The Dowry Blade

by Cherry Potts

  News of the victory had reached the city, bells rang out, and the singing had started. Ashe flinched away from the noise, smiling nervously at the joyous faces about her, hiding the fact that she didn’t rejoice with them.

  She found a market stall that was as oblivious to the merrymaking as she and managed to stock her satchel with food by pointing at what she wanted and counting on her fingers. Annet was patient in a bored fashion, and stared through her when Ashe discovered that she had been short-changed. Annet knew that a mute was hardly about to call the town guard. Ashe scowled and left. She needed to be gone from here before the army returned, and with it people who would recognise her, what did a few coppers matter? Despite the angry indifference her mind was holding, her heart was leaping with anxiety.

  Annet’s eyes followed her, noting the route she took. She couldn’t quite credit what she had seen, but she knew there would be gold for the information she had, if it was believed. She glanced round quickly, and caught the eye of a beggar-child watching her stall with bright focus. She beckoned it over – she couldn’t tell the sex, too young to be significant.

  ‘Do you know your way about here?’

  The child nodded cautiously.

  ‘If you take a message to the miller at the tower mill, I’ll give you enough food for a whole day. He’ll give you a token to show you delivered the message, bring it back and I’ll feed you.’

  The child nodded again.

  ‘Can you speak?’ Annet asked sharply.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well then you say to the miller: the songster is walking home.’

  ‘The songster is walking home.’

  ‘Off you go.’

  She watched the child scuttle across the market in the right direction and went back to her wares.

  Brede started awake, confused by the sudden clamour of bells. She peered out at the yard below her. The battle was over so quickly. She climbed stiffly down the ladder to the stable, and there she discovered Guida, saddled and ready. She understood. She would hie herself off somewhere, anywhere, else – but Brede wasn’t ready to go, not quite yet. She stilled her excitement and impatience. She petted her horse, who didn’t admit to recognising her, until she spoke to her in the tongue of the Horse Clans. Then Guida blew hot air onto her face, and laughed, in the way of horses. Brede slapped her, impatient, but pleased. Guida was too old to be ridden hard. So where to go, other than away?

  Brede had no intention of returning Lorcan’s sword to him, determined now to escape the witch’s calling spell, but she didn’t want to wander aimlessly. She thought briefly of the Marshes. The mere idea of being tied down in the cold dank atmosphere of her mother’s home made her desperate.

  The child clutched the little bag of flour the miller had given her and caught her breath for the long walk back to the market. She glanced up at the sky to judge the time and saw a man silhouetted against the light, on the roof of the mill. As she watched, he leaped down on to the roof of the house next to the mill, and set off at a run.

  Killan caught the whistle as he was closing his street door. He glanced up and moved swiftly back into the house. As he reached the top of his ladder, Haran from the mill pushed the shutters in.

  ‘Message,’ he said quietly. ‘The songster is walking home.’

  ‘Doesn’t seem very likely. Says who?’

  ‘Annet, on the market. No imagination that one – if she says that’s what she saw, then it is.’

  ‘That’s so. Thank you, I will pass this on.’

  Killan waited for Haran to go, then went thoughtfully down to the lower floor, crowded with wounded rebels, those who had run for their lives, understanding the limitations of the witch’s spell, those far enough back in the ranks not to have met the first onslaught of Lorcan’s rabble.

  ‘Revenge, anyone?’ he asked, as the general pulled himself through the trap door from the cellar. Madoc regained his dignity.

  ‘Always revenge,’ he said softly. ‘What do you know?’

  Brede was still sitting in the stable, undecided, when the first of the soldiers came back. She started up guiltily, hissing at the pain the too swift movement caused her, but it was Maeve. She looked sickened and angry, and scarcely gave Brede a glance.

  Still here? her gaze swept the saddled horse, and a smile flickered into the corner of Maeve’s mouth. She gestured to Guida, and spoke to her companion, a woman Brede didn’t know.

  ‘Warriors have become butchers, and dog meat gets dressed up as riding material. Why not? And a ghost to ride it.’

  Brede waited, uncertainly. There was a strained quality to Maeve’s voice that she had heard before, a dangerous sign. The stranger took Maeve into her arms, and Brede felt the brush of armoured glove against mail as if she were between them. It hurt, that gesture. She tried not to think of Sorcha’s hands, not wanting to see warmth between these two, not wanting to think about the possibility of caring for anyone.

  ‘It is not your fault, you didn’t know,’ the stranger said, her voice soft and protective. Maeve didn’t concede to the tone, remaining harsh.

  ‘But I should have. They should have told me.’

  ‘Told you what?’ Brede asked, unable to contain herself. The stranger released her metallic grip on Brede’s ex-captain.

  ‘Told us they’d hired a witch. Told us we weren’t fighting a battle, but committing a massacre. We had a right to know, a right to make a choice.’

  Brede frowned. Why had the volunteer army been sent out to fight, if the generals had persuaded the witch to help? Why a massacre?

  Maeve crossed her arms, protective, defensive.

  ‘I’m a soldier,’ Maeve continued, sounding as though she needed to convince herself. ‘It’s a profession. There are rules, things to respect, but this? It’s no use expecting volunteers to behave like an army. They don’t understand the rules. We could have won the war without spilling a single drop of blood with the witch, but now? The worst thing is, our glorious leaders liked it. They have no respect for us. If they want to do this sort of thing, they can do it without my assistance.’ Maeve’s voice cracked on that last word. And she trembled. Brede laid a hesitant hand on her arm. Maeve shook her off impatiently.

  ‘What will you do now, Brede? This city isn’t a safe place for you. I can’t think what possessed you to come back.’

  Brede shrugged. A new notion was taking root in her mind. She hugged Maeve to her, for the first time, for the last time.

  ‘Stay safe,’ she said. ‘Be strong’; meaning it more than she ever had before.

  Brede pulled the brim of her hat down to shade her eyes, and headed for the eastern gate. The time had come to visit the witches, to hand over to them what little she had left of Sorcha; it was time to start her life again.

  An hour on the east road, and only a few others had decided to leave the safety of the city yet, unsure of the thoroughness of the destruction of the rebels. Brede rode briskly, but not at a speed that might indicate fear – purpose was the impression she needed to give, that and her new green cloak should protect her for a while. Ahead of her she could see someone from whom fear radiated – a beacon of terror, limping already from unaccustomed haste.

  As Guida’s shadow fell over the woman she flinched to the edge of the road to let her pass. Brede slowed to a walk beside her.

  ‘Walking doesn’t seem to suit you, lass,’ she said gently.

  The woman kept walking, glancing back nervously. Brede considered what she must see, the bony shaggy horse, none too clean; her own patched and dirty clothes and battered riding boots, the long, dull-edged sword banging gently against her shin. And the incongruously new green cloak, draped across the hilt of the sword and caught on the saddle. She would be frightened herself.

  ‘I was going to offer you a ride, but –’

  The woman waved her on, still not risking eye contact.

  ‘I was thinking to myself, here’s a foolish rich woman in clothes that are totally unsuitable, going for a st
roll in the forest, thinking her money’s safe because she’s hung it between her breasts.’ Brede paused and the silence was broken only by the persist clatter of metal and creak of leather. ‘Don’t worry; I’ve no designs on your money. I’m thinking: has she run away from her hand-mate who beats her?’ It was not what she was thinking at all, but Brede kept up her gentle, non-threatening, one-sided conversation.

  The woman shook her head, raised a protective shoulder, annoyed perhaps, now, as well as frightened.

  ‘No? I was thinking, I should do the sisterly thing and help you out.’ Brede eyed the young woman with curiosity, taking in the short silky hair, the absurdly fine clothing. She was feeling generous, secure in her sudden wealth of friends. ‘But you’re not running away, are you?’ Brede continued, testing out the new persona she had found for herself, this new, friend-rich person, who it seemed, could talk forever.

  Ashe shook her head. She stared up at Brede, trying to judge what to think of her, how far to trust her. She was not unlike her horse: bony, grubby, and older than was comfortable for what was expected of her. A battered, broad brimmed leather hat disguised much, but Ashe could see greying hair, tightly bound, and a face that was scarcely more than an impression of sharpness harshly lined, the cheekbones prominent from long hunger. A hawk-like nose, the shadow from the brim of that disreputable hat disguised her watchful eyes. Ashe wondered, in a distracted fashion, what colour they were.

  Brede bowed with exaggerated courtesy.

  ‘Will you accept my offer?’

  Ashe, ashamed, shook her head.

  Brede sighed, and gathered up her reins.

  ‘No need to thank me.’

  Ashe looked up, stung by the reproach. She grabbed the reins and hesitantly placed her fingers against her mouth and shook her head. Brede frowned, thinking suddenly about silence, thinking about Kendra. Had she imagined that?

  ‘But you can hear?’ she asked at last.

  Ashe nodded.

  ‘Do you sign?’

  Brede let go of her reins again, stripping off her gloves. Hardly believing that she had found a use for her laboriously learnt skill, she made one sign after another. Ashe shook her head, and absently admired the strength in Brede’s long fingers.

  ‘That means we are two women alone.’

  Ashe saw that she was offered communication, and hope gave a small, uncomfortable lurch. She repeated the gestures awkwardly. Brede gazed at her consideringly, wondering whether she really wanted a companion, whether this involuntary urge to assist was misguided.

  ‘My name is Brede.’ She shaped the sign, smiling to herself at its other message, strong; well, perhaps. She moved her hands again. Ashe watched closely, trying to make sense of it.

  ‘Will you ride with me?’ Brede repeated aloud.

  The witch stared at that hand, it was not the hand of an old woman, worn, certainly, but strong and strangely beautiful. She glanced back up at the ravaged face, puzzled. Their fingers made contact and Ashe marvelled at the feel of it. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d touched another person’s skin.

  Brede could feel the lack of experience with which Ashe scrambled up behind her grabbing the scuffed and ragged leather of her belt, forcing the sword into movement as she balanced its weight.

  Ashe glanced at the sword, and her breath stilled. She had to drag her attention away from that plain hilt – she would like to laugh. She would like to tell her companion that it was no accident that they had met. She ought to touch that hilt, and close off her last spell, but that felt more of an ending than silencing herself had done. Let it stay, for now, a whisper of power, a reminder of what Ashe could no longer do.

  Accustomed though she had become to silence, Brede was consumed with curiosity about her companion.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked, then almost immediately, ‘Are you continuing east?’

  Ashe cautiously unhooked one hand from the belt and held it up where Brede could see it, in the sign of agreement used in the market. ‘How many days?’ Brede asked.

  Ashe spread her hand then held up four fingers.

  ‘Four days, maybe?’ Brede interpreted. ‘Walking? You’re going to the witches’ city then?’ Brede’s voice was husky with unease.

  ‘Do you think they can cure you?’ Brede asked, tentatively.

  Ashe signed no.

  Brede shrugged; her uneasy curiosity unsatisfied.

  ‘It’s your business. Me, I’m going there. I’m aiming to get cured, even if you’re not.’ An unexpected kind of truth: a kind of healing. ‘Besides, it’s not safe for you to wander about on your own without even a weapon, not that you could use one I suppose? I can cut a day or two off your journey. You can pay me with the food that’s doubtless in that bag of yours. I’ve nothing, but I’m not drawn to brigandry.’

  Unused to the sound of her own voice, Brede felt over jovial, and false; enough talking. She wished the woman could sign, she could find a comfortable familiarity with that. And had she been able to sign, what chance she would have used the same system as Brede had learnt? Brede half laughed. Even Kendra’s yes had been subtly different.

  Hours later, far into the forest and with dark falling, Brede found a reasonable camping ground, prudently far from the road, and Ashe struggled to the ground. Her feet were agony; the muscles of her legs would scarcely hold her.

  Brede made an effort. Helped by the stirrups, she swung easily from Guida’s back, but on the ground she was once more awkward and slow.

  Ashe watched her and realised that no one could heal that damage, or that pain. She began to understand that look of having lived through more unpleasant experience than should be crushed into any one lifetime.

  War, Ashe reminded herself.

  They prepared a meal together and huddled over the meagre fire. Brede attacked her share half-raw and scalding; unaware of Ashe picking at the food she could scarcely stomach. Brede stretched, and limped a slow circle about the camp singing quietly. Ashe touched Brede’s arm, making the only sign she knew for what Brede had done. It wasn’t a flattering one. Brede laughed abruptly.

  ‘No, not me. I learnt that from a witch I travelled with for a while.’ Brede hesitated, wondering what had brought her to speak of Sorcha to a stranger. She shrugged, ‘I don’t really know if it works, just – superstition.’ Brede looked curiously at the woman beside her, at the dark smudges beneath her eyes. ‘You don’t miss much do you?’

  Brede settled into her cloak to sleep. She glanced at Ashe, still rigid and uneasy.

  ‘You rest. I can hear in my sleep. Anything that disturbs us, I will deal with.’

  Ashe discounted this assurance, but knew they were safe within the wards.

  Brede rested on her elbows, too full of curiosity to quite relax.

  ‘I don’t understand why you can’t sign. You look rich enough to afford the best teachers. Are you only recently mute?’

  Ashe nodded. Far more recently than Brede could imagine.

  ‘But surely you’ve connections at court, couldn’t you have gone to the witch they hired for the battle instead of traipsing out here?’

  Ashe let her hair swing forward so that her companion would not see the hot flush of shame on her face, terrified that Brede would follow her thought to involuntarily discover the truth. If she had travelled with a witch she might yet guess.

  ‘Squeamish about blood are you?’ Brede asked, trying not to show scorn in the face of this woman’s delicacy. ‘Don’t worry, I wasn’t there, so I can’t upset you with details. They wouldn’t hire an old warwound like me even for the child’s play they were at this morning.’

  Child’s play?

  Bitterly Ashe condemned all warriors, and this one in particular.

  She huddled her knees closer to her chest, making a protective barrier between herself and the casual cruelty of the warrior’s words.

  Brede saw that movement as a flinch.

  ‘Oh,’ she whispered, shocked at the thought that bubbled into
her mind.

  Ashe saw her eyes gleam in the fading firelight.

  ‘You’re one of the rebels aren’t you? That’s why you were leaving – running away. No wonder you couldn’t go to the witch to be healed.’

  Ashe gazed at her in astonishment. Brede had woven her two theories into such a glorious mess that Ashe could only admire her imagination, yet she was horrified at where it might lead.

  Ashe shook her head slowly and emphatically. Brede was sure she was right, it was the only logical explanation for this naïve young woman to be on the road without an escort; but she shrugged and lay down.

  Ashe stayed upright, sleep far from her mind; nursing her aches to her as some false consolation for the pain she had caused others. At last she lay down to sleep, but every time she closed her eyes she saw that bloody field and all the lives wiped out. Ashe peered at her hands, obscured by darkness, and imagined them dripping gore. She wiped her palms against her legs, and despaired.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Ashe started awake from fitful, nightmare-filled dozing to a slow and feeble dawn and mist hanging from the trees.

  The wards flickered faintly and her companion slept. Ashe struggled to her feet and the horse snorted in shock, having forgotten her.

  Brede did not stir. Ashe smiled to herself; so much for her great hearing. Ashe shook Brede’s shoulder gently and she rolled suddenly away, clutching at the great sword but completely unable to get to her feet.