“Then bring her back to me,” he said softly.
The moonlight gleamed across his shoulders, his muscles straining as he glared down at her. A bird screamed from a nearby nest. Was it a raven? She did not know.
“I cannot,” she whispered. She would not lie to him by saying she would if she could. She had given Winn her promise, and she could not break it. She could not tamper with the laws of the living by changing the past.
“You mean you will not.”
She gave him no answer, but he knew it without the words. She flinched as he drew his knife.
“Let go of me!” she cried. He dragged her closer to the edge of the peak, so close she could see the white-capped waves crashing against the rocks below, glowing like silver peaks along the beach.
“If I spill your blood, will it bring her back? Tell me how the magic works. Tell me!” he shouted. The knife dug into her side and she felt the sting of the blade pressed through the layers of her dress. It pierced her skin and a trickle of warmth surged forth, only a flesh wound, but enough to make itself known.
“I don’t know–”
“You lie! If I kill you here, will it bring her back? This magic brought you here, surely it can return her to me!”
His fingers slid, slippery with her fresh blood, and suddenly he pulled her into his arms. She clutched him, shaking with fear and despair, even as he continued to hold the knife to her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
His throat tightened and he bent his head downward.
“I tried. I tried to go on, as she would want me to do,” he said softly. “She was not meant to leave this life before me.”
Maggie stroked his head as she would have comforted a child, listening without question as he let his agony spill forth. His fingers twisted among her dress, clenching and unclenching as he shook. She felt the dampness on his cheeks and the shudder of his body as he held onto her, his grip that of a desperate man clinging to the last shred of reality.
“If it were you that died, would my brother feel this way? Would he wish to leave this earth and follow you?” he asked. She stiffened at the thought. It was not something she wished to have answered, nor ever think on. Could she fault Makedewa for his rash acts in the shadow of his grief, and would she or Winn be any better if they lost each other?
She shook her head, as both an answer to him and a denial.
“We should go talk to Winn. Your brother –”
“I am not my brother,” he replied. “And my wife…my wife was everything good and pure. She was what kept me tied here. Now there is nothing of worth left inside me.”
For a moment, she felt him waver, his embrace softening as if he meant to share his grief. Yet as fast as it happened, it disappeared moments later, and from behind them, she heard the sound of angry voices coming toward them.
It was Winn, and she could hear Chetan’s shouts as well. Makedewa held her firm, so she could not turn her head to see them, and she felt him turn the blade away from her.
“Makedewa…let me go. Come back to the village with us. Come see your son,” she whispered. Her cheek smeared with tears as he clutched her to his chest with one arm, his lips close to her ear. His fingers were tangled in her hair, his voice hoarse.
“No. It is too late,” he said softly. His hand tightened on her back. “I have drawn your blood. There is no return from that. There are things even a brother cannot forgive.”
When he released her, she did not move away immediately. She knew what would happen between them, her instinct strong to stand between the two men and the actions they would regret. Yet Makedewa would have none of her peacemaking, and with a steady hand he shoved her toward Winn.
She saw Winn’s eyes flicker from her face to her side, where her dress held the spreading bloodstain from the shallow knife wound. A rush of cold panic surged through her as her husband’s gaze turned to his brother.
“Come here, wife,” Winn said slowly. She darted a glance back at Makedewa before she complied. The younger warrior stood straight before them, his chest rising and falling in a tortured cadence as he returned his brother’s stare.
She went to Winn, who did not acknowledge her as she passed, but merely continued to level his gaze at Makedewa.
“Tell me my wife’s wound did not come from your hand. Tell me, brother, so that we may welcome your return,” Winn said.
Maggie opened her mouth to speak, but closed it when Chetan placed a hand on her shoulder.
“I cannot tell you that in truth,” Makedewa replied.
Winn took a step toward him. The scream of metal pierced the thick night air as Winn drew his sword.
“Then tell me it was some other evil, that another guided your blade. Ask for my mercy and I shall give it.”
Makedewa slid the bryntroll from the harness on his back. The long-handled axe had been a marriage gift from Winn at a time that suddenly seemed so long ago. As the warrior lifted the weapon and pointed it at Winn, Maggie shifted her stance, but Chetan held her tightly when the two brothers began to circle each other.
“Stop them,” she whispered. Chetan shook his head.
“They must settle this. There is no other way,” Chetan answered.
Makedewa was leaner than Winn, a picture of wiry strength against the raw power of his older brother. Neither seemed ready to strike, as if the consequence of their actions echoed between them. Winn raised his sword with both hands, his thick forearms strained tight as he aimed it at Makedewa.
“Mercy? You have the power to return my wife to me, yet I should ask for your mercy? Why should I not take the life of your Blooded One? Tell me this, brother. Tell me why you decide who lives and dies!” Makedewa barked.
She saw Winn’s jaw tighten as he remained otherwise steady.
“I make no such decisions. None of us could have saved her, even by going back –”
“You lie!” Makedewa bellowed, brandishing his bryntroll. Winn landed a crushing blow with his sword that ripped the axe from Makedewa’s hand, and Makedewa launched himself at Winn. The men crashed to the earth, the sounds of their shouts and grunts exploding through the night. Bodies collided, fists pounded flesh. Winn was bigger, stronger, and it was not long before he held his brother’s face into the dirt. Although Winn jammed a knee into Makedewa’s back and held him down, the younger man continued to struggle, unwilling to abandon his misery.
“Enough!” Winn shouted.
“You should have killed her from the start. I promise you, brother, I will do what you could not!” Makedewa grunted. Winn closed his eyes for a moment, panting shallow as he shook his head.
“I will kill you first,” Winn said, his voice hoarse. He slowly rose to his feet, releasing his hold on Makedewa as he stood. Winn retrieved his sword and sheathed it, then picked up Makedewa’s fallen bryntroll. “Go,” Winn said. “Go now, while you still take breath.”
Winn tossed the bryntroll into the dirt at Makedewa’s feet. The younger man’s eyes seemed to burn black as he stood up, ignoring the weapon.
“Our uncle was wise. We should have obeyed him, in this and all things,” Makedewa said quietly.
Maggie felt her vision blur and realized she had been holding her breath. As Makedewa turned and walked away, she let it out in a rush. This time when she moved toward Winn, Chetan let her go, but she was stopped by Winn holding up his hand. She could not see his face with the way he held his back to her, and for some reason that scared her more than anything she had witnessed that night.
“Go to the children,” he said, his words low.
She watched as her husband’s shoulders dipped downward and he raised his hands to grip his head. It was not the time to make him ask twice, so she obeyed his bidding and left them alone. On unsteady limbs she made her way back to her children, the blessed numbness of grief sending her back down the hillside with it.
Sleep would not come. The empty bed beside her was all she could think of. Dagr had sti
rred when she returned, but he surrendered to his dreams with a few words of assurance and a pat on his back. The child had no idea what had happened that night, and truth be told she feared knowing the consequence as well.
Again, their lives had changed. Death and pain and anger, always a constant to balance the task of living. Would it ever change? She had no answer.
She could not stifle the gasp that left her lips when Winn’s slid into bed and placed his palm over her mouth, as he often did to keep her from waking the children late at night when he joined her. He was as stealthy as an assailant, and if she was not accustomed to him warning her that way she would have been afraid. Should she speak to him? Should she comfort him? What could she possibly say to ease his pain?
His eyes bored like daggers into her, unseeing, brimming with rage and destruction. In the dim light of the dying fire, she could see the outline of his face, etched taut to bursting, and a glimpse of dampness on his cheeks. His hand fell away from her lips and he stared at her, unmoving, for a long moment.
When she reached for him, he recoiled back as if burned, shifting away from her in one swift motion. Never had she felt such anguish from him, even in the darkest moments they had taken from each other.
“Don’t go,” she whispered. When he sat up and turned away she wrapped her arms around his waist, her hands running up his chest and strained shoulders. She pressed her lips to the nape of his neck, breathing in his thick scent, the taste of salt and smoke and damp night breeze like a brand on her mouth.
“I cannot stay,” he replied. She closed her eyes.
“Of course you can. This is home,” she said. She took one of his hands and laced his fingers through hers, reminding him of where his heart should rest.
“I…I cannot make this anger fade,” he said, his voice hoarse as he pulled away and bowed his head into his hands.
“Then give it to me,” she whispered, pushing him back onto the furs. “I am yours.”
He was tight as a bowstring, tensed, yet her words stirred him. The tension eased from his shoulders and he pulled her into his arms.
“I need you,” he whispered. “Let the world be damned, I need you.”
“I know,” she replied. “And I cannot be without you.” She meant it, and so did he.
He did not sleep until the early hours before dawn. Even then, when he rested for an hour or two, she did not think it was enough to tame the demon. Something was broken inside him that would not yield, no matter how hard he tried to bury his despair. She suspected he heard none of the soothing words she whispered, and by the time he left their bed she felt as hollow as the emptiness in his eyes. Her flesh felt bruised. Her soul was battered.
Early in the morning she felt him reach for her. It was only a questioning touch, a brush of his fingertips across her shoulder, but it was enough to let her fall back into the recesses of uneasy sleep. Yet he was gone when the sun finally rose and she woke. She busied about the morning tasks of tending the children, herding the tiny mob toward the Northern Hall as she placed Daniel in a sling. The child eagerly set about nursing as they walked through the village, content in his chore as the other children whooped and hollered around them. Kwetii grew annoyed with Malcolm stumbling alone, so she picked up her youngest brother and toted him along, finally plunking the child down on a bench once they entered the hall.
“Here, give ’em to me,” Gwen called, waving her arms. Maggie handed Daniel over to her aunt, glad for the reprieve and eager to find Winn. The men had not yet split off into work groups so the hall was quite crowded, the benches filled shoulder to shoulder as they grappled amongst each other for the morning meal.
Maggie finally spotted Winn. He was standing apart from the others near the head of the table, speaking with Erich. With the events of the night prior still haunting her, she hoped he would acknowledge her as he usually did. The way he slipped from their bed as she slept troubled her. She knew he was mourning his brother’s absence as they all were, and that to Winn it was a deeper pain than others endured. She did not recognize the man he had revealed to her, and that was the most frightening aspect of all. Had Makedewa taken Winn with him on his journey? And if he had, would he ever be able to return to her?
She was not consoled when Winn merely lifted his chin briefly in her direction, barely meeting her eyes across the room. Enough of a gesture to show he saw her, but enough to convey he would not speak with her. As she watched him leave the Northern Hall without another glance, her ire simmered. Yes, he was hurting. But she would not let him leave without a fight.
After checking that Gwen would watch over the children, Maggie followed Winn outside. She was stunned to find he readied his horse as if he prepared for a trip. His mount was packed with enough supplies she guessed for a two-day ride; so he meant to go visit Pepamhu at Mattanock. It made sense that Winn would wish to speak with him. She did not fault him for his journey. What rankled her was that her husband seemed to be leaving without even saying goodbye.
He was tying off a strap when she approached, but she knew he heard her by the way he paused. The muscles tensed across his arms, his shoulders tight beneath the edges of his silver fur vest. His voice was quite low when he spoke, controlled, as if he still fought his demons of the night before.
“No goodbye?” she said quietly. She came up close behind him but did not touch him, and he did not turn to face her. His skin bristled with goose bumps where her breath hit his bare arm, and she saw his fist clench and unclench on the rawhide tie. So he was not too far gone to be unaffected by her. At least she had that.
“You need no words. You know where I go,” he said simply.
His response stung. She struggled to stem her rising temper, reminding herself he was damaged, and that he needed something more from her than she had ever given him.
“You’re right. I know,” she replied. “I suppose you’re finished here.”
She was sure he did not expect her acquiescence. Perhaps he wanted a fight? He let out a sigh and his shoulders slumped forward, only slightly, but enough that she could see the battle leave him. The hand wrapped around the rawhide tie gripped into a fist, and he bowed his head toward the horse. She ached to touch him but did not, giving him the space to reach out in the way he needed.
“When I saw his pain, I grieved for him. I raged for why the Creator would take his woman. I would have forgiven him if only he asked,” he said softly. “Yet now, as I stand here, I tell you this: he will never spill your blood again. I will kill him first. My brother is now only another enemy. He has made his choice.”
She clasped her palm over her mouth, shaking her head as he turned toward her. No, she thought. Surely he did not believe his own words.
He reached for her, holding her at arm’s length. He caressed an outline down the edge of her face, then took a length of her hair between his fingers, staring at it for a few moments in silence before he dropped it. Finally his eyes met hers, and it was all she could do to match his gaze. Hollowed, barren blue eyes stared back at her.
“He was right when he said it was too late.”
“Winn, no –”
“What does that make me, Red Woman, that I would do such a thing?” he asked. His use of the title unnerved her, sending a shiver over her skin.
“He was wrong. You – you wouldn’t have hurt him. He’s your brother – I know you,” she whispered. He pressed his warm lips to her ear, his fingers tightening around her face. His breath sent tremors down her spine.
“You. Don’t. Know,” he said softly. “You don’t know…what I would do…to keep you.”
His lips traced across her cheek until his warm mouth settled over hers. He tasted bitter at first, a touch of the morning mead, but as he explored her mouth with his tongue he was hers again. Tender, then firm, giving and taking, until finally he sighed and bent his forehead to hers. His breath hitched as he crushed his lips to her hair and she let out a muffled moan.
“I know that you belong to me. Your
body. Your soul. It is mine. Yet still, I ache for you. I am never finished with you. We never end,” he whispered. He pressed his lips to her ear. “We never will.”
When he pulled away she closed her eyes, hugging her arms around herself. She dug her fingers into her palms to stem the flow of tears. He deserved a brave wife, and she would give him one. She watched, wordless as he mounted up.
Though she kept her eyes closed, his voice echoed through the pounding hooves as he rode away.
“Two days,” he said.
She nodded. She would wait.
Chetan leaned back against the bench, sitting at her feet as the night grew dark. A spray of stars dotted the sky, a sprinkle of twilight springing to life overhead as they sat together. Maggie’s backside felt numb on the rough-hewn bench, her arms and legs aching from the work of reaping the harvest all day. With the summer drawing to a close and the scent of autumn nearly upon them, it was still warm sometimes at night and she was happy to enjoy it. As the children slept soundly inside the longhouse and night settled upon them, the only thing missing was Winn.
“It’s been two days,” she commented, more to herself than to Chetan. Yet he cocked his head up at her in response and made a low snorting sound.
“He will return. Spare no worry on that, sister,” he replied.
She felt her heart skip a little beat at his use of the endearment, and she battled the urge to embrace him in a fierce hug. Chetan was a kind-hearted man, but she suspected her unabashed displays of affection often embarrassed him. When he addressed her as sister, however, it melted the icy fingers clawing at her heart. It was the closest he had come to kindness toward her since Makedewa left, and she missed his friendship terribly.
“Thank you,” she said softly. He nudged her knee with his elbow, looking up at the sky.
“For what?”
“For being here.”
“Ah, where would I go?” he snorted. He continued to stare up at the sky as if her words were only casual conversation instead of the tentative stab at discussing their shared loss.
The Blooded Ones Page 75