by Cherry Potts
Grainne gave the sword a slight push, indicating that she wanted it gone.
Brede gathered the sword’s weight to her, wondering what she should do with it. As though reading her thoughts, Grainne answered her.
‘Keep it, and keep silent. If that blade stays lost, it can’t be used to harm me. And I may yet find a use for it,’ Grainne leant forward to rest her fingers against the blade, disturbed by it.
‘You must know the value of this blade, and of your news – I am greatly in your debt. Ask me for anything, and if it in my gift, you may have it.’
Brede shook her head.
‘Not yet, but there may come a time – if I may wait?’
Brede took the sword away. Sorcha hesitated to follow, looking at Grainne closely, trying to judge whether the pain in her friend’s face was anything that she could ease. Grainne intercepted the look and shook her head.
‘Even you can do nothing about the death of my niece, nor the fact that her offspring is male, and a power grabbing fool, like his father. I do not think you can ease that for me. Go and talk to your – friend – scrape together some pleasure for yourself.’ Grainne shook her head slightly. ‘Do you believe she didn’t know what she had? Do you suppose that we are being offered her trust?’
Sorcha leant close to Grainne, so that she could hear her whispered answer. ‘Never. No trust, not for you, my sweet.’ She kissed Grainne lightly, and followed Brede from the room.
‘How much did you hear?’ Sorcha asked, as she closed the door. Brede shrugged, not sure whether Sorcha meant what Grainne had to say about her family, or what Sorcha had to say about trust.
Sorcha sat beside the empty fireplace, rocking slightly and chewing her knuckle. She glanced at Brede, and doubted the usefulness of explaining to her, but she needed to talk to someone. Brede recognised that look.
‘Try me,’ she said. ‘There is no one else to talk to, unless you plan to risk Tegan or Maeve.’
‘Those two again, what is it about them?’
Brede didn’t answer. It was, to her, a foolish question. Sorcha smiled.
‘Very well. You do not have to answer me.’
Brede made an irritated noise.
‘Tegan has offered me nothing but honesty, a rare thing, I’ve since discovered. She made me believe it was possible to trust anyone, even an enemy.’
‘Oh? And Maeve?’
‘Maeve taught me to trust no-one, not even a friend.’
Sorcha laughed. ‘Useful lessons. Where do you place me? A trustworthy enemy or an untrustworthy friend?’
‘I’ve yet to discover. All I know is that you expect truth from me, but you have not, so far, offered much honesty in return. You lie. I can trust you to do that.’
Sorcha’s face froze a fraction.
‘I’ve underestimated you again.’
‘Yes.’ Brede shrugged, watching Sorcha’s turned face, waiting for her to thaw. ‘There is something wrong in all this,’ Brede said cautiously. ‘If I understand you, Lorcan should have kept hold of that sword. Why leave it in an offering place?’
Sorcha frowned.
‘I hadn’t thought of that. It’s as well that he did, since we now have it safe, but you’re right. There may be another faction of whom we know nothing, working against Lorcan, but not with us. Another unknown.’ Sorcha covered her face. ‘I don’t see a way through this. It is too complicated. I do not know what I should do.’
Brede watched Sorcha struggle with her anxiety.
‘Why is it your responsibility?’ she asked.
Sorcha stayed silent, brought up short once again by Brede’s ignorance. She shrugged, deciding to lie.
‘I am forgetting myself. A small part of the great design, thinking I can change the world. It is only that I care for Grainne, what matters to her, matters to me.’
‘You care for her a great deal.’
Sorcha smiled, secure in the depth of her affection for Grainne, but uncertain of Brede.
‘She has been more to me, been closer to me than anyone else until now.’
‘And now?’ Brede asked, hardly believing she had summoned the courage to ask.
‘Now – now she is a Queen, and I – am in her service.’ Sorcha turned her face away, uncomfortable with that service for the first time.
Brede watched the worried frown darken Sorcha’s face once more and levered herself from the chair for a restless circuit of the room. She hesitated near the door to Grainne’s chamber.
‘She looks well, considering,’ Brede said, determinedly changing the subject.
‘Yes. She doesn’t need me for a while.’
‘Can she stay well?’
Sorcha shrugged.
‘A while, perhaps; enough to consult with her generals and advisors, enough to see that the war is well conducted.’
Brede nodded, more at the bitterness in Sorcha’s voice than at what she said. She was hesitant to offer her meagre resources, lest they prove insufficient, but she thought she might like Sorcha, she enjoyed her teasing and her swings between honesty and artifice. She appreciated her wanting change, and believing she could influence a war. And so, she reached out a hesitant hand to the witch.
Sorcha pulled her gently down to sit beside her. Brede felt the softness of that hand clasping hers. Strange, and inappropriate: not a warrior’s hand.
‘If you are to be a guard,’ she said, ‘keep your hands covered.’
Sorcha looked at the smoothness of her fingers against the rough darkness of Brede’s skin, callused, scarred and bruised. She said nothing for a while; cradling Brede’s hand in her lap, pursuing a thought that was not directly connected with Brede’s words. Almost without thinking, she whispered a thread of song, and the bruising on the wrist faded.
Brede watched wordlessly, and tried not to think about that fading bruise. She tried not to pull away from Sorcha’s touch, which sent strange tremors through her, which were nothing to do with the healing.
Sorcha ran a finger along the scar on Brede’s outer wrist, finding its end under the loosened cuff of her sleeve. Not a particularly long cut, nor deep. It shouldn’t have left a scar. Sorcha did not look into Brede’s face when she spoke.
‘You don’t heal easily, do you?’
Brede gave in to the uneasiness that trembled through her and tried to withdraw her hand, sensing more than words, but Sorcha’s grip was firm. She twisted round to look at Brede, and there was none of the teasing laughter about her eyes.
‘Where did you get this scar?’ she asked.
‘Tegan,’ Brede replied without wishing to.
‘Of course,’ Sorcha rubbed her finger along the scar again. She raised her head, staring at Brede, measuring. Her hand slipped up Brede’s arm to her shoulder and she rose slowly, and ran her hands across Brede’s back. ‘And this one is Maeve,’ she said laying her palms gently across the bruising beside Brede’s spine. Brede tried to sit more upright, but Sorcha murmured a denial and sang a half breath of words and the pain lifted out of Brede’s muscles as simply as breaking a spider’s web. The sudden easing of tension and pain had Brede breathless and adrift. She felt the warmth of Sorcha’s hands exploring further, up to her shoulder, and the fierce scar that still weakened her sword arm.
‘It is too late to heal this properly,’ she said. ‘It has set into the pattern of its choice and can’t be torn apart and made new.’
She inspected Brede’s face, and gathered her hand up once more.
‘It doesn’t trouble me,’ Brede replied, swiftly, untruthful and frightened.
‘You trouble me,’ Sorcha said quietly, speaking sudden truth out of the depths of her worry. She let Brede’s hand loose, waiting for her to withdraw.
Brede did not choose to do so. She laced her fingers into Sorcha’s.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I had noticed.’
Sorcha didn’t answer immediately, but when she did, it was not with words.
Brede was not surprised by the kiss, nor its urgency, nor its c
ompleteness. Relief flooded through her. She had not been imagining this attraction between them; she had not, after all, made a fool of herself. And so a second kiss, and a third, and – voices on the stair.
Sorcha drew away, smiling wryly.
‘Time to be Queen’s Bodyguard,’ she said.
Brede kicked the sword under a chest, and took her double knives from her pack. Sorcha was already making a convincing show of being an aware and responsible guard. Brede went to the door, and schooled her face to impassive responsibility, just as the two men reach the top of the stair.
The men looked in confusion at Sorcha, not recognising her, and surprised to find themselves challenged. Sorcha gazed back, without stepping from their path. She knew full well who they were, and knew, although she had temporarily forgotten, that they were expected; but they could meet the requirements of a password as well as any, be they generals or no.
Phelan accepted her passive insistence on protocol, and stated his name and business, and that of his companion. Sorcha let them by, and nodded to Brede. Brede didn’t know what was expected of her as guard, but instinctively, she left the door ajar behind them, and stood in full view of them. Grainne shot her a questioning look, not expecting her to take this position.
‘Your guests bear arms, lady,’ Brede announced.
Phelan raised an amused eyebrow.
‘Your stable-hand has opinions?’ he enquired.
Rumour of Grainne’s extraordinary choice of guard had reached him, as she knew it would. She registered the slight start that made Brede stand more stiffly at attention.
‘My personal guard has bested the finest fighter within my ward, General,’ Grainne replied, drawing a veil over the nature and reasons for that unexpected victory; giving Phelan the courtesy of his title, a courtesy he had not yet shown to her, trading on their kinship.
Brede wondered how Grainne knew about Tegan. She looked a half question at her charge.
Grainne nodded to Brede, giving permission for her to stay. Phelan shrugged, and turned to his business.
‘You wanted someone to take word to the Horse Clans.’
Grainne inclined her head.
‘Madoc here has offered his services.’
Brede’s attention intensified. Madoc hardly seemed likely to win the confidence of the Clans. Brede suppressed the temptation to show her disdain. Grainne noted the stiffening of Brede’s stance, and recognised what she believed to be the cause, although she hadn’t expected Brede to know who Madoc was.
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Not Madoc. He could never have any standing with the Clans. As the leader of the raid on the Horse Gather, it would be insanity to send him as my ambassador.’
She spoke clearly; making sure that Brede understood that she would hide nothing, even this, from her bodyguard. Brede couldn’t believe what she had heard.
Phelan frowned, and tapped his fingers against his sword hilt. Grainne was tiring, the numbing pain beginning to grip her again. She waited for Phelan to respond, but he did not.
‘I will not have him,’ she said, firmly.
‘I was acting on your command,’ Madoc said, seeing to his own defence in the face of his sponsor’s silence.
‘You exceeded my commands. Had I known the outcome of your disobedience to my word, had I known the trouble that would spring from your doing, I should have hanged you – I may yet. Leave.’
Grainne turned her face away, ignoring Madoc’s existence. When he was slow to move, Brede took a step towards him. She would have liked an excuse to handle him roughly. He didn’t give her the pleasure.
Phelan cast an eye after his protégé.
‘You are unfair. He knows a lot about the Clans; he knows their routines, their patterns, and their language. Without him, you’ll never track them down.’
Grainne shrugged.
‘I’ll find some other way,’ she said, not letting her eyes flicker to Brede, not trusting Phelan with an admission of the desperation that set a member of Wing Clan as her guard. The rest of the interview was an uphill struggle against the rising tide of pain, and Phelan’s stubborn refusal to understand her. At last Phelan’s voice trailed into silence. Grainne looked up guiltily, aware that she hadn’t responded to a question. Phelan smiled sadly.
‘You are not well, Next-kin. You shouldn’t have let me tire you.’ He stood abruptly, shaking his head at her denial. ‘You shouldn’t let me bully you like that. Forgive me.’
‘Always.’
His smile softened almost to indulgence. He took Grainne’s hand and kissed her fingertips.
‘Sleep, my dear, solves everything; so my dogs assure me.’
‘You take advice from your dogs?’
‘About the need for food and sleep, yes. They are far more regular in their habits than you or I.’
Grainne lifted her hand to his face, caressing his chin.
‘I will take your canine advice. Goodnight, Phelan.’ She raised her face to him, and he kissed her gently on the brow, before turning and striding out of the chamber.
Grainne waited until Phelan’s hurried steps could no longer be heard. She reached for Sorcha, trembling with exhaustion.
‘Help me.’
‘Sleep?’
Grainne nodded wearily.
‘Sleep, sleep.’
Chapter Eighteen
‘You knew, didn’t you,’ Sorcha said. ‘I saw your face when you caught sight of Madoc.’
Brede shook her head, wearily.
‘Grainne said he was not acting on her orders. If that is so, why does he still have the favour of her closest advisor?’
‘He is Phelan’s friend. Others think less well of him. I suppose Phelan is trying to – to rehabilitate him.’
Brede shrugged that away.
‘He is a poor judge of character to keep Madoc close.’
‘Yes.’ Sorcha frowned. ‘But what does that matter?’
‘It matters to me. It says that the Clans are still not safe – my people – so, I don’t think I believe Grainne. If what she says is true, Madoc would not still be welcome within her garth. If I am to believe her, then she should not trust Madoc, nor Phelan if that is the kind of friend he chooses.’
‘Madoc hasn’t had her favour for many years, and you saw how she dismissed him. But she won’t do the same for Phelan, he’s her most valued general and he is kin.’
Brede scowled.
‘If I understand it, her next-kin has murdered his father and is trying to win her lands from her. So much for kin.’
‘Yes, but Phelan is – well – Phelan. They love each other. They truly do. I’ve known Phelan since he was born. He’d hand-fast with Grainne if she’d let him, which really shows he’s no judge of character, but he’d never put Grainne in danger.’
‘And Madoc? Can you claim great knowledge of his boyhood too?’
‘You are very sharp of a sudden.’
‘I’m out of my depth. I came to this city looking for a sister taken into captivity, and now that I’m in no position to continue my search, I find the man responsible. I do not know what I’m doing here.’
‘Do you think Grainne is doing more than groping after answers in the dark? When have you done more than follow where the wind leads you? Why this urgent need to know?’
‘Nomads may follow the wind, or run before it, but that doesn’t stop us knowing where we are when we get there. I don’t know where I am. The wind is still blowing.’
‘You aren’t a nomad. You’ve never travelled with the Clans.’
‘It is in my blood,’ Brede snapped. Sorcha took a breath, then shook her head sharply.
‘We are both tired,’ she said.
Brede shook her head.
‘You aren’t listening to me. You are listening for what you need from me.’
‘And what is that?’
‘Compliance.’
‘And what should I have been listening to?’
Brede couldn’t speak. She shook her head again, nu
mb with anger.
Sorcha stood abruptly, laying her sword across the chair and went to the outer door. She bolted it, and placing her hands to either side of the frame, sang a few words. She went to each window in turn and did the same. When she had done, she scooped up the sword once more, put it beside her couch, and began to undress. Brede stayed where she was, stiff with unspilt words.
‘I don’t know what to say to you,’ Sorcha said at last, lying on the couch and untangling blankets. ‘I don’t know why you are here either, with a sister to search for.’
Brede started and Sorcha smiled sadly. ‘I was listening, you see? What I heard is pain, Brede, and loss. Is there more? Have I missed anything else? If you want to tell me again so that I hear you, I will listen.’
‘Why are you here, Sorcha?’
Sorcha looked up, puzzled at the question.
‘I’m being paid.’
‘No. The wind didn’t carry you here. You have a reason, outside of Grainne’s purpose.’
‘Grainne trusts me; can you not do the same?’
‘Loyalty?’ Brede asked.
‘No,’ Sorcha answered her. ‘No, not loyalty, something much more difficult than that. Grainne and I grew up together; we have been friends for – more than thirty years. We have shared happiness and loss, we have helped each other with harsh decisions; we know where we stand. We can each say when we think the other is wrong – or we used to.’ Sorcha hesitated, no longer sure it would be safe to challenge Grainne. ‘Would you call that loyalty?’
‘No. So, I came to this city looking for a sister –’
‘– taken into captivity, and now you believe Madoc to be the key to your search, but you feel trapped by your obligation to Grainne?’
‘She is my sister –’
‘– and she may have been dead these nine years.’
‘I need to know.’
‘Of course.’
‘Of course what?’
‘Come here, Brede. I understand: I’ll help, if I can.’
Brede sat on the couch within the curve of Sorcha’s body.
‘How?’ she asked baldly.
Sorcha lifted her shoulder awkwardly.
