by Cherry Potts
Brede was as motionless as the others, lost in horror, confounded. Another song sprang unbidden to Ashe’s lips. There was crashing in the undergrowth and the attackers’ horses came to her. Ashe pushed the sword and knife into Brede’s arms and mounted one of the horses with a skill she didn’t truly possess.
Brede cradled the greatsword against her, obscurely relieved that it had not stayed in Madoc’s grasp after all. She glanced up at Ashe and her eyes were full of distrust.
‘You are not Sorcha.’
Ashe shook her head. Brede limped heavily away. She stripped her gear from the dead horse, pausing to caress the tattoo on her bloody neck. She skirted around Ashe to haul herself up onto the horse she chose to take Guida’s part, a stalwart black gelding with a trusting eye.
‘What about them?’ she asked, her thoughts on Madoc, held helpless, and the opportunity to kill him. Her heart curdled and she was relieved and furious in equal measure when Ashe shook her head. Ashe could not allow any more people to be cut down while she held them helpless. She sang briefly, setting the remaining horses loose, sending them far away from their riders.
Ashe turned her horse sharply, kicking his sides hard, and left them all as far behind as she could. Sorcha’s song would not hold them long. Brede followed. They rode hard until the horses tired. At last Ashe slowed her winded horse to a walk, and Brede asked, ‘What happened?’
Ashe sought for an answer, and found Sorcha. An incoherent jumble of thoughts battered her; she could make no more sense of it than one, overriding, desperate, un-thought-out need: Keep her safe.
Ashe swayed on the horse, unsteady, reeling under the onslaught of Sorcha’s determination. More than a plea, more than a command. There was no question of choice. Brede reached out and touched her arm, seeking an explanation, seeking, half against her will, to touch Sorcha.
And Sorcha drifted away, and Ashe had no words, no hope of words. She squeezed Brede’s hand gently. She was herself again. Tired, sore, not entirely in control of the horse she rode, and shaking with ill-suppressed fear. Quickly, before she could change her mind, Ashe reached for the hilt of the sword, and laid her fingers against it, then pulled her hand back as though she held some invisible coating between her fingers. She could not allow Brede to put herself at risk again, the spell drawing the sword, and its bearer, to her must end. She formed the words in her mind, picturing the pattern of the notes, her throat involuntarily shaping what would have been the sounds. So nearly the song – she pulled that non-existent layer away again, and felt the spell lift away. She blinked, astonished that it had worked.
Brede sighed. ‘She’s gone?’ she asked, not daring to hope otherwise.
Ashe nodded. That was one thing of which she was certain. A germ of understanding was left behind in the dark place in her mind that Sorcha had briefly inhabited: Brede’s need for healing was no more physical than her own, and if she wished it, their healing could be mutual.
Ashe had not let go of Brede’s hand. Gently she raised it to her lips. She had no words for what she wanted to say, but she believed that Brede would understand.
Brede was too alarmed by what had happened to want to analyse it. They had made excellent time on their stolen horses. And how was it that in their headlong rush they had come the right way? A suspicion as to the answer stopped her thinking.
‘If you want to, we can push the horses and get you home by nightfall,’ she offered.
Ashe hesitated, not wanting to arrive exhausted when she was uncertain of her welcome. She shook her head.
Brede shrugged and encouraged the horse into a gentle walk. They would not get much further before nightfall at this pace, but at least it was the right direction.
Later, with a fire made and food eaten, Brede couldn’t pretend to herself that what had happened was normal. Every time she looked at Ashe, she expected her to speak with Sorcha’s voice, and dreaded it. Every time she asked herself why, she felt the burden of loss in her heart, felt the talisman she carried tied into her undershirt, its light weight bouncing against her ribs, a second heart beat. Her hand constantly strayed to the sword, remembering the look on Madoc’s face as he held that hilt – awe, and greed. Now that he knew she was still alive, that she still bore the sword, he would not turn away, he would follow. Brede couldn’t sleep.
Ashe was afraid to close her eyes. More than the horror of the battlefield stalked her now. She searched her mind compulsively, looking for traces of Sorcha. She stared at the faint glimmer of Brede’s wards and wanted, desperately, to talk to her, to tell her exactly what she had done, and why. What was the use? Even if she could tell her, would Brede understand, or care? Had she not made up her mind already? But if she had, why was she still here?
Ashe shifted again; the twisting horror running through her limbs, shaking her with disgust. Those generals had been glad at the violence of that uncontrolled, frightened, frightening rabble. But for all that, it was her fault; she gave them the opportunity. She was too distraught to cry, her guilt crushing even that comfort. She was sure that Brede would understand that at least, would recognise the grinding sense of loss.
Brede watched Ashe as she by turns stirred restlessly and was rigidly still. She distrusted her for what she had done, and for what she was, and for what she was not.
Ashe watched Brede as she checked the horses, stirred the embers of the fire and added some more wood. Brede kicked the embers together, watching Ashe watching her. She didn’t know how to hold a one-sided conversation with this woman. She didn’t know what to think of her. Maeve would call her a monster – perhaps she was – but she seemed so young, so – vulnerable. Brede remembered the feel of Ashe’s lips against her knuckles – that wasn’t an act of vulnerability. Brede considered Ashe. Young? Who was to say? She brushed her knuckles uncertainly, suddenly angry. Ashe turned her back on Brede, feeling uncomfortable under her gaze.
Brede crouched beside her, a tentative hand on her shoulder.
‘I thought we were stopping for the night to rest, but you aren’t sleeping, and neither am I. Would you rather go on?’
Ashe shook her head.
Brede forced herself more upright. Slowly she made the signs for what she wanted to ask, watching her own fingers, thinking how to ask that aloud.
‘Is it true, what Madoc’s crew say about you?’
Ashe gazed at her face, wondering how many times she must admit it. She nodded stiffly; and waited, straining for the sense of Brede’s voice, rather than her words, but she said nothing.
Brede considered her own hands, still raised to communicate, and wondered what point there was in asking why, what use there was in judging Ashe’s motives or condemning her actions. She remembered Sorcha raising blooded hands to her, asking for help that she had refused to give. Brede covered her face, trying to blot out that thought. Her outraged words of anger at Ashe filtered back into her mind:
Why didn’t you just kill yourself?
She matched those words against her horror at Sorcha’s actions, her disgust at Ashe’s, and sighed in regret.
‘Was that why?’ Brede asked, returning her gaze to Ashe’s tense waiting, and pressing her fingers against her own throat.
Ashe jerked her head in an awkward nod and her trembling became an uncontrollable shudder.
Brede reached out to still the shuddering but Ashe flinched away from her touch.
‘There were times when Sorcha needed comfort and I wouldn’t give it, because I thought what she had done was – inexcusable,’ Brede said softly. Ashe listened to the tremor in Brede’s voice. Brede couldn’t finish that thought; she wasn’t sure where it ended, where it might lead her. She reached out again. This time Ashe accepted that embrace with gratitude and relief, closing her mind to the complications of Brede’s half-expressed doubt.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Brede followed Ashe’s lead up through the town. She could have found their destination herself; the stark tower of the keep was obvious from miles away,
but Ashe needed to be first, this had been her home. Whether it still was, rested with her kin. Neither of them was optimistic. Brede could not help but think how this homecoming would have been for Sorcha, with a no-voice hand-mate in tow, and was grateful that at least she was nothing more to Ashe than a chance companion.
Close to, the keep was less intimidating. There was an air of decay about the walls; many of the windows were shuttered, unused. The cobbles under the gateway needed weeding. But the neglect did not stretch to their entrance going unnoticed.
The unexpected clatter of hooves on the cobbles brought many a head up, many an eye strayed to a window.
Islean sensed this, but hesitated over whether to join the general migration to the windows. She opened her mind to the noises from the courtyard, whilst continuing her work. There was a disturbance there that was more than the simple arrival of strangers. She put away her papers with slow deliberation.
Her wide casement overlooked the gate. She leant against the edge of the window and peered down. She didn’t see the wrongness, the strangeness, she saw only the one she had been longing for, home at last, and her heart was warmed.
It wasn’t until she reached the courtyard and felt the cobbles beneath her feet that Islean realised that there was something wrong. She did not understand what it was, but she slowed her impulsive rush and approached more cautiously. She arrived quietly at Ashe’s side and laid a hand on her arm, and Ashe smiled, a slow uncertain smile that frightened Islean. This was not her confident, warm, charming Ashe. There was a grey tightness to the skin about her eyes, a stillness in her face that made Islean’s heart lurch with dread. She opened her mouth to speak, and her words failed her. Instinctively she sensed that the silence in her friend went far deeper than her own lack of words.
Ashe saw the colour draining from Islean’s face, and dropped her bag, so as to have her hands free, so that she could speak – and realised that Islean would not understand, and that she had no idea how to shape her meaning. Brede’s face was closed, her mind firmly elsewhere, locked into some private anxiety. Ashe opened her arms to Islean and embraced her friend, gently at first, as though afraid to touch her, then more strongly, feeling intently every point of contact; feeling the hum of power in her, feeling the distress in Islean’s tight muscles and resisting bones; feeling loss. She drew away from Islean, looking at her, searching.
Islean felt the loss, the spark that wasn’t there.
‘What has happened to you?’ she asked, hardly daring to break the silence between them.
Ashe raised her hands, but couldn’t complete the gesture. The magnitude of what had happened couldn’t be contained by the slight movement of her fingers that might shape it.
Brede watched the strained reunion from the back of her horse. She wasn’t sure she could get down without falling on the cobbles. She didn’t want to disturb the meeting of these two with her ungainliness, but now, Ashe needed her.
‘She has taken her voice.’
She shaped the words on her fingers for Ashe, reiterating the lesson, making her learn the signs. There was no way to say it that would be gentle, that would ease Islean into understanding. It was not as though she hadn’t guessed.
But Islean had hoped, irrationally, that she was mistaken, that Ashe was merely ill, or too tired for speech. She had hoped, against all the evidence of her senses. Still she denied it.
‘No.’
Islean’s voice took on an all too familiar obstinacy. Brede had heard it before – If I say it is not so, it will cease to be so.
‘Yes,’ Brede answered her patiently.
Islean’s shoulders slumped, and she clung to Ashe, to stop herself from falling.
Ashe’s face froze. She would not fold under Islean’s distress. There was no going back. She couldn’t remember a time when this barrier of silence hadn’t been there. She tried, but only the most fleeting glimpse of her carefree love for the woman she held could wind beneath her defences. Islean was a stranger. She glanced beyond her, and saw Aneira, the Elder. Ashe gave Islean a gentle shake.
Islean wiped her face. She didn’t care that she was behaving foolishly. She had loved Ashe once, and she didn’t think she could love her now, not as she had become. That was, for the moment, more important than the fact that Aneira was staring at her as though she was the one to have ridden home on a horse, voiceless.
‘I think we need to deal with this at once,’ Aneira said, conscious of the many eyes on her. She glanced at Brede with distaste.
‘You speak for Ashe?’ she asked.
Brede smiled at the tone, and inclined her head, acknowledging her role, accepting Ashe’s name. Aneira nodded, impatient, almost embarrassed.
‘You may accompany her,’ she said ungraciously.
Aneira turned on her heel, and stalked to the double doors at the far side of the courtyard. They burst open at her command. Brede wasn’t impressed. Ashe held out her hand to Brede, asking her if she would go with her. Brede nodded, beckoning her closer. She rubbed her aching leg. Ashe held the horse still, ready to grab Brede if she needed steadying.
Brede swung her legs down, trying to control the force with which she hit the ground. The cobbles twisted her foot at the vital moment. She winced at the stabbing pain, but managed to stay upright. Ashe’s hand rested for a second against her arm, not supporting, merely acknowledging.
Islean saw that touch, that slight brush of finger and sleeve. She saw that part of the silence in Ashe was for her alone, that her heart was closed against her. She wondered if Ashe had prepared herself against the rejection she knew must come, or whether they have lost each other inadvertently. Islean glared at Brede. Why did Ashe touch her so, a no-voice? Well, and what was Ashe now? She shuddered. Islean pulled her shoulders back, examined her state of mind, and followed the Elder into the council room.
Brede’s fingers interlaced with Ashe’s, offering support. Ashe returned the pressure, and followed the woman she used to love into the darkness of the chamber.
It was harder to stand there than she had thought it would be. Ashe gazed around the room. It was barely a quarter full. She had hoped to come home to understanding of her choice, to acceptance, but she had also imagined the worst. She had lain awake fearing the look that had swept into Islean’s eyes. Islean, of all of them. At least she had been spared open council. She could not have borne to have them all there, the journeyers, the apprentices, the townspeople, even the children – that she was being given the grace of only the Songspinners themselves was a relief, and was also terrible.
Aneira cleared her throat. Ashe heard it. That hesitation comforted her. Even Aneira didn’t know what to say. The doors closed softly behind the last of the women gathered to hear, to see what she had to say. There weren’t many. Saraid, Melva, Ceridwen, Islean and of course, Aneira. So few. Of course they would be harsh. Ashe didn’t understand how she had thought they would be anything else.
Aneira spoke: ‘Ashe has no voice. She has a – companion who will speak for her. We will listen to what she has to say about this. When she has spoken we will consult as to what we must do.’
The Elder glanced around, collecting their full attention, their assent. She nodded to Brede.
‘You may speak.’
Brede brushed aside her anger. She must speak well. She knew what it was to be cast out from her kin. She had been rehearsing this ever since they entered the town, and she saw that tower and its lack of compromise.
‘Your sister, Ashe, has done something she – now – understands to be evil. She has killed an entire army.’ Brede hesitated, still unable to imagine that act, and uncertain as to why she had not condemned Ashe for it. ‘With the weapons you taught her to use.’ She glanced at the faces of the women about her, and remembered why she was protecting Ashe from their censure.
‘You taught Ashe to believe in herself, you taught her how to kill, and that she was correct to use her power so. She has found that to be wrong. She has been rash – I don�
��t know her exact reasoning, she can’t tell me – but she’ll never be able to injure or kill with her voice again.’
‘Is that all you have to say?’
‘For now,’ Brede replied with as much dignity as she could muster, knowing already that she had failed.
Aneira inclined her head, waiting to hear who would speak first.
Melva stood. She was old, but she stood straight, and her voice didn’t quaver.
‘Ashe is right to condemn her actions. She should not have used her powers in the way she did. But she was wrong to devise her own punishment. We can’t afford the loss of even one voice. That should have overridden everything else.’
Ceridwen didn’t wait for the older woman to seat herself.
‘Whatever Ashe did, she should not have thrown away her voice. A warrior wouldn’t throw away a sword because it had cut down the wrong person, not while it was still needed for the protection of others.’
Brede was aware of eyes glancing at her, sweeping the length of metal that she used to take the weight from her injured leg, now resting beside her as she used her hands to speak to Ashe. She ought not to have brought that blade into their hall.
Saraid shook her head. She put a quieting hand on Ceridwen’s arm.
‘We are not warriors. We should be clear what we condemn. For myself, I think Ashe’s judgement has been at fault. She has been concerned only with her weaknesses, not her strengths. She made no attempt to put right what she had done. Instead she put away her power to do anything. And in so doing, we have lost a powerful, wonderful voice. A voice second only to Sorcha’s. We should be grieving that loss, certainly; but we should also be considering why it is Ashe has returned to us, voiceless as she is.’
Brede heard, and didn’t hear, what was said.
A voice second only to Sorcha’s.
She looked sadly at Ashe, shaping the words for her, so that she might learn them. Not just any voice, then, but an extraordinary voice. No wonder they were so bitter, no wonder Melva asked why she had bothered returning.