open the gate and let me by.’
Adair shook his head. He fixed his eyes on Brede and lifted his chin – half command, half pleading. Brede sighed. She slid from the horse and stalked over to him.
‘Well?’ she asked.
Adair closed his arms about her, a suffocating, intimate embrace, which made her shudder. She kept her arms rigidly by her sides and turned her face sharply away from his seeking mouth.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she asked, evenly.
‘Checking for wings. I can’t find any.’
Brede shrugged him off and pushed sharply at his chest. Adair was no match for her forge-strong, sword-swift energy. His back thudded into the gate.
‘You can’t stop the wind from blowing, Adair, and you’ll not stop me following it.’
‘You aren’t even a little sorry, are you?’