Waterborne Exile

by Susan Murray

  “No, your highness. I have mostly learned bookkeeping.”

  “Bookkeeping? That would not prove entertaining.” Vasic seemed to lose interest in Drew. “Return the lad to the cells until I decide what is to be done with him.” He turned to Jervin as Drew was led away by the two soldiers. “Your diligence will not go unrewarded. There is a purse due to anyone capturing the novice.”

  “Highness, rather than the purse, I beg you would consider my petition. There is a group of merchants operating out of Ellisquay who do not honour the trading laws. They trade outside the market places and shirk their duty to pay taxes, while stealing custom from honest men. I have here a record of several transactions that have been brought to my notice by other concerned tradesmen in Brigholm. I beg that the strength of the law be brought to bear against these criminals.” Jervin bowed and handed Vasic a parchment scroll.

  Vasic snapped the seal open and perused the document. “I shall look further into this. Those who flout the trade laws are robbing their fellow citizens as well as the state. We must make it clear what consequences such dishonesty entails. Marwick, you will oversee this matter.” He handed the parchment to his steward.

  Jervin bowed again, uttering words of thanks as Vasic stood and held out an imperious hand to the Lady Drelena. She rose from her seat and took his hand, letting him lead her down from the dais and through the throne room to the chamber where their meal awaited them.

  Marten fell in with the gaggle of courtiers following the royal couple through. The new queen ate sparingly while Vasic conversed and drank with his current favourites, the lean ambassador Kaith among them. Marten suspected Kaith would not meet much favour with the Lady Drelena.

  Further up the table, Marten spotted the unlikely trio of Durstan, the priestess and Weaver. At another table Jervin sat, with two soldiers. It took him a few moments, but Marten recognised Rekhart. He appeared ill at ease, perhaps having witnessed his friend’s fall from grace, although Marten could have sworn he’d not been present when Drew had been brought before Vasic. This was certainly the first time the trader and his people had enjoyed the king’s hospitality.

  It crossed Marten’s mind that he might have similarly bought the king’s favour by divulging Alwenna’s whereabouts and had doubtless incurred the king’s displeasure instead. It appeared the dagger had not impressed Vasic half as much as it ought to have. But he hadn’t been dismissed from court, not yet. He must learn what he could while he could.

  Meanwhile the Lady Drelena watched Vasic with distaste as he continued to drink. She took care to conceal her emotions, but her feelings were apparent nonetheless. She must stand in need of friends at this new court. Vasic, glass in hand, looked about the room. He spotted Durstan.

  “Ah, prelate. Just the fellow. I’ve a fancy to test out this champion of yours.”

  He brandished his glass to include the whole room. “Who among our number is swordsman enough to test his fighting ability? You there, Weaver, Pius, whatever you call yourself. Stand up. Let our challengers get your measure.”

  Weaver glanced at the prelate, who nodded. Weaver clambered out over the bench and stepped into the empty space that ran between the two long tables. He bowed slightly before Vasic. “Highness, I await your command.”

  “Who thinks they can best this man? Come now, don’t be shy, gentlemen. Great honour and glory await the victor. And a fat purse.”

  Weaver waited impassively in the centre of the room. Marten saw the priestess lean over and whisper something to the prelate, who glanced over to where Jervin sat. He asked her some question and she nodded. Durstan pushed himself to his feet.

  “What, prelate, would you take on your own challenger?”

  Laughter ran around the room. The Lady Drelena had pushed away her wine glass and watched the proceedings with her mouth drawn into a tight line.

  Durstan laughed, the awkward laughter of a man determined to please, whatever the cost. “No, highness, I fear my fighting days are long gone. But there is one noted warrior here who is in his prime and furthermore is known to brother Pius. He would make an excellent test of the brother’s loyalty.”

  Weaver turned his head to look at Durstan for a moment before setting his eyes straight ahead once more. His expression remained unreadable.

  “Who is this paragon? Show him to me at once.” Vasic flourished his glass.

  “I understand he goes by the name of Rekhart, your highness.” Durstan glanced over to where Jervin sat. At his side Rekhart looked exceedingly unwilling to step into the fray. “And there he is, your highness.” Durstan gestured in welcome to Rekhart. There was a burst of shouts which rapidly became jeers as Rekhart hesitated.

  Jervin smiled. “Come now, Rekhart, you have caught the king’s attention. This is your chance to prove yourself.”

  Rekhart eased to his feet, and a burst of raucous applause broke out.

  Drelena leaned over to say something to Vasic. Whatever his reply it clearly displeased her and she watched stony-faced as Rekhart walked round the end of the table, to join Weaver in the centre of the room, rolling his shoulders and stretching his arms. Rekhart’s jaw was clenched. He acknowledged Weaver with a tight nod. Marten had never seen a man more ready to embrace his fate.

  Vasic watched the scene with ill-concealed anticipation. His queen glanced at him once, then looked away in disgust. And Marten hoped to further his cause by serving this man? Perhaps it was time he found a new cause.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  They were still in the foothills of the mountains when the first birthing pain hit Alwenna. She doubled over in the saddle, gasping to catch her breath. No, this could not be; she must have strained something on the tortuous climb out of the valley. She’d ignored the tightening sensations in her abdomen, assuming it was from the sudden effort required. Surely that had to be it. It was too soon for the baby to come, wasn’t it?

  “Goddess, my lady! What is it?” Erin slid down from behind her, and ran round to take the horse’s head, bringing it to a halt.

  “Just a twinge–” Another pain racked through Alwenna.

  “We need to get you down off that horse.” They achieved it somehow when the pain had subsided. Erin guided Alwenna to a sheltered spot between several boulders. “It looks like that baby’s on its way.”

  “But… it’s too soon. Wynne said to expect it when–” Another spasm cut short Alwenna’s words, resulting in a sharp pain and a gushing of fluid down her legs.

  “They come when they’re ready, my lady, and it looks like this one’s ready now, whether we like it or not.”

  Alwenna nodded, trying to catch her breath as her womb contracted. And then there was more pain.

  She lost track of time after that. At some point Erin’s encouragement faded out and gave way to worried silence. It could have been minutes, or it could have been hours. Alwenna had never been so exhausted in her life.

  “The baby’s wrong way round, my lady. If we had a proper midwife here we might turn it, but I can’t get it out that way, not without damaging you both. The only way I can see is to cut it from your belly.”

  “Do what you must.” Alwenna didn’t care at that stage. Anything for the pain to stop. She was so tired… impossibly tired.

  She barely registered the added pain as the knife sliced through her flesh, was barely aware of a thin wail that could have been her child’s or could have been her own.

  It was still some time before dawn when Brett woke. His sleep had been uneasy, run through by a sense that something was terribly wrong with the Lady Alwenna. His dreams had been all confusion, but the last of them had had a terrible clarity: a dark hand reaching out for her as he looked on, helpless. He sat up, pushing back the bed covers and the sweat on his skin cooled rapidly in the night air. Next to him his younger brother snored, oblivious to Brett’s tossing and turning. Brett eased out of the bed. On the far side his elder brother stirred, mumbled, then slid off into a deeper sleep.

  Brett pulled on his
clothes and tiptoed out. The sky to the east glowed with pre-dawn light, but true daylight wouldn’t be upon them for another hour yet. It was a good time to travel.

  He’d meant to walk around a bit in the fresh air, ease the tension in his mind and body, but suddenly he knew he had to act: he had to seek out the Lady Alwenna. She’d told him not to, but… this was something he could not ignore.

  Mind made up, he crept back inside, grabbed some dried meat and a costrel to carry water. He would fill it at the stream on his way out of the valley. Balancing saddle and bridle over one arm he stepped outside again, closed the door carefully behind him and set off to the horse pasture. He’d not gone more than a dozen paces when a voice behind him interrupted.

  “Brett, wait. What are you up to?” His elder brother Malcolm had followed him.

  “I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d go for a ride, go hunting, you know.”

  “You left your bow behind. You won’t catch much without that.”

  Brett shrugged. “I was going to check the snares.”

  “No you weren’t.” Malcolm studied him severely. “I’m not bothered what you get up to, but Ma’ll worry. You know how she is.”

  None knew better. “She might worry less if I’m gone.”

  “What, seriously? You can’t just sneak off like this.”

  “I’ve a good reason.”

  Sometimes his brother was more perceptive than Brett liked to admit. This proved to be one of those times.

  “It’s the landbound queen, isn’t it? You’re going after her.”

  Brett shrugged. “It’s not like you make it sound. She’s in danger. I’ve had such nightmares…”

  Malcolm’s expression changed subtly, from accusation to understanding. “You, too?”

  “You’ve had them as well?”

  “Whenever I slept last night, it was as if something was stalking me. I couldn’t see what or where it was, but… It was enough to stop me sleeping.”

  Brett nodded. “Then you can see I’ve got to try and find them?”

  Malcolm nodded reluctantly. “We don’t even know where they went.”

  “I followed their tracks the day after they left. They went up into the mountains. I’ll find them.”

  “I’m coming, too. Erin’s with her, remember?”

  “You have no horse, Mal. I think I need to travel fast. You keep Ma at bay – someone should know where I’ve gone.”

  Malcolm grimaced. “I’d sooner come with you.”

  Brett grinned suddenly, an echo of his father’s irrepressible humour. “I’m going, before you suggest swapping places.”

  A few minutes later, Brett was riding his horse out along the trail towards the mountains, thanking the Goddess he’d followed their trail all those days ago. It was a relief to be doing something at last, after all the days spent at Scarrow’s Deep treading on eggshells, trying not to mention his father or the Lady Alwenna in his mother’s presence when they’d been the two people most on his mind. The shadow of his nightmare still clung about him, but it had lost its strength out in the open as the sun rose. In its place was the certainty he was doing the right thing.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Vasic had decreed the challengers should fight outside in the courtyard, where there was more room. They were surrounded now by an eager crowd. Vasic and his bride watched from a vantage points on the steps. The first thing Weaver noticed was how uneven the cobbles were underfoot. That would give Rekhart the advantage: he was young, strong, in his prime. Weaver was far from his best game. He’d not done anything like enough training to recover his fitness since the fire – the only advantage he could claim over his opponent was he’d been sober these past weeks and was sober now. But he’d taught Rekhart well, more years ago than he cared to think about and that advantage would be of little use to him.

  The sky was overcast, so there was no advantage to be gained from sunlight. They circled cautiously, neither willing to engage. The crowd began to jeer. This was helping no one. Weaver adopted fool’s guard, placing his right foot forward and, holding his sword at waist height, lowered the point. Rekhart took the bait and lunged for his head: Weaver brought his point up, responding in kind and they’d broken the impasse.

  The younger man fought with the desperation of one who was cornered and had only one way out: that way led through Weaver. Every camp fire they’d shared, every tense wait for battle, the years of their friendship – all had come down to this. Rekhart’s every movement was steeled with desperation, and, may the Goddess be merciful, he had the edge on Weaver now. His technique was ragged – always had been – but he was moving more easily on the uneven ground and his reactions were swifter than Weaver’s.

  Weaver slipped on the cobbles. His right foot shot out from under him and he overbalanced, dropping to one knee which hit the ground with a painful crunch, sending shockwaves jarring through his upper body. Weaver dropped his sword, hand slapping on the ground to keep himself upright.

  Rekhart stared at Weaver, lowering his sword point and backing away. “Damn it, I never thought it would end like this.”

  “The time for thinking’s long past, Jaseph. Just get it over with.” The pain through his knee was incredible.

  “No. Not this way. Take up your sword.” Rekhart waited, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The crowd jeered again, louder than before.

  Weaver gritted his teeth and took hold of his sword before pushing himself up to stand on his own two feet once more. Weaver tested his weight on his knee: the result wasn’t good, but it held him. He had a vague recollection of the grey brother he had fought at the summer palace. The man had been unstoppable: he’d never blinked, never showed any sign of fatigue… It was an effort for Weaver simply to pull the air in and out of his lungs. He was no more one of the grey brethren than Rekhart here. Well, Goddess willing, here would be an end to it all. He was almost glad: his death would make a poor spectacle for Vasic.

  “Come on, what are you waiting for?” Rekhart glared at him, his eyes wild. Once a man looked at life like that, there was no standing in his way. But old habits died hard.

  Weaver readied his guard. “I’ve slowed down, Rekhart. A bit like you.”

  “What are you implying?” They began to circle again.

  “A few years have passed since we last sparred in the training grounds. You’ve changed.” The longer he kept Rekhart talking, the better his chance of recovering his breath.

  “Everyone changes. What of it?”

  “It can’t just be the drink. Something must have driven you to it.”

  Rekhart shook his head. “You don’t know what it was like.”

  “But selling yourself to the likes of Jervin? A far cry from the city watch. No wonder you turned to drink.”

  “Do you dare to judge me? I lost everything.” The crowd were jeering and booing now, so no one was likely to overhear their words.

  “That’s too bad.” Weaver shrugged. “I lost my wife and child, Rekhart, but I never lost my honour.”

  Rekhart grimaced. “Damn you, you’ve not always been so pure.”

  Weaver could guess what was coming next.

  “Like when you were shagging your king’s wife – not so honourable then, were you?”

  Weaver saw red then. He’d had no appetite for this fight – not until that moment.

  Weaver waded in with an overhand blow, feinting at the last minute. Rekhart sidestepped, too late to avoid Weaver’s blade slicing through his ear. Blood spurted over Rekhart’s shoulder as he hurled himself at Weaver. He displayed no science, no technique in his fury, keeping up the onslaught until, finally, Weaver had no answer. Weaver made a half-hearted attempt to parry the blow, but he was tired, so tired. And Rekhart found the precise point between his ribs with heart-stopping certainty.

  The pain was every bit as excruciating as it had been the day Weaver had died on the stone slab in the cellar beneath the summer palace. Here was an end to it. He would have muttered a word of
thanks, but his vision was already dimming, and his voice wouldn’t respond to the commands his brain sent it.

  Rekhart withdrew his sword from Weaver’s chest, the blade stinging every inch of the way. Blood spilled from the wound, dark and thick and sluggish, congealing on the hand Weaver pressed to the gash in his chest. Not that he could hope to staunch that wound. He dropped his hand, realising it was useless, but the blood spilled no more. Weaver stared stupidly at his fingers. The blood there was dark brown, as if old and spent long ago. Yet he still stood. The pain in his chest had subsided. He still held his sword in his right hand, just as it should be. There was a rightness about it all.

  Rekhart stared at him in open-mouthed dismay.

  “What’s the matter, Jaseph? Cat got your tongue?”

  Rekhart staggered back. “Impossible. That was a fatal blow. I killed you.”

  Weaver smiled, a lazy smile that Rekhart seemed to find worse than anything he’d said before that moment.

  “I killed you! I know it!” Rekhart lunged forwards again, swinging his sword wildly at Weaver, slicing his shoulder open. Weaver shrugged off the blow and Rekhart drew his dagger, plunging it into Weaver’s chest where the sword had pierced him before. “I struck you through the heart, I know I did.” He staggered back, leaving his dagger protruding from Weaver’s rib cage.

  Weaver pulled the blade out and tossed it away.

  “Well, that much was thoughtful, I suppose. A clean kill. Do you expect me to thank you?”

  If the Goddess had spared him, she’d done it for a reason. And Weaver had not far to look to find that reason: it glared at him through Rekhart’s eyes, resentful and unthinking, like some feral creature. He’d been a good man once, but had lost his way beyond recall. Weaver knew what the Goddess required of him.

  As if he sensed Weaver’s new resolve, Rekhart charged at him, launching an overhead blow, with the clear intent of decapitating him. Weaver raised his hands and deflected Rekhart’s blade with his own. He stepped forward, capturing both Rekhart’s arms with his left arm, so they were locked face to face. Rekhart’s elbows were pinned, leaving his sword useless behind Weaver, with Weaver’s blade between them at head height. Rekhart’s anger turned to horror an instant before Weaver punched the cross guard of his sword through the younger man’s eye socket, cleansing the fear from his face with a burst of gore.