by Cherry Potts
Sorcha watched the spinning of her puzzle. ‘The sword makes sense for Lorcan, but not for Phelan. There is still no gain for him. And he loves you, for pity’s sake, he is hardly going to be conspiring with Lorcan.’
Tegan sighed. Neither of them were listening, neither of them understood.
‘You sent him to Lorcan to talk peace,’ she said at last. ‘And he is on his way back.’
Grainne’s eyes opened.
‘What can I possibly do that is anything but a betrayal of the loyalty Phelan has shown me all his life?’
Brede felt warily for something safe to say.
‘Has Sorcha warned you that we were followed by one of Phelan’s men?’
‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean – ‘
‘He sent an assassin,’ Sorcha said faintly, as another piece dropped into place.
Grainne shook her head dismissively. Brede leaned forward. ‘You have forgotten something, Phelan doesn’t have the sword, nor does Lorcan. We do,’ she said gently. ‘Does Phelan know you have the sword safe?’ Brede asked.
‘No.’
‘Then confront him with it.’
Tegan exploded. ‘Are you from your wits? Would you present him with the opportunity to use it?’
Brede smiled; a slow smile of remembrance.
‘There are no holy slayers any more, Tegan. If he so much as makes a move towards it, he will have betrayed himself.’
‘Yes,’ Sorcha agreed. ‘He might have supplied the sword, but it is Lorcan who took a blade to his sovereign, not Phelan. Besides it need not be Grainne who confronts him, although she should be a witness.’
Grainne nodded, accepting Sorcha’s assessment of the danger because she was sure of Phelan.
‘If it will satisfy you. It will prove you wrong and then you can concentrate you energies on finding my real enemies. I’ve no cause to doubt Phelan.’
Sorcha watched the weariness in Grainne’s strained face, and touched Tegan’s arm. Tegan jerked from her touch as though burnt, and walked stiffly from the room. Brede followed Tegan, closing the door behind her.
Tegan turned from the empty fireplace.
‘What is this witch doing here? Is she really just tending to Grainne’s ills?’
‘She is keeping her alive.’
‘But is that all? What is in it for her?’
Brede frowned.
‘She loves Grainne,’ she said, patiently, and her words bruised her heart.
‘So does Phelan,’ Tegan said despairing.
Sorcha came out from the Queen to join them beside the unlit hearth.
‘If it is Phelan, what will Grainne do?’ Brede asked.
‘What would you do if someone you trusted, as much as Grainne trusts him, turned against you?’ Sorcha asked, and shuddered. ‘I know Phelan, although he has forgotten me. There’s more than trust between those two. Grainne loves him. Phelan is – was a brother to us both. It can’t be true – you’ve seen them together – how he is with her – how can it be possible?’ Sorcha asked. She shook herself. ‘Phelan will be back to report in a few hours. Tegan, you must watch for him, we cannot afford to be surprised. Brede, do you have that sword safe?’
‘You know I do. It’s under my bed.’
‘Under your bed? Dear Goddess. You are more used to handling swords than I am; you’d best have with you – and keep a close grip. We can’t risk Phelan getting even one hand to it.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
‘Is everything as you want it?’ Brede asked.
Grainne gazed uncertainly around the room. Sorcha had moved a table, partially obstructing the space between the door and Grainne’s seat.
‘Pull the shutters closed.’
Brede went to the window, and stared down at the river. She pulled the shutters across, the sun blinding her briefly as the gap between them narrowed. She was reminded of the sun through the shutters in the inn, and smiled to herself, although these shutters were unrotted, and covered with fine blue paint.
The shutters cut out some light, disguising the intention of the moved furniture.
‘The sword,’ Grainne said urgently.
Brede crossed to the side chamber, brushing close to Sorcha as she went. She seemed scarcely aware of Brede’s existence, drawing slow, steadying breaths into her lungs, preparing herself.
Brede discarded the red cloak, giving a critical glance to the blade. She wondered if Phelan would actually recognise it in the dimness of the Queen’s chamber. Passing near the door, she heard Riordan’s voice, faintly, from the foot of the stair. Sorcha’s head jerked up, and they scrambled to their places.
Brede had barely straightened into her position when Phelan walked in. He didn’t look in her direction, used to her presence. He did not see the sword.
Grainne shot Brede an agonised look over his bent back as he leant to kiss her cheek.
‘Well cousin, young Lorcan’s face was indeed a picture.’
‘Never mind his face, Phelan. What did he say?’
Phelan pulled his gloves slowly from his hands, inspecting Grainne.
‘You are unwell?’
‘What did he say?’
Phelan sighed.
Doubting Phelan, Brede listened more carefully than usual, listening not for the words but the tone. And she heard.
‘He said no.’
‘No? Why?’ Grainne’s voice was husky, barely a whisper.
‘He said that if you were weak enough to offer, he wanted capitulation not accommodation. He said that he will be at your gate within the week, and expects to find that gate open. I told you he wouldn’t wait.’
Phelan walked as he spoke, restlessly turning in the awkward space, which he had yet to notice, and which he should have observed at once.
Brede gripped the hilt between her hands the more securely. She was certain now, and angry, but she wasn’t sure that Grainne understood.
Sorcha closed the door quietly.
Grainne could not bear the tension. She couldn’t hear what Phelan was saying. She smiled thinly, and did not try to hide the shaking of her hands.
‘I am not myself today, old friend,’ she said faintly, interrupting him. ‘You’ll have to save the rest of what you have to tell me for tomorrow.’
A look of concern passed over his face.
‘I will leave you then, cousin,’ he responded quickly, stooping to kiss her frozen face. ‘A swift recovery, my dear.’
He turned, coming face to face with Brede in the confined space. Brede hefted the sword slightly, cradling the hilt in the crook of her arm. It was a perfectly normal movement, the sort any guard might make, in preparation for moving aside. Conveniently, it drew attention to the sword, to the fact that it was too long and heavy for her, and consequently, to what manner of sword it was.
And Phelan saw what manner of sword it was. He schooled his reaction quickly, but not sufficiently.
Grainne nodded, and Sorcha sang a short phrase of song. If there were words, Brede did not decipher them, they were not meant for her.
Phelan’s eyes moved, a frantic darting from the sword to Sorcha. Recognition lit his eyes and his breathing quickened. No other muscle in his body would respond to his bidding. Brede swallowed uneasily. She had seen Sorcha use this spell before, on the enraged horse. The same nervous twitching that set sweat on Macsen’s hide, now tortured Phelan. Brede stepped around his motionless body, avoiding any contact and passed the sword to Grainne.
The Queen used the Dowry blade to balance herself as she slowly rose to her feet. Grainne nodded to Sorcha once more, her teeth gritted against the pain in her body, the pain and disbelief and anger in her mind.
Sorcha’s song forced Phelan to turn and face Grainne. His face was bathed in sweat as he fought Sorcha’s bindings. Brede took the sword from his belt and found two more blades in his clothing.
‘Well, old friend,’ Grainne said, her voice hoarse with rage. ‘I am well served: A horse breeder and a witch for guards, and an old mercenary fo
r my eyes. Would that I had friends also. It seems I must search amongst my enemies for people to trust. Where would I have to look to find your friends, or your conscience?’ she sighed, and lowered herself back into the chair, unable to stand longer. ‘Do you like your handiwork, does it please you to see the life sucked out of me?’ She flicked a finger in Sorcha’s direction. ‘Let him answer.’
Sorcha’s voice shivered over a few notes. Phelan coughed violently. Sorcha had abandoned her disguising softness, all her concentration for the spell. If she chose, she could stop his breathing, or still his heart.
Phelan sucked air into his lungs unsteadily, aware of that possibility.
‘Is this how you treat your loyal friend – your kin?’
‘Are you loyal? Are you?’
‘You know I am. What cause have you to doubt?’
‘What motive have you to betray? You recognise that sword, Phelan.’
‘Of course I recognise it.’
‘Why? You’ve never had reason to see it, I haven’t had need of it since I came to be ruler, and Aeron never so much as glanced at it once her marriage ceremony was over. It has been kept hidden all that time. How did you come to know where it was?’
‘I’ve always known.’
‘And who stole this blade and gave it to Lorcan? Who gave my sword into the hands of a patricide? And who spread the rumour that it was missing? No one knew it was gone but you. I told no one else. Whom did you tell?’
‘It was not I.’
Grainne closed her eyes against the calm denial. ‘Can you make him tell the truth?’ she asked Sorcha.
Sorcha had been expecting this. She took her time before she answered.
‘It is possible.’ She frowned at Grainne’s eager movement. ‘But it is difficult. If he tries to lie, you will know. But Grainne, I can’t keep him to it for long, do not ask too many questions.’
Grainne nodded. She almost believed that Phelan was lying to her, almost; but she needed certainty before all those years of love could be put aside.
Sorcha’s melody was as fierce as walking on knives. Grainne winced at the sharp clarity of the sound, capable of whittling the most heart-deep secret from an unwilling mind.
‘Phelan. What did Lorcan say?’
‘He said what I t…’ Phelan’s eyes widened in horror. He gagged on the remainder of the sentence, and his entire body shuddered.
‘What did he say?’
Phelan’s mouth worked, trying to find a way around the knife-edge insistence of Sorcha’s song.
‘He laughed,’ he said at last.
‘Who are you working for?’
‘No one.’
That came so easily that Grainne looked at Sorcha questioningly. Sorcha spread one hand in a shrug and changed the tone of the song a shade.
‘Does Lorcan believe you further his cause?’
‘Yes.’
‘And do you?’
‘Yes.’
Grainne pushed the sword slightly.
‘You took this?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Lorcan struck off Ailbhe’s head?’
‘Yes, but I wish I might have done it.’ Those words came easily, in a rush.
‘Why?’
‘I loved Aeron.’
‘We all loved Aeron. Why work against me for Lorcan?’
‘He is her child.’
That tremor again.
‘What else?’
Silence, as Phelan struggled against the spell. At last he spat out the words.
‘He is not ...Ailbhe’s.’
Grainne stared in disbelief at the tears coursing down Phelan’s face.
‘Yours?’ she asked at last. ‘Yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does Lorcan know?’
‘No.’
Grainne’s hand tightened around the blade of the sword across her knee, drawing blood. She glanced at the cut then raised her eyes to him.
‘So the poison was you,’ she said at last.
Phelan fought once more, but at last the word hissed from him.
‘Yes.’
Grainne couldn’t believe it. ‘You?’ she asked weakly, and again, ‘You?’
‘Yes,’ Phelan whispered. ‘Yes it was me.’
Grainne shook her head. Even with his confirmation she couldn’t bring herself to credit the idea. She watched the tears still streaming down his face. Pain? Remorse? It was beyond her understanding, and she still needed to know who had been party to Phelan’s schemes, who could have had sufficient influence to warp the mind of someone she still thought her dearest friend and ally.
She asked her many questions in the teeth of Phelan’s sobbing, and Sorcha’s white face and clenched fists. Grainne buried his answers in her mind, hearing names she dreaded to hear, more people she once trusted, condemned unwillingly by Phelan’s tortured voice.
Brede couldn’t watch Phelan writhe in the grip of the spell; she hated to listen, but couldn’t shut out the horror of it, a horror made worse by the cold beauty of Sorcha’s voice. Beautiful: not the words, not the tune, but the voice...
Brede watched Sorcha, and recognised her for what she was at last; not a witch, but a power wielder, a terrifying and dangerous being. This woman she had lain with – this woman – Brede tried to peel away her horror, struggling to feel anything for Sorcha in the face of this nightmare, and saw the strain in her wide unblinking eyes. There was a lack of personality in that look, as though Sorcha had lost herself in her song.
Brede dragged her eyes away, looking at Grainne, almost as tormented as Phelan; relying on her anger for strength. Sorcha did not have that support. Brede watched her mouth shaping words that destroyed, watched the shaking of the hand that rested against Phelan’s shoulder, watched the tears streaming down Sorcha’s face unchecked; and saw that the spell was failing.
‘That’s enough,’ Brede said, desperate to make herself heard against the confusion of sound already battering at Grainne.
Grainne couldn’t hear her. She had reached the all-important question; her voice was fierce, clear against the frightening whirl of noise, the strange unearthly voice of Sorcha’s spell.
‘Why?’
‘I would have been satisfied to have been your consort,’ Phelan said, easy now with the truth, willing to tell her this, glad even. ‘I knew you were too old to have a daughter, I knew I would be safe. I would have been proud to have been at your side, I would have been glad to destroy that upstart Ailbhe for you, and we could have raised Lorcan together – but you scorned me.’
Sorcha stopped singing. Her hand fell away from Phelan’s shoulder; she staggered as she stepped back, and collapsed.
Grainne glanced swiftly at Phelan’s unmoving body and, reassured that he was still in Sorcha’s thrall, she closed her mind on the last of her questions.
‘How long will this spell hold him?’ she asked.
Sorcha had to make an effort to answer, her voice scarcely more than a whisper. ‘Until I end it – but you had best bind him,’
Grainne was satisfied. She beckoned Brede to her, holding out the sword.
‘Put this away,’ she said, ‘then find Tegan and Maeve, and set them to find those this traitor has named; bring someone back to take my – cousin – to the dungeon.’
Brede took the sword, wondering if leaving it under her bed, as she had done for the last months would suffice, and decided that it would not. She hurried down the stair and out into the practice yard in search of Tegan, with the Dowry blade still in her arms.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Brede left the Dowry blade safe with her riding gear in the stables, hidden under a pair of saddle cloths. Then she went about Grainne’s business with a heavy heart. There was no sign of Tegan, but she found Maeve quickly enough.
‘Maeve, I have orders from the Queen.’
‘What orders?’ Maeve asked, puzzled by her abruptness.
‘You are to place Phelan in confinement, and there are others, including some u
nder your command.’
‘Phelan?’ Maeve paled, wiping her hand across her mouth. ‘And who else?’
‘Madoc, Doran, Chad, Oran, Murdo and Ula and their crew,’ Brede glanced quickly down, ‘and Killan.’
Maeve hesitated between disbelief and horror, stunned at the names; surely there must be a mistake? She pulled herself together quickly, as Brede reeled off thirty more names.
‘Households as well where relevant?’ she asked, and when Brede nodded, turning her eyes away, ‘I’ll make the arrangements, then I’ll come for Phelan myself, if he can be left that long. Word of his – confinement – would send a warning to the others.’
‘He’s not going anywhere.’
Maeve shot Brede a look, taking in her grim expression.
‘Is Tegan...?’
‘How could you think it?’ Brede’s eyes widened. ‘Tegan warned us – although – where is she?’
Maeve shook her head, she had no idea. Her mouth twisted in fear and frustration, missing Tegan: she couldn’t delegate some of those arrests to junior officers. She nodded to Brede, and calling to Corla, grabbed up her smarter cloak as she strode away to collect her troop together.
‘I’ll be with you presently,’ she said to Brede, calm and in control of the situation for now, despite the sickening doubt in her mind.
As soon as Brede had gone, Maeve shuddered, not knowing how she could bring herself to give those orders. She caught Corla’s anxious glance and straightened her shoulders.
‘We’re to take certain people into custody,’ she said, ‘but it must be done with the utmost courtesy, no dungeons, just well-guarded guest rooms. And find someone who knows where Tegan is. I need her here.’ Corla went at a run. Maeve watched her go, for something to focus on while her mind shuddered with uncertainty once more. When Grainne came to her senses, Maeve did not want the embarrassment of having ill-treated her prisoners – and if Grainne did not recover good sense, how long before someone remembered that many of those alleged traitors were friends of Maeve’s – intimate companions – how long before Maeve herself was under arrest?
Grainne stared at Phelan. The immobility, the silence, dragged at her memory, forcing her to consider every nuance of every word he had ever spoken, every action, every touch, every kiss, every gift. She caught her breath.