The Dowry Blade

by Cherry Potts

  Brede drained her mug again.

  ‘Safe?’ she asked softly.

  ‘How could I know?’ Tegan asked.

  ‘Sorcha –’ Brede couldn’t find the words.

  Tegan winced. She hadn’t even begun to think about Sorcha, but now a vivid memory of Doran, and the horse, and exactly what he had said on his return burnt with acid clarity.

  ‘Lorcan hunted us –’ Brede’s voice faded in the face of saying that aloud.

  ‘She’s dead.’ Tegan said for her.

  ‘Did you imagine I’d be here if she were not?’

  Tegan shook her head.

  ‘They said she was dead but – there was no word from the witches, no complaint – I thought she would have found a way to get herself out of trouble .’

  ‘Not at my expense,’ Brede said sharply.

  Tegan winced. ‘I bought you time, girl. What did you do with it? I kept silent for days in the face of Lorcan’s ways with persuasion. If you want someone to blame, look elsewhere.’

  Brede forced her legs to work, and stepped close to Tegan, too close. Tegan put a hand up, fending her off.

  ‘I no longer owe you a life, Brede,’ Tegan said fiercely. Brede caught something in her tone that puzzled her. Fear. More fear than she had ever heard in Tegan’s voice before.

  ‘No.’ Brede struggled with memories and emotions that she had long forgotten. One sharp image fixed itself behind her eyes, snow on the ground, Tegan asking – What are you willing to die for? She laid a hand against Tegan’s face and listened to the intense silence. At last Tegan’s hand met hers, acknowledging all that remained unsaid between them.

  ‘I owe you nothing,’ Tegan said softly, pulling Brede’s hand away from her face.

  ‘You can’t help me,’ Brede said, subsiding back into the chair and reaching for the empty mug, twirling it between her hands, first one way, then the other.

  ‘You can’t stay here, it wouldn’t be safe, for you, nor for me.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  ‘Lorcan’s a dangerous enemy. Whatever you have or haven’t done, you’re a threat to him, and you don’t have Sorcha to protect you now, not that Lorcan has much respect for Songspinners.’

  ‘Mightn’t that be because he has killed the greatest of them?’ Brede asked, feeling burdened with her knowledge. How could the Songspinners not know?

  ‘I don’t know, Brede,’ Tegan said anxiously. ‘You must not speak of it.’

  ‘I must.’

  ‘Not here,’ Tegan said tersely, spurred to anger by the guilty fear that anything she once said might have caused Sorcha’s death, and fear of Lorcan, should Brede be traced here.

  ‘That’s how it is, then?’ Brede asked, her anger easing through her misery, and Tegan an easy target. ‘Would you rather I had stayed conveniently dead?’

  ‘Brede,’ Tegan protested.

  Brede shook her head abruptly.

  ‘No, I think not. I’ll not bring risk to you, Tegan. I’ll not stay where I can’t trust my welcome. Be strong.’

  Brede struggled to her feet, her will to be away overcoming the numbing stiffness and pain.

  ‘Brede,’ Tegan said again, regretting her fear. ‘Stay.’

  ‘No.’

  Tegan hesitated. The Brede she remembered would know she was being ridiculous and unbend, given a silence to do it in. Brede fumbled with the hat she had been wearing. Corla’s hat, Tegan noticed for the first time. The hands that tried to untangle the band about the crown were shaking. Brede wasn’t going to laugh at herself this time, wasn’t going to forgive.

  ‘Well if you won’t, let me tell you something at least.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘If you hope to leave the city, do so at once. Corla says there is an army massing to the west, and that Lorcan rides out in the next few days to confront them. The gates will be barred behind the army, and you’ll be trapped here.’

  ‘And where would I go?’ Brede asked angrily.

  Tegan ignored her words, intent on passing on her information.

  ‘Another thing, Brede; listen to me, for pity’s sake. You must understand that it isn’t safe for you with me. Lorcan has always had an eye for my movements. I’m barely tolerated, for the sake of Maeve’s protection, and only if I keep my head low. And he’s not forgotten you, nor that sword. I’ve had people here asking questions recently, even after all this time – asking about you, about the sword; and here you are, back with the – blasted Dowry blade in your hand. I’ve heard rumour that there has been a witch in the city for a while now, up in the tower somewhere. Goddess knows why, but it might be something to do with that blade, there are too many coincidences to be ignored. Get rid of it, if you value your life.’

  ‘The Songspinners don’t care about the Dowry blade, Tegan. They aren’t interested in what the rest of the world does, unless it affects them – or people they love.’ Brede laughed. ‘Can Lorcan inspire that kind of love?’

  ‘He’d try, for something he wants as badly as he wants that sword, yes, he’d try. You’ve always underestimated the significance of that thing.’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect any Songspinner to indulge him.’

  ‘So why did Sorcha help Grainne?’

  ‘Sorcha loved Grainne. She knew how to love.’ Brede said defiantly.

  Tegan met Brede’s eyes, and then she turned away.

  ‘I grieve for your loss,’ Tegan said, belatedly.

  Brede took a breath, testing herself, seeing if she could respond with civility.

  ‘Goodbye, Tegan,’ she said quietly; it was as much as she could manage.

  Brede stumbled out to the stables to collect her horse. No rotting thatch here now, no bondservants. Tegan had a firm grip on her new trade. Brede glanced upward – new shutters at that low window, firmly latched, painted soft ochre. Well, she was right at the gate; she might as well make use of it. She scrambled onto the horse’s back, and rode out onto the narrow street.

  To her surprise, she was challenged at once. Brede peered up at the woman who stood on the wall, her bow at the ready.

  ‘Is there something wrong?’ she asked mildly.

  ‘We’ve orders to confiscate all horses leaving the city.’

  Brede continued to twist her neck awkwardly, trying to meet the woman’s eyes, hindered by the concealing hat. She considered the horse. If it had been Plains bred, she could have made a run for it.

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  ‘You don’t need to know.’

  ‘But I do, this horse is the only valuable belonging I have. If you’re going to beggar me, you might at least explain your reasons.’

  The woman smiled thinly.

  ‘My reasons are that I have orders. You’re free to leave the city, if that is your intention, but the horse stays. You’ll be recompensed for the value.’

  ‘I can’t leave the city without my horse,’ Brede said softly, fondling the animal’s ear.

  There was no use in arguing. She was in no position to win her point. Brede glared at the boy who sidled up to take the rein from her. She shrugged helplessly, and took her time getting down from the horse, making sure her weight was mostly on her sound leg as her feet hit the cobbles. Even so, light-headed from alcohol and anger and lack of sleep, she couldn’t control the landing and staggered. The boy’s hand was under her elbow before she had a chance to adjust her balance. She turned and found his face too close to hers for comfort.

  ‘Leave me be,’ Brede said, snatching the sword from the makeshift carrying sling and leaning heavily on it. The boy backed away.

  ‘Are you taking this animal or not?’ she called after him.

  The woman above dropped from the wall and took the reins.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But I have to follow my orders.’

  Brede nodded, wanting to cry for the loss of the horse, but knowing the horse had nothing to do with the feeling of utter powerlessness that swamped her. She couldn’t leave the city on foot; she couldn�
�t walk far enough to make it even worth considering the effort.

  The guard offered Brede a slip of paper.

  ‘What is that?’ Brede asked.

  ‘If you take it to the barracks they’ll give you money for your horse.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘What it’s worth.’

  Brede sighed. She couldn’t risk another visit to the barracks, and the horse was worth very little in money terms, but she took the piece of paper and tucked it away. She reviewed the half thought out plans she had made, before Tegan told her of the imminent closure of the city. Once she had thought to find work here in the horse market, but if horses were so scarce her ploughing beast was confiscated, the market would be merely another windswept meaningless open space by the river.

  ‘Do you have any suggestions as to what I might do now?’ she asked the woman. Her question was met by awkward silence. ‘No,’ Brede answered herself. ‘Go and join the other beggars in one of the squares.’

  For a moment she considered going back into the inn, asking Tegan for shelter; but she couldn’t bring herself to do it, Tegan was terrified to have her under her roof. Her heart sank – how could Tegan, of all people, be afraid? West Gate Inn was no place to find help.

  Brede turned her back on the open, beckoning gate. Most of the traffic at the gate was inward, refugees fleeing the uncertainty of open ground for the safety of those walls. Soon the city would be closed, preparing for siege, and the hunger would begin. Brede refused to look up at the stone, and limped away into the city, one rootless, dispossessed stranger among thousands, caught up in Lorcan’s battles.

  Brede chose her spot with care: she could remember the first time she saw beggars and what a shock it had been. Now she saw them again as though for the first time, considered herself as one among them, thought about the techniques that had rung coins from her in the past. She chose a sheltered spot near a food stall at the foot of a bridge, where people were likely to notice her, as they were putting their money away, as they were about to satisfy their own hunger.

  There were many more beggars than there had been – refugees from outlying settlements, ex-soldiers incapacitated by wounds. A great many beggars, and far too few people with money in their pockets. Brede sat for days, her face covered, unable to think of looking at passers-by, and not wanting to risk being recognised. A few coins came her way, and she learnt to fight her fellow beggars for scraps from the food stall. It was miserably cold, even in the sheltered spot she had chosen, and she dared not leave her post for long, lest she lose it to some other desperate vagrant. But, she gradually found, she recognised faces among the crowd of increasingly ragged and hungry beggars. And recognition led to something more. A group of children stoning pigeons drew her away from her bridge, to show them how to use a strip of cloth as a sling, and the gangly nine year old who first brought one down, smiled at her. That smile kept her warm a whole hour, and later, as she struggled with sleeplessness, in the ancient abandoned stables where many of them spent the night in careful, rigidly maintained but imaginary privacy, the boy’s mother brought her a sliver of the pigeon, cooked, and half a loaf, stale, but still. The woman smiled at her, and whispered ‘You have a sword. Can you use it?’

  Brede nodded.

  ‘The respectable folk who live near have been making complaints, the town guard –’

  Brede shook her head impatiently.

  ‘Why would the town guard care about us?’

  ‘We’re trespassing.’

  Brede shook her head again. She didn’t want to draw the attention of the town guard. She thought briefly of that lesson in stone and sling – skills that could draw attention her way also. Reluctantly she rejected a source of food. Too dangerous.

  The woman frowned, shrugged, and went back to her little knot of family. Brede watched them, then fell to gnawing the bread. She slept more easily with food in her stomach.

  From her vantage point by the bridge, Brede saw the army leave, early next morning. She watched the barricade drawn back, saw them march past, the few horses reserved for officers. She recognised a few warriors, but none that she could put a name to. Watching the slow shuffling of the foot soldiers, the grim-faced riders, Brede wondered, for the first time, why there were so few horses that her plough horse was of use to the army. These horses were well trained, fit; they didn’t look like the beast that was taken from her. Slowly her mind ground the information and she remembered that Muirne had told her that the Clans were not selling horses to Grainne, or Lorcan. That situation must still hold. Perhaps those stolen horses were held in reserve, against a time when there were no trained beasts left. Perhaps, Brede reflected grimly, they were being held against the siege lasting to the extent that the horses were needed as food for the starving.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The army returned from battle well before sundown, too soon for the outcome to have been successful. There was disarray among the troops crowding the streets, much shouting from the officers; a lack of control. Brede shrank against the bridge footings to avoid being trampled. The numbers were noticeably depleted and she had a fleeting impression of a face she recognised among those crowding across the bridge. Maeve, looking as angry and wild of eye as Brede had ever seen her. Brede followed her difficult progress, furtively, not wanting to draw attention to herself. Keeping Maeve in view, she managed to recognise Corla also, slightly behind her, tears pouring freely down her face, her green tunic dark with blood. Brede made an involuntary movement that drew Corla’s eye. Scarcely more than a glance, and no way to push through to where she was, but Corla had marked her out.

  Brede guessed at defeat, but the gossip by the bridge was swift to correct that impression, replacing it with far worse. Given the opportunity to be beyond the gates of the city, many of the warriors had slunk away, some few to join the rebels, but many more had run for home – thinking on land abandoned in drought, which was now recovered, thinking on planting crops, on survival. With the choice between that, and a long starvation in a besieged city, or death on the battlefield, Lorcan’s charismatic control of his army had unravelled.

  So said the gossips by the bridge, as they chewed their sweet pancakes, oblivious to the beggars. Another rumour was slower in its circulation, but that very laggardliness burdened it with a smell of truth: the rebels had captured Lorcan. Desperate to instil his warriors with some pride in themselves, some sense of commitment to his cause, he had led a raid deep into the enemy lines. And lost his gamble.

  A rumour it remained, no official confirmation was given, but before it was dark, Corla was back, standing over Brede pretending an interest in the murky depths of the river. Brede glanced sideways and upward at the blood spattered green cloak.

  ‘Alms for an old soldier?’ she whispered.

  Corla pretended to notice her for the first time.

  ‘You should’ve got rid of the hat, that’s what I recognised.’

  ‘Have you said anything to Maeve?’

  Corla shook her head, and narrowed her eyes at Brede.

  ‘Should’ve got rid of the sword too. No one’s going to give money to someone with something of value they’ve not sold yet.’

  Brede shifted the blade against her shoulder, protective.

  ‘I might need it.’

  ‘Can you still use it?’

  ‘If I have to.’

  Brede flicked the edge of Corla’s cloak,

  ‘Whose blood?’ she asked.

  ‘Riordan.’

  ‘Bad?’

  ‘Dead.’

  Brede winced and wound her hand into the cloak, forcing Corla closer. Corla shook her head, yanking the cloth free.

  ‘Don’t waste your breath. This is anger, and it will do fine to keep me from grieving for now. Maeve, though, she’s fit to kill.’

  Brede nodded, remembering Maeve’s protectiveness of her young brother, and the temper with which she disguised her feelings.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Trying to protec
t that – bastard fool, Lorcan.’

  ‘Ah, it’s true then?’

  ‘Thought he could throw himself into the lion pit and get out again, and happy to take his own with him through the Gate.’

  ‘Is Lorcan dead then?’

  ‘No, more’s the pity. But the rebels have him prettily trussed.’ Corla smiled at that, but her heart wasn’t in it. ‘I’d kill him myself given half a chance,’ she whispered.

  Brede nodded. ‘Grainne called Lorcan a viper.’

  ‘That he is; poisonous and slippery. It’s revenge I want now. Join me?’

  Brede laughed weakly, remembering her one brief glance at that brash young man, so eager to prove his right to command. She thought of his awkwardly jutting jaw, his angry voice.

  Revenge? she wondered, and had no answer for Corla.

  She had tried so hard not to think of Sorcha, but now she couldn’t shed the feeling of Sorcha’s hands against her skin, and that sensation of falling: she stood at the edge of a precipice, the howling wind trying to drag her down into the abyss. She leant her head into the wall, pressing her forehead against the rough stone of the bridge footing and cursed and sobbed, and wished that she were safely out of her mind, where she could not torment herself.

  Corla listened in bewilderment. She gripped Brede’s shoulder briefly, and hurried away.

  Brede didn’t notice she had gone; she stayed huddled against the wall until it was dark, then crept away to sleep in the rotting musty hay of the old stable.

  Corla hesitated at the foot of the bridge, trembling with rage and loss, and recognising the slender difference between how she felt and Brede’s anguish. It frightened her. She headed west, in need of friends, and balm for her heart.

  As Corla stepped into the fire-lit smoke-filled warmth of the inn she glanced about for Tegan. The boy at the barrels spotted her and raised a hand in greeting.

  ‘Tegan not about?’ Corla asked lightly. The boy nodded.

  ‘Out the back, but she has a visitor.’ Corla crooked an eyebrow. ‘Maeve,’ the boy said. Corla crooked the other eyebrow, and shrugged.