The Dowry Blade

by Cherry Potts

  ‘What is your need?’ she asked, in the soft syllables of her father’s language.

  The child uncurling from her fear, stared up at Brede.

  ‘I called you,’ she said, barely more than a whisper, ‘and the horse answered, he trampled that man.’

  ‘Yes,’ Brede agreed, pulling the child to her feet. ‘Are you hurt, by the man or the horse?’

  ‘No. The horse protected me.’

  Brede twisted to look at the horse.

  ‘Well, Macsen, there’s a sudden change of character. He doesn’t usually care for children.’

  ‘I’m not a child.’

  ‘Well, Macsen doesn’t recognise any child in you. You know he has killed the man?’

  The child wilted, abruptly heavy in Brede’s encircling arms.

  ‘Come on. You don’t need to hide behind Macsen now. I have you safe.’

  Brede pulled, and the child followed, still dazed. Sorcha took the child from her, singing gentle encouragement. The girl wrenched herself out of Sorcha’s arms, gazing suspiciously. Sorcha folded her arms and met her gaze.

  ‘Interesting,’ she said, ‘Which Clan are you?’

  The child remained silent. She would never reveal her kin to anyone she didn’t trust, and she didn’t trust witches.

  ‘Tell her how you came by your horse, Brede,’ Sorcha suggested, suddenly making connections. Brede ignored her suggestion, and rested a hand on the child’s shoulder.

  ‘Wing Clan, my blood,’ she said, still speaking the Clan language.

  The child turned to her, a look of painful hope on her face.

  ‘Kin I call you, then. Wing Clan, my birth.’

  Brede stared at the child, trying to see who she might be, under the dirt and hard use. Not a child, but young for all that, not more than ten years, surely. Brede’s hand tightened on her shoulder, and she shook her gently.

  ‘Are you telling me the truth? I don’t know you.’

  ‘I’ve never ridden with the Clan.’

  Brede’s mind skipped again to a conclusion that she couldn’t bring herself to believe. Running before the wind, she told herself.

  ‘Your mother and father?’

  ‘My mother is dead. I’ve never met my father, although I know his name.’

  ‘And? This is important, girl.’ Brede could hardly contain her impatience.

  ‘I can see that, you are not the first to come asking these questions. My name is Neala, daughter to Carolan of Wing Clan.’

  So – then she must be – she must be.

  ‘Your father was alive last I knew,’ Brede said, dismissing Carolan – it was the girl’s mother who mattered. Her mother, who was dead.

  ‘Your mother?’

  ‘Falda, daughter to Ahern of Wing Clan.’

  Brede made a strangled sound, half laugh, half sob. She crushed the child to her, not quite believing her still.

  ‘Blood kin I name you then, Neala, Falda’s daughter. I am Brede, daughter of Ahern of Wing Clan.’

  Neala struggled out of Brede’s embrace, staring into her face.

  ‘Yes, you are. Riding one of my mother’s horses, too.’

  Brede’s eyes fell for the first time on the links of the chain about Neala’s neck. She hooked her hand beneath the collar, and pulled it gently free of the scarf that obscured it. Neala’s hand joined hers about the warm metal, loosening Brede’s grip, and tying the scarf once more over the symbol of her enslavement. Suddenly, her hand snaked up, pulling the jerkin away from Brede’s neck: no chain She let the leather loose, finding nothing to say in the face of the unexpected hope that writhed in her mind.

  Brede forced herself out of contemplating the child. There was a dead man lying at their feet; something must be done.

  ‘Do you know this man?’ she asked her niece.

  ‘No. I think he was after stealing your horses. He went for me when I tried to stop him.’

  ‘You did well,’ Brede said, seeing the child’s face pinch with fear.

  ‘Not so well as the horse,’ Neala replied, trying to throw off her distress.

  Brede smiled. A strong child, this.

  Sorcha touched her shoulder. ‘I know this man,’ she said.

  Brede’s waited for an explanation. Her restless eyes discovered the two long knives at the man’s hip: an assassin.

  ‘Phelan’s man.’

  Brede swore, painfully aware of the child at her side, wondering what the implications of this death would be.

  ‘Sorcha,’ she said, casually, ‘we can’t go barefoot and half dressed – can you get the rest of our gear? I’ll saddle the horses. We need to be gone from here.’

  Neala’s face crumpled, hope snuffed out. She turned to go back to the kitchen. Brede’s hand closed on her upper arm.

  ‘You too, next-kin.’

  ‘I can’t leave,’ Neala protested. ‘I’m a bondservant.’

  Brede swore again, and flung the child towards the horse. ‘Bonded to whom?’ she asked. ‘On what authority? You are a child; as your next-kin I say any bond is dissolved. Now help saddle that horse, and let’s be gone from here.’

  Sorcha still stood unmoving.

  ‘Grainne isn’t going to like this, not assassins, nor your next-kin.’

  ‘Grainne will survive it – besides, she promised me.’

  Sorcha shook her head doubtfully, and glanced up.

  ‘I can’t climb back up that roof without help,’ she said patiently, remembering the barred door.

  Brede glanced at the roof, which was sagging already from their swift, careless descent. She laughed, and kissed Sorcha, at first lightly, and then reluctant to stop.

  ‘And you a witch,’ she protested.

  ‘Not one that can levitate,’ Sorcha said.

  She could get back into the room, but the child had already shown enough distrust, no need to frighten her more.

  Brede gave her a little shake.

  ‘No need for that, you have yourself a tall horse that will stand as still as stone if you but ask it of him.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sorcha made no attempt to disguise her urgency as she dismounted and threw the reins in Corla’s direction. Corla bit down on the protest that came to mind, shouting after Sorcha, ‘Messages – for you, I’m thinking. You’d best hear them.’

  Sorcha slowed minimally, turning her head in Corla’s direction, but continued walking. Corla raised an eyebrow at her impatience, and took a few steps after her, still not absolutely sure this was the woman Tegan had meant.

  ‘Tegan said to tell you Phelan is back, and expected within the hour.’ She caught at Brede’s sleeve, ‘Eachan said to tell you Madoc has returned, and gone again. He also said there’s more than old times between those two. He said he has things to tell you.’

  ‘I must see Grainne at once,’ Sorcha said. ‘Is Tegan with her?’

  ‘No. She’s out in the city somewhere. She said she had things to attend to.’

  ‘Did she say what?’ Brede asked.

  ‘The usual. Trying to find out what’s going on with the rest of the world. She’s worried.’

  ‘I’d noticed,’ Brede said.

  Corla’s eyebrow crooked itself once more. ‘What’s afoot?’

  Brede shook her head. ‘You’ll find out when the dust settles,’ she said, and Corla frowned at being shut out.

  Brede turned away, and was brought up short by the sight of Neala.

  Sorcha anticipated the hesitation.

  ‘Take Neala to Eachan,’ she suggested. ‘She can help stable the horses. I’ll meet you in Grainne’s quarters.’

  Before Brede had a chance to answer, she was gone.

  Corla glanced at the child. ‘And you are?’ she asked.

  Neala glared in silence at Corla. Brede answered for her.

  ‘This is my sister’s daughter, Neala.’

  Corla raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Tegan will be pleased.’

  Brede nodded. That scarcely mattered now, she fe
lt too crowded about with other concerns to think about the value of Tegan’s friendship.

  Neala looked at her expectantly.

  ‘Come meet Eachan,’ Brede said, wearily.

  Eachan scarcely glanced up as the two horses were led into the stable.

  ‘You’re back then,’ he said, giving a final sweep to the coat of the horse he had been grooming, before he turned.

  ‘Ah,’ his eye met Neala. ‘We’ve met before, haven’t we?’

  Neala nodded; a child of few words. Eachan put his brush aside, and stretched his back, giving the horses a considering look.

  ‘Managed to give these beasts a run? And the bay? Did she get any exercise?’

  Brede stared at him blankly, and then blushed furiously.

  ‘I thought that was Tegan’s private joke.’

  ‘Nothing is private here.’ Eachan said. ‘Have you not learnt that yet? Jokes, passions, loyalties... Everyone knows everything. You don’t know what you give away – You don’t need to answer me, I can tell merely by looking at you.’ Eachan’s mocking slipped at Brede’s enraged expression. ‘I’m happy for you. I’d be grateful for your friends if I were you.’

  Brede held up a hand in protest, trying to stop the flow of words. She pulled Neala slightly forward.

  ‘This is Neala, daughter of my sister, and my next-kin.’

  ‘Ah. I thought she might be. So, is she going to take over your sadly neglected duties in the stables?’

  Brede shrugged.

  ‘I think Grainne has other things on her mind now, but I want a formal breaking of the bond that innkeeper claims, and quickly. Then I should take Neala back to her kin – this is no place for a child. If she’d like to help with the horses, I’d be glad for you to keep her occupied, until I can speak to Grainne.’

  Eachan turned his eye on Neala once more, and caught the glimmer of metal about her neck.

  ‘There’s something more immediate we should be doing with you, girl.’

  Brede followed his gaze and nodded sharply.

  ‘It’s a heavy chain, that,’ she said to Eachan. ‘Have you tools for it?’

  Eachan shook his head.

  ‘I leave that sort of thing to the smith.’

  Brede pulled the links free of Neala’s hair once more, peering closely at each in turn.

  ‘How fortunate that we have a smith to hand then,’ she said, as her fingers found a link that was poorly made. She glanced at Neala’s narrowed eyes. ‘Will you hold still and trust me?’

  Neala nodded her assent, but her eyes widened as Brede pulled a short broad-bladed knife from the top of her boot. Brede worked the knife tip into the link and twisted it, then forced it further, eyes fixed, not on the chain, but on Neala’s vulnerable neck. For a fraction of a second she thought of the gouge in Jodis’ neck and hesitated. She turned the knife a little further and the link gave. She threw the knife down.

  ‘Hold the chain away from your throat,’ she said, and gave a swift yank at the chain, which parted easily. Neala gave a startled yelp, and held the limp sway of metal up to her next-kin.

  Brede took the chain and wrapped it twice around her knuckles and closed her hand over the shattered link.

  ‘Well, girl?’ Eachan asked Neala, ‘What’s it to be? Help me with the horses, or trail at Brede’s heels, where you can trip up the Queen with a bit of luck?’

  Neala bared her teeth, an approximation of a smile.

  ‘The horses, so please you. Especially this one,’ she slapped Macsen as high up his shoulder as she could reach. The horse lowered his head and breathed into her hair in an unusually amiable fashion.

  ‘You are welcome to him,’ Eachan said, pleased at the beast’s unexpected docility. He nodded to Brede. ‘I’ve things to say to you, concerning a certain general.’

  Neala’s expression became guardedly curious. Eachan gave her an uncomfortable look.

  ‘Have you had a chance to talk?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Brede said. Neala shook her head.

  ‘Well, if the young lady will forgive. Madoc has been back.’

  Brede glanced at Neala, who was white-faced and scowling.

  ‘And gone again, Tegan says. He has powerful protectors that one, I wouldn’t tangle with him were I you.’

  ‘No, not yet.’ Brede narrowed her eyes and the metal about her knuckles bit into her flesh as she clenched her fist. Eachan frowned in response.

  ‘Have a care, girl.’

  Brede held out the chain to Eachan.

  ‘First in your collection. Any news –’

  ‘No.’ Eachan cut across her question. ‘None.’

  Brede reached a hand to Neala. ‘You’ll be all right here for a while?’ she asked, uncomfortable with her new responsibility as next-kin, itching to ask the girl more, but with other matters more immediately pressing.

  ‘Go talk to the Queen,’ Neala said calmly.

  ‘Change first,’ Eachan said. ‘You look a sight.’

  Brede shrugged, gathered her discarded knife and made her way toward the barracks. She ignored the thought of hot water and clean clothes and pulled her jerkin straight. As she turned towards the tower, she spotted Tegan and raised her hand in greeting. Tegan joined her at the base of the stair.

  ‘I need to see the Queen,’ Tegan said at once. ‘And I need your support, if you can give it.’ They hurried up the steps.

  ‘What –’ Brede began.

  ‘Not here.’ Tegan reached the top of the stairs first, dismissing Ula with a tilt of her head. She waited until Ula was out of earshot. ‘I don’t know who I can trust with this apart from you.’

  She opened the door and walked into the Queen’s outer chamber, Brede at her shoulder. Sorcha came to the inner door, a sword in her hand. Tegan swore under her breath.

  ‘Urgent business with the Queen,’ she said and swept past her. Brede and Sorcha followed, and caught her unceremonious greeting to Grainne.

  ‘You asked me to use my eyes, and I’ve done that. If I’m wrong –’ Tegan’s worried glance flickered from Grainne to Sorcha, to Brede, and back to Grainne. ‘Tell me, of all your trusted friends, whom do you trust the most?’

  ‘I do not have ‘trusted’ friends any longer; I have only friends who have proved themselves. Sorcha, Phelan, you.’

  Tegan flinched, then discarded caution, too urgent for cowardice.

  ‘Who has been at your shoulder? Who has stood beside you in all things? Who leads your armies out to fight?’

  Grainne did not want to hear this, not from Tegan, not from anyone.

  ‘What is it you know to Phelan’s discredit?’

  ‘I don’t know, I suspect. So I ask you: who would know that the Dowry blade was missing? Who would know where it ought to be?’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Who controls your armies; who speaks for you to them?’

  ‘We are winning,’ Grainne protested.

  ‘Who tells you so?’ Tegan asked quietly. ‘I see no victorious troops, I see only deserters slinking home, an unexpectedly early start to this year’s campaign, and with Ailbhe’s death – scouting parties, Lorcan’s, under the very walls of your city. And no one can tell me why that is. My first campaign was with Phelan; we trained together. I know him; he isn’t how he used to be. Grainne, you must stop thinking with your heart.’

  ‘You go too far.’

  ‘You asked me to use my eyes and this is what I have seen. If you do not want me to report what I see, what must I do?’

  Grainne stared wildly at Tegan’s impassive face, at the trembling in her shoulders, and her anger waned suddenly. ‘No, Tegan.’

  Grainne buried her face in her hands. Tegan stood, thinking she was dismissed.

  ‘Sit down,’ Grainne said. ‘Sorcha, what do you think?’

  Sorcha took a wary breath, her mind spinning, watching pieces of the puzzle fall into place, wincing away from the pattern they formed.

  ‘She’s right about deserters. But the Dowry blade? Phelan? If it is t
rue – Phelan can’t be working alone.’

  Grainne nodded, turning her weary gaze back to Tegan.

  ‘Maeve and I are the only captains to report directly to you. All other reports come to you through Phelan. He is the only person who could mislead you. You are not winning this war, Grainne. If he were guiltless, he would have discovered the treachery and told you of it. You’ve lost control of the army, and you no longer know who controls your troops, which divisions are conscripts, which mercenaries. Do you know who is in charge of the defence of this city?’

  ‘Doran.’

  ‘No; Doran sits at home breeding horses, and slaves. There is no one in charge, there is next to no defence. The mercenaries have not been paid, and they distrust you. Half the conscripts have run away, the rest are on the point of mutiny. They have homes and families they have not seen in too long. They could be harvesting; instead they are killing people. If Lorcan were to attack this city, you could not defend it.’

  Tegan stopped, wondering if Grainne was listening, her face had lost all expression. The silence dragged, until at last Grainne whispered,

  ‘But Phelan? What could he gain by this?’

  ‘He is Aeron’s half-brother, your closest kin after Lorcan,’ Sorcha said hesitantly. ‘If he took that sword to Lorcan, intending Ailbhe’s death, might he not intend to use Lorcan’s strength to take your place, then kill Lorcan? The boy is scarcely into manhood, after all.’

  Grainne shook her head. ‘If he took the sword. This is Phelan we are talking about. My next-kin – my – Phelan is not a religious fanatic, there are other ways to kill a king, why choose that way? And he would never consider the throne for himself, it is sacrilege.’

  ‘All the more reason to use the sword, surely?’ Sorcha asked. ‘If he could imply some righteousness? Treating Ailbhe as a traitor?’

  ‘Not a traitor, no,’ Tegan shook her head. ‘Treating him as a consort who has provided an heir for his queen.’

  Grainne closed her eyes. They sat silent for a while, watching her reject the argument. Sorcha tried again.

  ‘Would Phelan know the sword was gone? Would he know where to find it if he needed to take it?’

  ‘Yes, of course he knew. He is Aeron’s brother, Muirghael’s son, my nephew. Of course he knew. But that doesn’t mean he took it, or used it.’