The Dowry Blade

by Cherry Potts

  ‘Be careful of Lorcan. He is Phelan’s.’

  ‘Phelan’s?’

  ‘His son. According to Phelan. And according to Phelan he does not know it, but he might have guessed. Lorcan’s killed one father; he may not grieve over the other, but all the same, be careful what you say to him of Phelan.’

  ‘You’ll not be here?’

  ‘It is not safe. Lorcan is not Grainne. He – distrusts – power in others. I must leave at once.’

  ‘Where will you go?’ Brede asked softly, feeling the world begin to slip away from her, hardly daring to grab after it, for fear of setting a landslide in motion. Sorcha was already half way to the door.

  ‘With you,’ she said, puzzled.

  The world righted itself again, and Brede laughed, dizzy with relief.

  ‘We should leave at once,’ Sorcha said.

  She flung open the door, and glanced down at the sword, lying so neatly across the threshold. She had a sudden desire to kick it away.

  ‘There is some significance to this?’ she asked Tegan.

  ‘Tradition,’ Tegan said. ‘It keeps out evil spirits.’

  Sorcha sighed. ‘Pick it up.’

  Brede glanced from Sorcha to Tegan, doubting, but she stepped forward, and lifted the sword from the stone floor.

  ‘Grainne’s dead, Tegan, you can’t guard her any more, from spirits or mortals,’ Sorcha said sadly. ‘So let us see what we can do for the living?’

  Tegan nodded, and took the sword from Brede’s outstretched hand.

  ‘I’ll get you out of here if I can,’ she agreed.

  Reaching the bottom of the stair, Tegan considered the guards. Under her eyes Riordan stood straighter, wondering at their silent approach after the commotion of voices at the top of the stair. Tegan took a deep breath.

  ‘The Queen is dead,’ she said. ‘The next person to climb those stairs will be the new king, who is even now approaching the city. No one apart from Lorcan is to go up without my presence. If I am not with them, kill them.’

  Her eyes raked Riordan’s face, then she nodded her satisfaction, and rejoined Sorcha and Brede.

  ‘A little excessive?’ Sorcha asked.

  ‘The crown is up there and I don’t know who we can trust any more.’

  Sorcha raised an eyebrow. It all seemed so petty now, nothing to do with her. She clutched at Brede’s hand, hardly daring to think about the future.

  Neala was asleep in the hayloft, one of the many stable cats draped about her shoulders. Eachan sat beside her, listening to the deep rumble of contentment from the cat, and feeling the transient nature of the quietness. As he waited for the peace to be broken he cleaned a sword. Hearing footsteps below, Eachan slid forward to the edge of the loft and peered down.

  ‘You won’t need that,’ Tegan said, as her eyes caught the glint of metal.

  ‘Ah,’ Eachan climbed down to face her; ‘she’s gone?’

  Tegan nodded, and stretched trying to get the tensions out of her back.

  ‘Poor lass,’ Eachan said. He eyed Sorcha. ‘You’ll be taking off away from here then? Surprised you’ve not gone already. Not got one of those disappearing tricks tucked away handy?’

  Sorcha shrugged.

  ‘Can’t carry three that way,’ she said cautiously, not sure how much Eachan really knew.

  ‘You’ll be wanting your horse then, and a Plains saddle perhaps?’ Eachan glanced the length of the stable to where Macsen was tethered. Brede hauled her own Plains saddle from its resting place and carried it to Guida, talking to the horse in a soft murmur as she did so. Tegan thought hard.

  ‘Use the north gate,’ she said, handing Sorcha a pass, ‘and wait until you’ve heard the trumpets sound. I plan to give Lorcan plenty to think about, get away while he’s busy.’

  ‘I will,’ Sorcha said.

  Tegan nodded, considering. She slapped her gloves against the wall with nervous energy.

  ‘Were I you, I’d not come back,’ she said, ‘and don’t let anyone who knows you see you leave.’

  Sorcha scarcely nodded, silent and withdrawn, now that there was the semblance of a plan.

  Tegan smiled wanly, wanting to be gone. She glanced at Brede, involved in bridling her horse. She flicked her gloves against the wall again thoughtfully, then walked out of the stables at a brisk speed, before she said something she would regret.

  Sorcha climbed to the hayloft and shook Neala awake.

  ‘Come, we’re leaving.’

  Neala struggled out of her nest dislodging the reluctant cat and followed Sorcha down the ladder.

  ‘Ready?’ Brede asked as Eachan led Macsen into the yard.

  Neala nodded and mounted Guida in a fluid movement that brought a smile to Brede’s lips. Sorcha was on Macsen’s back almost as swiftly. Brede looked for Tegan.

  ‘She’s gone off in a sulk,’ Eachan said.

  Brede frowned, and pulled at the straps that held the saddle pack in place. She glared closely at the pack and discovered a lack in it. She glanced about, trying to think what it was that was missing. Eachan offered her the sword. Brede raised an eyebrow.

  ‘She can’t use it now,’ Eachan said softly, anxious not to draw Sorcha’s attention to their transaction. He wasn’t quite sure what prompted him to put the Dowry blade back into the hands of the Plains woman and in so doing, place it out of Lorcan’s grasp.

  Brede thrust the sword beneath the straps of her pack, making it secure.

  ‘Tell Tegan –’ she said, then stopped, struggling with the weight of all the words that would be necessary.

  ‘Don’t worry, Tegan knows,’ Eachan said gently. He cleared his throat suddenly and scowled at her. ‘Get the horizon behind you, girl. Rumour has it that Lorcan doesn’t care for Plains folk, nor witches.’

  Brede pulled herself up behind Neala. She glanced down at Eachan.

  ‘Be strong,’ she said, finding nothing more original to encompass what she wanted to say.

  ‘Stay safe,’ Eachan responded, suddenly anxious for the danger he had put in her way. He turned away swiftly.

  Brede set her heels to Guida’s flanks, and followed Sorcha’s impatient lead out of the stable yard, and across the barracks forecourt, at speed, hoping that Tegan was keeping her warriors busy, and they wouldn’t be seen.

  Maeve’s heart sank at the sound of trumpets. She wrapped her reins another turn about her hand, in readiness. But the trumpets continued to sound, not in defiance as she first imagined, but in valediction. The white stallion next to her stirred uneasily. The boy on its back pulled on his reins, unnecessarily brutal. Maeve glanced at him, recognising that fierce control for fear.

  ‘What are the trumpets for?’ Lorcan asked.

  ‘Grainne,’ Maeve said softly. Lorcan’s breath caught into a surprised laugh.

  ‘Dead?’ he asked incredulously. ‘Fate smiles.’ His eyes rose to the walls of the city, eager for some sign. The trumpets continued their grieving, and the gates remain closed.

  ‘What’s keeping them?’ The King asked, as the tone of the trumpet changed, becoming a welcoming fanfare and the gates swung open.

  Maeve kept her head down passing under the gateway. She had thrown away her honour for nothing.

  Lorcan had not been within these walls since his early childhood, and for a second his confidence failed him and he wasn’t sure which direction to take. He glanced at Maeve’s grim expression, and found himself amused. With greater assurance, he turned his horse to follow the broad street to the tower.

  Maeve followed, sending a silent word of gratitude to the Goddess for Tegan’s good sense. She could not meet the eyes of the silent guards at the tower gateway, but she heard the soft hiss of anger as she passed. They dismounted in the courtyard, and Eachan came, grey-faced, to take Lorcan’s horse. Maeve allowed Lorcan a few paces away before she turned urgently to Eachan.

  Eachan turned his blind eye toward her. Maeve scowled, wondering if she would have to live with the scorn of her old friends for
ever. She hurried after Lorcan, catching him at the foot of the stair, where Tegan waited.

  Tegan’s eyes locked with Maeve’s. She could think of nothing to say. She led Lorcan up the stairs. Maeve followed, a careful few yards distant, disassociating herself from Lorcan, and from Tegan.

  Lorcan could scarce hide his impatience, pushing past Tegan as soon as they reached the door to Grainne’s chamber. He barely glanced at Grainne’s body, as he turned to search the presses and chests. His hand closed on the crown almost at once, and he flung it onto a chair, then continued searching. Tegan stood stiffly to attention, her eyes following him.

  ‘Where is it?’ he asked her at last.

  Tegan thought how to answer that. Lorcan was not Grainne; he would not encourage the easy familiarity Grainne had allowed.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘The sword.’ Lorcan’s eyes narrowed, as he stood before her, close enough for her to see a fine glimmer of sweat on his face. Too close.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Tegan said, wondering how he knew the sword had ever been there; but even as she spoke, her thoughts twisted and she realised that she did know, precisely, where the Dowry blade was. She unfocussed her eyes so that she need not look at Lorcan’s face.

  ‘I do not think that is the truth,’ the new king said, very softly.

  She saw Maeve’s blurred presence move forward, and recognised that movement for protest, Maeve pleading with her to be sensible.

  Tegan forced Lorcan’s face back into focus, and saw the determination that sat so uneasily on his still childish features. She knew with sickening certainty that she would, eventually, tell Lorcan everything that she knew. But for now, Tegan drew her body up straight and returned his gaze as levelly as she could.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Approaching the gates, it was evident to Madoc that many things had changed while he had been out on the Plains. The red banners on the city walls told him so. He had considered removing his green coat, but decided not – a wise decision.

  The guards were civil enough, his rank, and the fact that at least one had seen him about Lorcan’s camp, gave him sufficient leeway to gauge his position while their captain accompanied him to the tower. He kept his eyes sharp on that short journey, taking comfort from the mixture of green and red coats in the streets. This had not been a bloody change of government. The captain left him, to walk nervously in an anteroom until the door opened.

  ‘Madoc.’ The general turned to see who had called him by name, and was relieved to see a face he recognised, a green coat with a red sash hastily tied about the sleeve.

  ‘Doran, I see things are not as I left them.’ Doran nodded, lifting a cautioning hand. He came fully into the room, closing the door and laying his outstretched hand on Madoc’s sleeve, guiding him away from the door.

  ‘I’d have sent word, had I a way of knowing where to find you. Grainne and Phelan are dead. Lorcan is in charge.’

  ‘In that order?’

  Doran looked at the general blankly, then saw the implication of it.

  ‘No. Phelan first, two days ago, at Grainne’s hand; Grainne within hours of him, accident probably. Lorcan chanced upon the aftermath and took advantage.’

  ‘So that’s why everyone is being so polite.’

  Doran’s face twisted.

  ‘Not everyone.’

  ‘How has Lorcan taken Phelan’s death?’

  ‘Indifferent in public, angry in private.’

  ‘Did he suspect?’

  ‘Yes, but the situation was muddied, thanks to Maeve.’

  ‘Maeve?’

  ‘She didn’t take to being ordered to slit Killan’s throat. Took matters into her own hands. She’s provided an excellent confusion, without realising what it was she was hiding. She thinks Phelan’s treachery was solely towards Grainne, and it is so evident she believes what she says that even Lorcan struggles to push his search for traitors.’

  Madoc smiled his relief, and started to plan once more.

  ‘So, why does Lorcan still doubt?’

  ‘The Dowry blade is missing.’

  ‘Of course it is.’

  ‘Yes but it’s not so simple. Phelan did not have it.’

  ‘How is that?’ Madoc asked, alarmed.

  Doran shrugged. ‘I know where the blade was. It is not there now.’

  ‘So where is it?’

  ‘I don’t know, but someone does.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I think, perhaps, Tegan.’

  Madoc removed his gloves, and leant against the wall, squinting at Doran’s closed expression.

  ‘Lorcan is in a difficult position without that sword, and with Phelan gone, who do we think his heir could be?’ Madoc asked softly.

  ‘Heir? I think the only candidate is the girl – Grainne’s third cousin – what is her name?’

  ‘Armorel,’ Madoc said impatiently. He had made a study of the possible claimants; he knew perfectly well how the situation stood.

  ‘Yes,’ Doran agreed, misinterpreting Madoc’s frown. ‘But Lorcan does not take her seriously.’

  ‘So, without the sword – and without Phelan –’

  Doran laughed, a short fox bark. Madoc and his lieutenant shared a smile.

  ‘You’re not considering seeking the sword yourself?’ Doran asked.

  ‘Not yet. This is a time for consolidation. If I were to turn on my heel so swiftly, how might Lorcan react? No, the situation is more – interesting than I anticipated. I don’t want to raise suspicions. I shall stay here until Lorcan gets his answers for himself.’

  The night air was ice cold; the muggy, midsummer warmth had vanished as swiftly as the light. The travellers shivered over their meagre fire. The flames provided only a semblance of heat, but enough smoke to discourage the ever-present insects.

  Neala licked the last fat from her fingers and glanced furtively at the remains of her next-kin’s meal. Brede caught the wistful expression and passed the bone to her.

  Sorcha pulled her cloak tighter and allowed her eyes to stray about their meagre encampment searching out dangers she had no idea how to face – listening for the soundless step of death. Her eyes lit and caught upon Brede’s saddle, and beneath that, a length of metal; nothing but a faint glint in the feeble light of the fire. At last she forced herself to move. She pulled the sword out.

  ‘What is this doing here?’ she asked.

  Brede glanced up, and slid away from Neala. She took the Dowry blade and pushed it back beneath the saddle straps.

  ‘I brought it away with me. The Goddess never intended Lorcan to have it.’

  ‘What have you done, Brede? You’ve brought away the one thing that matters to Lorcan now that Grainne is dead. Without this, his claim to be King is almost sure to fail. He’ll be after us as soon as he finds out who has it.’

  ‘How would he find out?’

  ‘How long do you imagine it will take Tegan to work out where this has gone? Or Eachan? How will they protect you in the face of Lorcan’s capacity to harm them? You’ve put them in danger, and Goddess knows what you’ve brought down on us. I must take it back.’

  Sorcha took up the sword once more, shivering with disgust.

  Words would not come: as soon as she shut her eyes she fell, drowning in the silent depths of the Scavenger’s eyes, drowned in Grainne’s death. She pulled the air to pieces with her song, but could find no words. She stilled her voice, shuddering, and forced her eyes open. She was still by the smouldering fire, out on the plain. She flung the sword from her, and scattered the remaining embers of the fire, fearful now of pursuit.

  ‘Where can we go? What must we do?’ she asked.

  ‘Put the horizon behind us,’ Brede said gathering up her saddle, and the Dowry blade.

  Sorcha forced the pace all night and all the next day. Dusk was long gone, and full darkness had closed about them before she at last permitted a camp to be made for the night, and even then she scanned the darkness, certain that she could hear the soft
rustle of a familiar tattered brown robe, sure that any moment that strangely beautiful face would be lit by their fire, the dark wells of those eyes drowning her once more.

  ‘What is it?’ Brede asked, watching her restless pacing.

  ‘We must set wards.’

  Brede caught an unfamiliar emotion in her voice.

  ‘You can’t do it?’ Sorcha shook her head sharply, and Brede reached to take her hand. ‘What is it?’

  ‘The Scavenger,’ Sorcha said at last, and Brede felt a tremor of released tension flow through her arm. ‘It touched me,’ she whispered. ‘It fought me for Grainne, and it won. I gave everything I am, and the Scavenger won. It took something from me; it knows me – it – it has my scent.’ Sorcha met Brede’s gaze. ‘I’m not imagining this, Brede, I swear to you. I can no more sing a spell than I can – than I can raise Grainne from the dead. I can’t spin the simplest spell to keep us safe. Even you could make a better stab at it.’

  Brede stepped back, waiting for Sorcha to realise what she’d said. Sorcha raised her eyes to meet Brede’s gaze, and frowned.

  ‘I’ll set wards,’ Brede said. ‘What do I do?’

  ‘Pick a tune you are easy with,’ Sorcha said, grateful for the distraction. ‘Something short, with words that you can adapt to tell the song what you want it to do – something purposeful.’

  Brede couldn’t remember a single tune, not a single song, as though she had never sung at a fireside, never got roaring drunk at a Gather – Plains songs weren’t particularly purposeful.

  ‘Roll, turn, spin?’ A sleepy voice suggested from behind her.

  Brede threw her next-kin a glance of gratitude. A simple melody, with childish words that could easily be turned to her use. She managed to stutter out a warped version of the song’s chorus. Sorcha eyed her critically, building a fragile humour from her fear.

  ‘The song won’t do it for you,’ she said. ‘You need to persuade it.’

  Brede nodded.

  ‘Purposeful?’ she suggested.

  Sorcha agreed.