by Cherry Potts
Maeve listened to the tone of Tegan’s words, and caught a tremor of regret, or pain. She looked away. Tegan worked her fingers free of her grasp, and ran her hand over Maeve’s wet hair.
‘So now you tell me about Killan.’
Maeve’s breathing jumped suddenly. Tegan laughed.
‘I’m not stupid, and I’m not as jealous as you, but you aren’t going to sit there making me tear my heart out for you to inspect and get away with it. Come on, I’ve seen you together.’
‘You can’t be jealous of Killan?’
‘Can’t I?’
‘There’s nothing to it.’
‘Meaning you don’t sleep with him? I don’t believe that. Killan isn’t a patient man. If he wasn’t getting what he wanted he’d have gone with Chad, not slunk off to some back alley.’
Maeve leant both her forearms across Tegan’s knees.
‘Do you remember how old I am?’
Tegan frowned slightly.
‘Twenty-five. What does that have to do with it?’
‘There has been nothing but training, fighting – and Riordan – all my life.’
‘And me.’
Maeve smiled, a deep, loving smile.
‘And you.’ She leant her head into her arms, so that her words were addressed to Tegan’s knees, muffled, hot against her skin.
‘I’ve had no childhood, no adolescence. This winter was torment. Not knowing if you were alive, so afraid for you, so alone. And I had the command... Everyone but me had a partner – Corla has started sleeping with Riordan – I needed you to talk to. And then Killan – he’s silly, he’s brash, but he’s funny. He makes me laugh. And he’s surprisingly perceptive, under all that teasing.’ Maeve struggled to explain the why of it, trying to see how Tegan was taking her explanation, but Tegan’s face was in shadow. She continued less confidently. ‘He can stand on his own, he wasn’t my – he didn’t expect – I didn’t have to be – responsible for him.’
‘And you liked that?’
Maeve frowned, rubbing her brow against her arms, not sure what the answer to that was.
‘Not exactly, but once I’d given up being responsible it was impossible to start again, with him at least. It was easier not being. There were no decisions.’
Tegan buried her fingers in Maeve’s hair, a convulsive movement. Maeve glanced up, hoping to find understanding in Tegan’s eyes, finding misery.
‘Every action is a decision.’ Tegan said, her words jerky with withheld emotion. A tear spilled from her eye, splashing Maeve’s hand.
‘Don’t.’ Maeve reached up, cradling Tegan gently, ‘Please, Tegan, don’t.’
Tegan sobbed and dragged her hands free of Maeve, to hide the rictus of anguish that her mouth was twisting into, despite her best efforts. She took a deep breath, then another, shrugging Maeve away. She went to the window.
‘I resisted – something that meant – Goddess knows what it might have become. You gave in to something that meant nothing? What does that say about us, Maeve?’
Maeve pushed herself upright, beginning to find anger again. She strode to Tegan, dragging her about to face her.
‘It says that my body is my own to bestow where I please, and that my heart is yours and not free to be purloined by the first – what? – enemy? who offers me something other than a knife’s edge. It says that you can’t tell the difference, and that you value my heart at very little worth.’
Tegan shuddered, watching Maeve’s face, convulsed with anger and pain, with truth.
‘Maeve.’ She reached a shaking hand to Maeve’s face, stroking tender fingers across the frowning brow. ‘Maeve.’
Maeve turned her lips into Tegan’s hand, kissing her palm at first gently, then catching a tiny fold of skin between her teeth, desperate to be understood. Another hand closed about the other side of her face. Maeve closed her eyes, standing passively, feeling every inch of her skin awakening to Tegan’s gentle touch against her neck, the pressure of lips against her collarbone. She let go a held breath and gathered Tegan against her.
‘Missed you,’ she whispered. ‘Goddess, I missed you.’
Chapter Sixteen
Brede made herself as presentable as she could. She did not know how to approach this meeting. Should she go armed? She decided not. She dawdled about making sure her belt was hanging straight, that her hair was neat, putting off the time she must commit herself to the stairs that led to Grainne’s private quarters.
She tried not to think about what she was doing or where she was going. She strolled casually as far as it was safe to stroll. The stairs then. She was allowed through the guard at the bottom with scarcely a glance. They knew she was expected. Corla watched her hesitant progress up the steps with amusement.
The stairs were still a wonder, so permanent, such an arrogant use of stone. Standing now, surrounded by stone that had stood for four generations already, Brede wondered once more why she was here, why she was not riding the plains, leaving nothing but the occasional footprint to be destroyed by the next gust of wind.
As she reached the top of the stairs Cei nodded her through a half-opened door and closed it behind her. Beyond that, another open door, unguarded. She hesitated. Should she wait, or knock, or walk in? Tegan’s advice surfaced.
Be yourself.
Brede had never knocked on a door in her life. She pushed the door further open and cleared her throat. That was as polite as she could manage.
She stood in the second doorway, looking down at the two women seated in front of the fire. There should be no need of a fire; the weather had been fine and warm for a week. The room was unbearably hot; the tall shutters at the balcony window were tightly closed. Brede waited. The younger woman, who sat at the feet of the other, looked up and beckoned her in. She had been half expecting this, but it still threw her off balance.
‘Close the door,’ Grainne said.
The Queen gestured to a seat. Brede was surprised. Perhaps Grainne did not care to be towered over. She sat, grateful not to be kept standing in the unexpected heat, and waited to be told why she was there.
Grainne felt the comfort of Sorcha’s touch against her knee, the faint hum of song that only she could hear, keeping her alive. She glanced at the warrior, who was so out of place here, covering her discomfort with a show of indifference. She liked her for it. She saw a woman in her prime, strong, awkward. She saw dark hair, sharp features, long limbs and those restless hands, unconsciously tracing the grain of wood.
Brede returned Grainne’s stare. She saw an old woman, a worn, sickly face; a thin body wrapped in too many clothes, hands that shook. She saw power, sickness, fear, and pride.
‘What do you know of the war?’ Grainne asked at last, mesmerised by the constant restless movement of Brede’s hands – not the question she had planned. Brede was jolted by the unexpected question, and had to dredge deep beyond her prepared speeches for an answer. Her hands stilled, curled about the arms of the chair.
‘It has lasted too long. I’ve lost family and friends to it, not always to those you call your enemies,’ she said; and then, ‘your majesty.’
Grainne wondered how to get to her original intent now, with that bald statement lying between them.
‘Where were you born?’ she tried.
Brede shrugged.
‘The place of my birth hardly matters. I am born out of Wing Clan. I am daughter to Ahern, who was murdered by warriors; possibly yours. I am daughter to Leal, of the Marshes beyond the western forest, land currently held by your enemies.’
‘Wing Clan?’ Grainne asked thoughtfully, her worst fears on that count confirmed.
And it being Wing Clan, she wondered what the woman was doing here. She touched the back of Sorcha’s head. Sorcha looked up, frowning slightly.
‘Why are you with Tegan’s mercenaries?’ she asked.
Now there was a question. Brede considered it, struggling with her sense of the stone about her, longing for a breath of wind to stir the stalen
ess of the air. Her fingers resumed their tense exploration of the smooth wood of the chair arms. Tegan’s advice drifted back into her mind.
Be honest.
‘I look after their horses,’ Brede glanced at Grainne and saw from her frown that this would not do. ‘They offered me a way out from the Marshes. I took it.’ Honesty of a sort.
‘Do you consider them to be your friends?’ Sorcha asked, interested for her own sake as well as Grainne’s.
‘No, I wouldn’t say that.’ Brede kept her answer short, unsure of how far she herself believed what she said.
‘Then where are your loyalties?’ Grainne asked, beginning to tire.
Brede again considered. She couldn’t answer, as she would like, that loyalty was a concept to match the permanence of the stone about them. An uneasy memory of Leal stirred in her mind. She didn’t trust loyalty; it made unreasoned demands.
‘I don’t know. I’ve yet to find them.’
Grainne nodded. The fight she saw earlier confirmed Brede’s reservations about committing herself to either friendship or loyalty for her warrior companions. So far at least, the woman had been truthful.
The ache returned to Grainne’s limbs, and she knew that she must leave the rest of the questioning to Sorcha. She rested her hand once more on Sorcha’s hair.
Sorcha got to her feet. Brede stood without thinking. She glanced at the white-faced woman sitting beside the fire, noticing the sudden care with which she breathed. Sorcha opened another door and beckoned Brede out of the room, into a smaller chamber.
‘Wait there,’ she said, and closed the door.
Brede was glad to be out of the heat. She pulled her scarf loose and flicked her braid out to lie free of her collar. She could hear movement in the next room, faint voices. A swift, unexpected drawing in of breath. Brede winced, tuning her ear away from it.
She wandered to the window, and peered out of the narrow opening. She could just see the exercise yard, chequered by sunlight and deep shadows. The height made her uneasy, but she appreciated the vantage point. Brede wondered how long she had been watched, and what it was that Grainne wanted of her. She stepped quickly down from the window as the door opened once more, twisting awkwardly; her bruised back making her gasp.
Sorcha saw that abrupt backward step, heard the gasp of pain. She ignored it, shutting the door firmly behind her. She gave Brede her full attention for the first time, freed of her constant support of Grainne for the while. She liked what she saw.
Brede was taller than Sorcha; she seemed strong, if awkward. Sorcha reminded herself of the fight she had seen, of the occasional almost-beauty of Brede’s movements. Not always awkward. Sorcha smiled, as she had not intended to.
Brede returning her appraising look, smiled in response. She reminded herself that this woman was a witch, and her smile faded. Sorcha moved forward and sat in one of the low-backed seats. Brede joined her.
‘Who knows that you are here?’ Sorcha asked.
‘Tegan and Maeve. The guards on the stairs – Corla, Oran, Cei.’
‘And what did Tegan and Maeve say?’
Brede sighed at that.
‘Tegan said to be honest with Grainne, and not to stand on ceremony. Maeve said I was wanted for something secret, and likely dangerous, and not to tell her what it was.’
Sorcha nodded.
‘You listen to advice then?’
‘To Tegan’s.’
‘Why hers?’
‘She is usually right,’ Brede said, which was only part of the answer.
‘Why do you think you are here?’ Sorcha asked.
Brede shrugged, and winced as her bruised back caught her again.
Sorcha took a breath. There were more questions she could ask to test the ground before committing herself, but she didn’t believe she needed to.
‘You know that Grainne is dying?’
Brede gazed at her, a considering, watchful look. The question lay between them. Sorcha felt a strange release at having finally said it out loud, to someone other than Grainne, and having been offered no surprise or outrage.
‘Is it true then?’ Brede asked, remembering her snarled conversation with Tegan, feeling guilty. ‘I thought it was superstition.’
Sorcha shook her head.
‘It has nothing to do with the famine. She has been poisoned, slowly and systematically, by someone she trusts, and she does not yet know who it is.’
Brede stirred disbelievingly. Sorcha gave her a considering look, reading that movement correctly.
‘She has been ill a little over three years. People forget quickly what they do not wish to remember. The myth about the Queen as a symbol of the earth is a convenient propaganda tool for Grainne’s enemies. It is an excuse for Ailbhe to march his red-bannered monster onto our lands, to claim them for his own.’
Our lands? Brede questioned silently.
‘I heard a rumour that Ailbhe was dead,’ Brede suggested, taking the opportunity to confirm the warrior’s gossip that had so disturbed her.
Sorcha nodded in agreement. She had heard that.
‘Back at the edge of winter, when the rain began, they started saying the earth had been watered with blood, that the ritual sword was missing from its place, and that Ailbhe had parted company with his head.’ She shrugged. ‘It did rain, the sword is gone, Ailbhe is dead, and I don’t know the cause of his death. If there is a connection, I am not aware of it, are you?’
Brede almost answered that, but caution kept her silent. She remembered a line of red-bannered warriors on a hill, and a blooded sword, a sword now in her keeping. And Ailbhe was dead.
‘And my part in this?’ Brede asked to cover her momentary lapse.
‘Grainne finds it hard to trust anyone when there may be poison in everything she touches. She has no bodyguard because she can’t afford the risk that intimacy would bring from someone implicated in that poison. You’ll have heard rumour and counter-rumour; you’ll know that there are factions and disagreements in every corner of the city. You’ve not been here long enough to have drawn up your battle lines. You’ve not taken sides.’
‘I’ve taken Grainne’s pay,’ Brede said hesitantly.
‘Spoken like a true mercenary.’
Brede perceived a touch of scorn in Sorcha’s words and hit back.
‘And you aren’t paid for your services?’
Sorcha laughed aloud.
‘I am paid, yes. But it is in my interests to keep Grainne alive.’
‘Is that what she wants?’ Brede asked.
‘For now it is,’ Sorcha said – too swiftly – wanting to believe it. ‘Grainne wants an end to this war,’ she continued, ‘Ailbhe’s death has complicated that. The rumour that she ordered it makes it harder. If she dies, those who are loyal to her would take the war to the borders.
‘No one wants Ailbhe’s boy, Lorcan, a fourteen-year-old, to rule two countries. And with us firmly committed to war with Lorcan, the rebels would take the opportunity lent them by our weakness; the Horse Clans among them.’ Sorcha’s eyes searched Brede’s face, and she shook her head. ‘Those loyal to Ailbhe would want vengeance; those loyal to Grainne would fight for her memory. Somewhere this has to end, and her death won’t resolve it.’ Sorcha wondering what Brede was making of this. ‘Grainne wants all the factions drawn together. She wants to talk peace. You half believe that she brought the famine on us by refusing to marry Ailbhe. Yet it is raining, the sun is out; the crops are beginning to grow. We have to remind people of that. She must stay alive. That is my task, but those who don’t trust her, will not trust me. If they see a witch at her elbow, they will be suspicious, the more so if they see no bodyguards. You have to be that guard. You have to be visible and you have to be alone.’
Sorcha glanced at Brede’s impassive face. She hadn’t yet given any indication of her feelings. Sorcha kept talking. ‘We don’t know who has been poisoning Grainne. They are not yet aware of my presence. I want to trick them into the open. You are unknown
, you may tempt them out of hiding.’
‘One guard isn’t enough. I have to sleep. You must have asked others.’
‘No.’
‘Just me? You’ve seen me fight. So, perhaps, has your poisoner. And every one of Maeve’s warriors knows that there is no guard at that door, and they know me. I’m the stable-hand –’ Brede shrugged. ‘How can you expect me to do this alone?’
‘You don’t believe that fiction of Maeve’s, do you? You’re exactly what we need. You do not allow yourself to get carried away. You were a model of control out in that yard today; you didn’t even care that Maeve beat you in front of everyone. I doubt I could be so controlled.’
Brede shook her head.
‘I cared.’
Sorcha inclined her head, inviting further comment.
‘I hated it.’
‘But you didn’t let your anger get the better of you.’
‘This time.’
Sorcha shifted awkwardly, under Brede’s dark brooding gaze. If she wanted she could discover what Brede meant, but this was not the moment.
‘If anyone does attack Grainne she will want them living to be questioned, not some bloody corpse that can’t answer for its actions. You control yourself; you will not kill out of hand, nor out of misplaced loyalty. You treat your sword as what it is, a necessary tool, not a lover.’ Sorcha took a breath, steadying herself, sure now that she had Brede’s attention, that something she had said struck a chord. ‘So no, you’re not an inspired fighter. You do not need to be. It is only Maeve who sees a problem. You’re wasted looking after the horses.’
Brede opened her mouth to protest. The horses needed her. Her eyes met Sorcha’s, and the protest went unspoken.
‘I know,’ Sorcha said, almost patiently, ‘Wing Clan. Horses. I remember. But you are needed here. Eachan can see to the horses without your help, he can’t do this for us. You are to be the visible guard. When Grainne must be in public, she must have a guard; that will be you. In private, who is to know?’
‘Your argument is flawed. I would notice. Many people will notice. Anyone planning to attack Grainne would see me, a barely competent guardswoman, living on insufficient sleep, and be certain they could overcome me. The uncertainty of there being no guard at all would keep them away better. You have to have more than one guard or your feint is pointless.’