The Dowry Blade

by Cherry Potts

  ‘I like you. I’d rather you gained from that thing than I walk up here one day and find your corpse in the river, and the sword gone to glory. And no, that isn’t a threat. It’s honest concern. But you’re right, I’m wasting my time.’ Corla pushed herself upright. ‘One of the details to slip the general’s mind is the paying of the troops, but if you ever admit to desperation, you know where to find me.’

  ‘There is something you can do for me,’ Brede said, suddenly reminded. She searched her clothing until she unearthed a scrap of paper. Corla took it, glanced at the writing, and sighed.

  ‘This is worthless,’ she said. ‘We ran out of money to pay those whose horses we took about eight days ago.’ She glanced at Brede’s rigid expression. ‘It’s only for a few coppers anyway. You can’t trust anyone to give you the true worth of anything these days.’

  Corla fished in her scrip, and glanced dubiously at the coins that remained.

  ‘I’ll help you if I can,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll remember,’ Brede agreed, pocketing the coppers Corla offered. Corla nodded, looking long and hard at Brede.

  ‘Tegan would help, too.’

  ‘No.’ Brede’s expression turned wintry. ‘I’ll take no help from Tegan.’

  ‘If you stay here, you’ll have no choice. She’ll come looking again.’

  ‘Then I shan’t stay here.’

  ‘All right. Stay strong,’ Corla said softly, and sauntered away. Brede glared at the sharp-eyed beggar who had worked his way round into a nearby doorway. He turned his back, pretending a fascination in the paintwork of a shutter. Brede wondered whether he was planning to seek out one of those searching for her, and let them know she was back. She wondered if she cared. She worked her way to her feet, and hobbled off intending to search for fruit from the market spoil heap, and somewhere less conspicuous to fail to wring alms from passers-by, somewhere quiet, where Tegan could not find her, somewhere the witch could kill her without raising attention if she was so minded.

  As she walked, she cradled the sword, wrapped in her ruined cloak, a precious burden, loved child. Her steps took her down the bridge-side onto the river-walk, along the bank away from the markets, toward the castle. She half-noticed when she slipped on wet cobbles that she was in unfamiliar territory, but still she walked, away from light and hope of food, away from the relative safety of crowds. She shuddered as she walked, feeling pushed and pulled and buffeted, as though trying to force her way through a throng of people, but there was no one there, as she made her way beside the high walls of the river-garths. Her leg hurt, and her shoulder ached with the weight of the sword, and still she walked, recognising the gate to Doran’s garth, locked and lit. She heard voices from the far side of the wall as she passed, indistinct, a child crying. She did not slow. There, on the far side of the water, girded by the bend of the river, stood Grainne’s tower.

  Finally Brede stopped. She felt nothing but animosity, gazing at the deep slow running water, at the stone rising from the banks, at the lighted windows above. The sword slipped from her arms, and she let herself down on her hands and knees beside it, staring into the water at blistered warped reflections of lights – Grainne’s chamber, the shutters wide open, the room above, a mere splinter of light, and above that, torches on the roof walk. It seemed half a lifetime since she had stepped out on to that roof. Brede closed her eyes, dazzled by flickering yellow in the winter darkness. It didn’t seem as though that half lifetime was in any way to do with her. Her hand closed on the hilt of the sword, and she felt a tugging at her rib cage. She tightened her grip, raising the sword and plunged it into the earth.

  ‘I know you’re there,’ she said, watching that sliver of light in the uppermost chamber. ‘And you know that I – we are here. Call all you will, I cannot swim. All you have to do is look out, I’m not hiding from you.’ She hauled herself upright and dragged the sword from the soil.

  ‘I’m not hiding.’ She walked a few steps along the river’s edge, her eyes on the high window. Just for a second a shadow blocked the light and her heart jolted – all you have to do is look out – without question, someone stood at the window for a long moment, then turned away. Sorcha would have known. Brede smiled, not such a clever little witch after all. She turned away, snatching windfalls from below the immaculately plastered wall of the garden that backed onto the river here. Brede found a dark corner out of the wind, and recited her nightly ritual of warding song, without the slightest faith in its efficacy.

  The town guard were up at dawn calling the news: telling the populace that the rebels were advancing on the city; that every able-bodied citizen should report to the barracks to be issued with a weapon. As she made her way back towards the market, Brede listened to the rising noise of concerned voices, and assumed that the Songspinner had chosen to leave the city, refusing whatever enticement was offered her to rescue Lorcan. Relief flooded her. For all her insane challenge of the night before, she feared the witch.

  But now there was a new threat, or perhaps a new opportunity. She started the long walk along the riverbank to the barracks. Not that she needed a weapon; she had the longsword, blunt though it was, firmly strapped to her back. What she needed was the food that would be handed out to every willing volunteer. She would gladly take the army on single-handed if it would get a proper meal into her, even if it did meant saving Lorcan.

  Brede wasn’t the only beggar with the thought of real food in their minds. The first citizens to reach the barracks were the poorest: the destitute, the refugees; the ones who could not avoid hearing the criers, as they crawled from their holes beneath bridges, down alleys, under carts.

  As Brede walked the cobbled streets, she pulled her clothes straight, brushing off as much of the filth as would came. Her hands were shaking. She tried to steady them, she didn’t want to be sent away.

  There was already quite a crowd. Brede settled onto the side of a horse trough to wait her turn. She could see the green and red-cloaked captains moving through the assembly, taking names, issuing slips of paper, giving directions. She watched the gradual shifting of bodies, and pulled her hat down over her eyes. She could smell horse bran. It seemed that would do very well under the circumstances.

  A green coat blocked her line of vision.

  ‘No,’ the captain said immediately, recognising her, and starting to turn away. Brede made a swift grab at the tail of her coat.

  ‘Maeve. Don’t turn your back on me.’

  Brede was very glad that her leg would not allow her to go on her knees, because the temptation was there, and she would sooner die than give in to it. She had every intention of taking the food, joining the march out of the city, and then melting into the nearest trees, and making her way somewhere, anywhere else, no matter how slow her progress. With the witch gone, there was nothing forcing her to stay, she had choices again, and the city was too dangerous now.

  Brede kept a firm hold on the green cloth. The back remained turned. Brede shaped her lips around please but couldn’t force the word out. She would beg on the streets, but she would not beg a friend for help, nor would she beg Maeve, who had never been a friend.

  Maeve pulled the coat from her grasp. She surveyed Brede, her hands planted on her hips.

  ‘You must be out of your mind. We’re after volunteers, not mercenaries.’

  ‘So I’m volunteering.’

  ‘Why?’

  Brede shrugged, then decided to tell the truth. She stood up.

  ‘Look at me. Do you honestly think anyone would hire me? I can’t remember the last time I ate something I hadn’t stolen. You want anyone who can hold a sword. Well I can do that. So I’m volunteering.’

  ‘I am looking, Brede. What I see is a wreck. Can you swing a sword as well as hold it?’

  Brede reached for the longsword. Maeve held up a steadying hand.

  ‘Not here. I don’t want a demonstration. I’m not going to send you onto a battlefield you aren’t fit for, Brede. I don’t want you d
ead.’

  Brede subsided onto the edge of the trough.

  ‘And what will you say to Tegan, when she comes?’

  ‘Tegan knows what she is about. You don’t,’ Maeve said distractedly. She sighed, doubting Tegan would come and pulled a slip of paper out of the scrip at her belt. She gave it to Brede. She was prepared to bend the rules and get some food inside her, but she would not take her into battle. Maeve didn’t need Brede’s brand of trouble; she had enough of her own, and Brede had always been trouble. Brede waited for an explanation.

  ‘Food.’ Maeve reviewed the condition of Brede’s clothing and she pulled another piece of paper loose and held it out. ‘A cloak. Take it to the quartermaster. For Goddess’ sake, Brede, you know the drill. Then get out of my sight, so I can forget I ever saw you here.’

  Brede was not given a chance to thank her. Maeve was away and about her business. Brede looked at the pieces of paper. At least she knew where the quartermaster was.

  There were queues forming. She joined the one for food: her most pressing priority. She recognised some of her fellow refugees from the stable. The young lad, and his mother – they exchanged the slight nod of recognition allowed amongst their caste. A beggar had no friends, at least, not amongst other beggars. Brede smiled. Maeve, of all people.

  Brede reached the top of the queue, and carried away the bowl of thin broth and slice of bread. She found a corner to crawl into and gave her mind to the problem of getting her stomach to recognise warm food. It seemed determined to spit her offerings back. Chewing the bread made her jaw ache. The broth burned her. She had to take it slowly, and rest afterwards, allowing the solid lump in her belly to settle. She took her precious piece of paper and joined the next queue. The true citizens were beginning to filter through now; youngsters, eager for blood, older folk, grim, silent; turning their new weapons over, doubtful and alarmed.

  Brede collected her new cloak and wandered slowly out into the practice yard, still careful to disguise her limp as far as she could. The more eager recruits were being given some last minute training in the use of their short stabbing swords. Brede watched, wincing at their ineptitude – she didn’t expect that any of these untried volunteers would return from the battle. Brede saw them only as vulnerable skin, with blood pulsing too near the surface, and she wondered at the gibbering intensity of fear that drove them. Brede turned her thoughts away from the feast there would be for the Battlemaiden, and leant on the fence rail, surreptitiously taking the weight off her leg. She had been there some time when she heard another familiar voice, giving full vent to fury.

  Brede turned. A small burly man was fighting with a horse that towered over him. It was an ugly brute, hopping on its back legs, attempting to concuss him with its front hooves. Brede considered the shape of its head, the set of its ears. Plains bred. She whistled sharply, two short bursts. The horse stopped hopping, grounded its front feet, and stood stock-still. Eachan wrapped the reins swiftly about the rail next to Brede.

  ‘And you’re no better, you arrogant mare,’ he said to her, his face still thunderous. ‘Make yourself useful and bring out the other beasts, instead of standing there daydreaming.’

  Brede laughed.

  ‘It’s good to see you again, Eachan.’

  The master of horse stared through her.

  ‘I’m glad to see they’ve had the sense to hire me someone who knows horses. I’m grateful for your help, Stranger. The last time I had proper help with the beasts was when we had a lass from Wing Clan. Now they know their horses. She’s been dead more than two years now.’

  Brede’s heart sank, recognising the same response she’d had from Maeve and from Tegan. Like having a ghost rise up at your feet.

  ‘Not a safe place this city now, too many people asking questions. If I had any sense I’d hie me off almost anywhere else. Now are you getting those horses or not?’ Eachan risked a real look at her. ‘You look terrible,’ he said bluntly.

  Terrible didn’t cover it. The woman he remembered, even when she had been pining for the Plains, had a spark to her, an inner vibrancy that was gone. She was too bony to look fragile, but she looked ill, much as Grainne had done towards the end, exhausted and lacklustre. He watched as Brede draped her new cloak over the rail and headed into the stables. He shook his head, guessing at what had lost her that spark and left her so shadowed.

  The smell of the stables was so welcoming it brought tears to Brede’s eyes. It was not the familiarity of the horses alone that affected her; she had been so lost in her loneliness for Sorcha that she hadn’t realised that she was lonely for her friends. She was grateful for Eachan’s kind word, so grateful for his warning, useless though it was, that she couldn’t control a new rush of grief. She wiped her nose on her sleeve, and slapped the nearest horse on the rump to make it move over.

  She worked as steadily as she could, saddling, bridling, leading out. She recognised some of the horses, and deduced that she had better stay out of the way when their riders came to collect them. Reluctantly she accepted the lack of strength in her body and rested regularly to still the tremors in her arms and legs. It was an unexpected pleasure to be among horses, talking to them, touching them, their hot breath fluttering about her neck. She was almost content.

  When the last of the horses was ready and many were already being walked about the yard, she hovered in the stable, mucking out, refilling the mangers, exhausting herself; waiting for Eachan to come back.

  By the time he arrived she was fast asleep in the hayloft.

  Eachan stared down at his onetime assistant, sprawled in the hay with the Dowry blade beneath her hand. Eachan kept his eye away from the blade after the first startled glance. He felt a yawning guilt at his impulsive action so long ago, putting that blade into her hand; and a yearning to make everything right for her, if only he knew how. She looked younger asleep, even more vulnerable. He was alarmed at how thin she had become, at the lines etched into her face. He tried to remember how old she was. She had always seemed so young, but now – Eachan didn’t want to wake her. He went quietly away, down to the paddock.

  Leaning on the rails, he watched the few spare horses, the ones no one trusted to ride into battle, despite the lack of mounts; among them, a speckled grey, with a distinctive white streak on its back. Brede’s own horse. She should have been to the knackers long since, but Eachan was getting sentimental about animals in his old age. He whistled her up.

  Guida’s ears pricked in surprise. She came willingly, looking for treats, but the old man opened the gate and let her through. He walked her, without touching, up to the yard. She was happy to walk beside Eachan, as he talked to her companionably about nothing. Into the stable she went, and stood still for him to saddle her. Placid, content.

  Eachan wasn’t sure that he was doing the right thing. Guida was distinctive, but he couldn’t let Brede have any other horse. What use she made of his rashness was for Brede to decide. Eachan filled the saddlebags with grain. He brought in Brede’s cloak from the practice yard, and went to his own strong box, and took out the two long knives that had lain there ever since Guida was led back, saddled but riderless. They were well polished and sharp, he had taken good care of Brede’s belongings. He strapped them onto the saddle. He remembered the long length of the Dowry blade lying under that very saddle strap. A mistake. And this?

  Eachan inspected his handiwork. He thought Brede would understand. He didn’t go back up to the hayloft. He didn’t want to have to say goodbye again.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  A clear, sharp light fell across the field of battle. The generals were satisfied. The ragged army – a handful of warriors leading a mismatch of butchers, smiths, midwives and children – was massed at the foot of the cliff. They had made sure they had no room to retreat – they must fight or die. On the ridge above, the generals stood; the marshals, the messengers, the herald – and the witch.

  An oddity here, unmailed, bareheaded in the freezing wind, her blue robe f
luttering as she lifted her arm to shield her eyes; she took a long slow look at the enemy.

  ‘Can you do it?’ the general asked. She nodded slightly, bringing her breath under control, measuring distance and the direction of the wind. Oh yes, she could most certainly achieve the task they had set her.

  The marshal strode past her, invading her quiet space. The witch glanced contemptuously, and he jerked to a halt, and backed away slightly. She searched the blur of motion on the far side of the heath, a much larger army than the frightened chaos below her. And somewhere among them; the king, held captive. And that was, in some way, her fault. She had failed these people once, although she could sense the nearness of that sword, an irritation in her skin. So close, but too late now. So she must make amends, she must win this battle for them. It would not be easy, but she could do this. The witch smiled to herself, and raised her hands, pulling in the wind, moulding it to carry the ultimate weapon against that massing army. The generals stepped away, frightened at the sudden roaring of the wind, and at first, they didn’t hear the sweet, clear notes that were borne away on the air, to settle on the enemy. They watched as the witch tied the rebel army in chords of deathly music, as pure as the ring of hammer on anvil...

  Killan was not the sort to be at the forefront in a battle. He sought out the generals and the marshals, people who would need messages taken, who would remember the good-looking, helpful, available, efficient – people who would remember him.

  But this was no ordinary battle, and it seemed he was expected to get in there and fight. He was, after all trained, unlike so many. Away in the distance was a drift of banners, red, green – people he knew were there, people he – no, it would be too much to say people he loved. People he hated. Maeve. Inir. Perhaps even Tegan would have dragged herself away from her inn for this? And what would he do, forced to fight, if he found any one of them at arm’s length? Killan raised his arm to rehearse a killing blow, and found that he could not. A disconcerted murmur ran through the people around him. No one could raise their weapons. Killan let his sword fall from his hand, tried a step, and then another, away worked, towards did not. Well enough. The green and red banners were on the move, Killan turned and ran. It was not long before he heard screaming, and a handful of his fellow rebels caught up with him as he raced for the tree line and what he hoped would be safety.