by Cherry Potts
‘He’s not an errant adolescent who has been out on the town for two nights running, Phelan. He’s a boy with ambition.’
‘Not a mutually exclusive concept. I remember when you used to keep us all up wondering where you were.’
‘I never kept you up. You were only a child when I was going through my wild patch.’
‘Your wild patch lasted longer than most. We overlapped on that for a while. Do you remember the time I broke a leg jumping from one roof to another?’
‘I remember.’
‘You egged me on, my glamorous young aunt. You had a stronger stomach and a more reckless nerve than I.’
‘Glamorous?’
‘I thought so. I worshipped you.’
‘When did you stop?’ Grainne asked, and her voice lost its breathy weariness and was vibrant with teasing.
Phelan roared with laughter.
‘You know I never stopped. I got distracted, once or twice, but you were always the one for me.’
He sighed, and let Grainne have her hand back.
‘You are planning to make this public I suppose?’
‘On my birthday.’
‘The anniversary of Aeron’s death.’ A twitch flickered below Phelan’s left eye. He rubbed the spot absently. Grainne leant towards him, placing her own hand over his. He turned into her caress, and then pulled away abruptly.
‘Things to be done, cousin. Thoughts to be acted upon. Only two days ’til midsummer. You want Lorcan told first, or no?’
‘No. I need you with me at midsummer.’
‘As you wish. I too, need your company then.’
Phelan stood.
‘I will be back in two days, with your midsummer gift.’ He quirked an eyebrow at her. Grainne smiled, letting him kiss her cheek. At the door he turned, a half wistful frown on his face. Then he shrugged and was gone.
Sorcha and Grainne exchanged glances.
‘You jumped roofs with Phelan?’
‘I was drunk.’
‘And he needed medical attention, but you didn’t.’
‘Yes. I suppose I did lead him astray.’
‘How old was he?’
‘Oh, about nineteen. He was having a hard time adjusting to Aeron’s becoming Queen. He’d lost his mother, and then he lost his closest friend when Aeron was crowned. Aeron had to start listening to advisors; she couldn’t go climbing roofs anymore, so I went instead.’
‘I’m intrigued. You never told me about these escapades.’
‘You were Journeying.’
Sorcha laughed.
‘Journeying? Hmmm. I suppose I must have been.’
Grainne pulled herself up from her chair, waving Sorcha’s help away.
‘I’ve two days to get used to feeling this well. I need to look as though I remember how to walk unaided.’ She took a few steady steps, her back straight, head erect. ‘Yes, I think I might manage that.’
‘Don’t forget you’ll be wearing robes and the crown.’
‘No, I don’t forget.’ Grainne reached the fireplace and leant against it. She rubbed at her forehead, thinking about the weight of the crown.
‘Where is Brede? You’ll need to give her some instruction for this. Find her. Maeve and Tegan will be a while yet.’
Sorcha did not find Brede. She did not find Guida. She stood in the darkness of the stables, uncertainty keeping her immobile for several minutes. She turned at the sound of footsteps. Eachan backed up at the sight of her.
‘Ah.’
Sorcha looked at him. She couldn’t bring herself to ask.
Eachan considered the tension in the way Sorcha held herself. He could smell wrongness, danger. Sorcha controlled her breathing carefully, feeling the danger within her as clearly as Eachan, and equally wary of it.
‘Brede?’ she asked at last.
‘Grieving.’ Eachan said, covering all she needed to know in one word. He took a cautious step forward and stared hard, trying to connect Brede to the stranger. Something to do with Grainne – and the black stallion.
Sorcha hid her face in the shadow, not knowing what to do.
‘The river,’ Eachan said, having forced his mind to the connections despite all Sorcha’s undertow of persuasion otherwise. ‘She’ll be somewhere on the river, probably outside the walls this time, if they let her pass the gate.’
Sorcha winced at his poor choice of words. Eachan’s steady single eye met her gaze, and she wondered if the choice was deliberate.
‘There is another possibility. I warned her against revenge, but she may not have listened. If you think she’d know how to find the general called Madoc, you might want to start there.’
Sorcha nodded sharply. She walked the length of the stable to where Macsen was tethered. Eachan watched the horse’s docility under her hand with a touch of envy. He watched her ride out of the yard with a mixture of relief at her going and anxiety for what she might find.
The river then, and a seeking spell, a calling. Sorcha had no time for niceties.
Brede felt Guida’s stride falter. The horse checked her pace, complaining at Brede’s swift jerk of heel, resisting her command. Fearing that the horse had sensed some danger that she couldn’t see, Brede did not insist. She allowed Guida to set the pace, to slow to a puzzled halt. Guida swung her head to and fro, breathing in gusts of anger, ears back.
‘What is the matter, you foolish creature?’ Brede asked. Guida flicked an ear. Brede raised her head, scanning the buildings alongside the river, trying to see which of the high-walled yards – which garth – had been her sister’s prison.
Guida refused to move on. Brede dismounted cautiously. She knew horses well enough to pay attention to Guida’s resistance. She listened to the distant sounds of the city, a constant murmur of voices and carts and horses, and – something else. Brede turned her head, trying to separate the sound. Children at the river, making reed pipes; a stray dog barking after its own tail; someone singing. A gentle, hopeful, pleading song; but she had no sense of where the song came from – it seemed to invade her body.
Brede closed her eyes and listened, and felt the song stealing into her mind and her muscles – soothing.
She opened her eyes and looked up at Sorcha in silence.
Sorcha lilted her song to matching stillness.
‘Don’t use anger as a shield against grief, it doesn’t work.’
‘It helps me,’ Brede said softly, ‘but you’re not the enemy.’ Her eyes strayed to those high walls on the far side of the river.
Sorcha put herself between Brede and the sight of those walls.
‘I’ve thought Falda dead for so long, that finding I was right was – a relief. But her daughter – that’s new, and harsh, and I want –’ Brede raised her hands. ‘I want to make Madoc pay for turning one of mine into a chattel.’
Sorcha pulled Brede to her, hugging her tight. She could feel Brede’s resistance, her unwillingness to admit vulnerability.
‘You want to find the child.’
‘And what if I’m too late? What if she is dead, or so cowed – ?’
‘A child of your sister, cowed?’
Brede’s eyes strayed back to Sorcha’s face. The tremor of anger stilled.
‘No. But Jodis is right, children make escape impossible.’
She shrugged out of Sorcha’s embrace.
‘Escape?’ Sorcha asked, keeping her voice unconcerned.
‘For Falda, for Jodis, for me, now.’
‘Escape?’ Sorcha asked again, feeling sick with alarm.
‘Not from you,’ Brede said, at last understanding Sorcha’s anxious expression. ‘Never from you.’ She reached out, pulling Sorcha into her arms and a kiss that left them breathless. Sorcha pulled away, wide-eyed.
‘You were thinking of leaving?’
‘I thought of it, yes. Falda dead, I thought – go home. But the child – I have to find her – I must stay until –’
‘So, if you find her, you’ll go?’
Brede c
onsidered.
‘I want to be away from here. I want the wind in my face. I want you with me, but –’
‘But?’
Brede sighed.
‘You were with Grainne, and I couldn’t – I could not bear the feeling of stone about me for another second. Grainne always comes first with you.’
‘No. For Grainne – Brede stop this. Don’t make a balance between you and Grainne. I am Grainne’s only for the rest of her life. After that, my life will be my own again, and I shan’t make the mistake of choosing this kind of responsibility again.’ Brede started in surprise. Sorcha raised her hands, half laughing. She pleaded, ‘Stop now, this can wait for later.’
‘There never is a later,’ Brede observed, catching at Sorcha’s hand, and kissing her palm. Sorcha shook her head.
‘Eventually, there has to be.’ She took a steadying breath and called Macsen to her.
Jodis waited at the gate, once more asking for Eachan of the Queen’s horse, once more with a horse at her shoulder. The same young sentry set out to find Eachan, and Jodis paced the same short stretch of road waiting for him to return. This time Eachan brought her into the yard and silently considered the horse she had brought him.
‘Will she do?’ she asked.
‘You know she will,’ Eachan said softly, approaching the horse with an outstretched palm and an apple. The mare eyed him thoughtfully and huffed down the apple in a single bite.
‘She’s a little greedy,’ Jodis said confidently.
Eachan laughed.
‘She’s beautiful, magnificent; she’s entitled to her greed. Is she yours?’
Jodis shook her head swiftly.
‘You asked for the best. Brede’s sister bred this one.’ She reached to wipe imagined dust from the mare’s neck. Eachan sighed at her wilful refusal to look to her own good.
‘Doran is willing to sell?’ he asked.
‘For the Queen, of course.’
Eachan paid the asked price without argument. As Jodis turned to go, he put a detaining hand on her arm.
‘Thank you, Jodis of Storm, for the news you brought earlier today. I’m in your debt.’
Jodis shook her head, patting the money belt at her waist. Eachan shook his head in turn.
‘That’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Not my money, and not your profit; so if there is anything I can do for you, let me know it.’
Jodis smiled.
‘It’s good to have friends,’ she said, making it a question.
Eachan nodded, and this time, he let her go.
Tegan couldn’t concentrate on what Grainne was asking her. Her eyes kept drifting to Brede, trying to see what she was thinking. She didn’t like the way Brede’s hands constantly pleated the edge of her cloak. Tegan knew that trick of old. Brede would not meet her glance, did not appear to be taking any part in the discussion, not even listening. Every time Tegan looked in her direction, Brede was looking at Sorcha.
Maeve listened to Grainne, but her mind was on Tegan. Every time she looked in her direction, Tegan was looking at Brede.
Sorcha frowned, her eyes flickering from Tegan to Brede, to Grainne, to Maeve – confused, distracted.
Grainne sighed.
‘Are any of you listening to me?’ she asked.
Three pairs of eyes focused on her with abrupt guilt. Brede remained oblivious, forcing her mind to the precise feel of the cloth between her fingers, the bulk of three folds, four –
Maeve offered a summary of the conversation so far, and glared at Tegan.
‘Good.’ Grainne tapped her fingers thoughtfully on the arm of her chair.
‘Go away,’ she said abruptly. ‘I’m sure you can all manage the necessary arrangements without any more interference from me.’
The eagerness with which they departed did not please her. She called Sorcha back.
‘What is going on?’ she asked.
‘With Tegan and Maeve? I’ve no idea.’
‘With Brede. Brede and you, Brede and Tegan: you are all – very –’
‘Brede’s sister is dead,’ Sorcha interjected swiftly. ‘She holds Tegan somewhat responsible, and Tegan likes her well enough to mind.’
‘A sister? Why did I not know about this?’
‘It wasn’t relevant.’
‘But it is more than relevant to you?’
‘I’d like the time to be able to comfort Brede.’
‘Does she want your comfort?’
‘Yes.’ Sorcha said very quietly. Jealousy burnt through Grainne. She shook her head.
‘There is no time yet,’ she said, shamed by her anger, her jealousy, but unwilling to resist it. ‘I should have been told, Sorcha – family is always relevant.’
Tegan tried to catch Brede’s eye. Brede refused to see. Maeve caught the longing in Tegan’s seeking gaze and snarled under her breath, ‘Can’t you see she’s not interested?’
Tegan turned on her.
‘The sister’s dead. Can’t you find any understanding?’
Maeve considered carefully, first Brede’s misery, then Tegan’s anxiety.
‘No.’ she said at last, and set off down the stairs.
Sorcha lay beside Grainne, once more keeping her from the cold, and Brede waited, and waited, not able to sleep, not able to keep her mind from dwelling where she did not wish. Falda whispered into her brain, and Jodis’ warning, and the unknown child somewhere in the city, wearing a chain about her neck. Brede kicked off the blankets in a sudden fury and paced about the chamber, then reckless and deeply frowning, hauled open the door, to prowl the outer chamber, her head tilted for sound from Grainne’s bedchamber. Round and round she went, cat-footed, but fierce with anger and possessed of a darkness she hadn’t known before, that she both feared and welcomed.
Sorcha listened to Brede’s circuit of the outer room. She felt the air stir, and raised her head.
Brede stood in the doorway, one hand pressed against the wards. She was shadowy, light catching at the collar and sleeve of her shirt, a tangle of half braided hair across her shoulder.
Sorcha couldn’t see her expression but as she turned her head, moonlight carved a momentary curve of chin, neck, shoulder and Sorcha drew in her breath and glanced quickly at Grainne. The Queen’s eyes flickered. Go? Don’t go? Sorcha couldn’t tell; she glanced away and Brede was gone from the doorway.
Sorcha threw back the blankets and shrugged into Grainne’s discarded mantle. Grainne made no murmur and Sorcha almost scurried to the door.
Brede stood with her back to Grainne’s bedchamber, turning her head slowly from side to side, seeking out the breath of movement, the stirring she could sense but not place.
A soft, heavy cloth-on-wood sound, a slight coolness in the stifling heat. She slid her foot forward, there; she could feel a draught on her bared instep. A hanging swayed, the edge caressing the floor in soft movement.
And why should it? Cautiously she pulled the hanging back and found a door, a door with the key in the lock.
Sorcha’s breath jolted in her chest. She had forgotten that door existed. Brede swung round, her hand still clenched in the cloth of the hanging.
‘Where does this lead?’ she asked softly.
‘The roof.’
Brede turned the key: not stiff, as she had expected.
‘Who has oiled this lock?’
The door opened inward and moonlight cascaded in. Brede blinked.
‘I did, when I first got here, and thought I might be short of air once in a while.’ Sorcha said softly. ‘So short of air I’ve been, I forgot all about it.’
‘Is it secure?’
‘There is nothing up there but an empty chamber, and above that the roof to this tower. There is no way down to other parts of the building.’
‘So it is unguarded?’
‘Completely.’
Sorcha reached an arm about Brede, pulling her close, feeling skin heat through the shirt that was all she wore. Almost without thinking her hands curved and caressed and she
bent her head, leaning her mouth to Brede’s neck. Brede shivered and turned to meet the questing lips with her own, turned, to reach out, to hold and explore.
Silent, concentrated, Brede heard Grainne stirring in the next room. She pulled away slightly, taking firm hold of Sorcha’s wrist and led her through the door, pulling it closed and locking it. Sorcha followed her up the short curving flight of stairs to the outer door, which stood open to the sky. Brede closed it behind them, wondering briefly why it was open. Sorcha once more enfolded her in her arms; hands sliding across the surface of shirt, catching in it, taking it with her fingers, sure swift movements and the hands were touching flesh. Brede pulled away suddenly.
‘What are we doing?’
‘Making love on the roof?’
Sorcha glanced about her. The roof sloped gently up to its ridge, a narrow walkway separating it from the defensive parapet inset with arrow slits.
There was only the one door, and Brede held the key.
Sorcha positioned herself cautiously, back to the stone tiles of the roof, one knee hitched up to keep balanced.
‘I’ve never been anywhere so uncomfortable,’ she said. ‘There isn’t room to stand or sit or lie.’
Brede stretched awkwardly beside her, and scanned the stars.
Sorcha turned and watched the rise and fall of Brede’s chest, sharp fast breaths – the key still gripped tightly in her fist.
She reached and smoothed the half-unbraided hair and followed her fingertips with her mouth. Brede turned her head away. Sorcha tasted hot angry tears, she rolled closer, pressing her body against Brede, wrapping them both in the heavy folds of Grainne’s mantle, licking the tears away, tracing the folds of her eyes, lashes, lids, brow, with the tip of her tongue. The rhythm of Brede’s breathing changed, no longer harsh and contained, now ragged with open weeping. Sorcha moved her mouth to still the trembling, smother the sobs, catching Brede’s lower lip between her teeth briefly. Brede sighed, a deep gust of released tension. Her hands tangled in Sorcha’s, holding her still, the key hot metal between their joined palms. She returned the kisses with an urgency and tender seriousness that had Sorcha shamed.
