by Cherry Potts
‘Your midsummer wine.’
Phelan would have liked to turn his eyes away from her, but he couldn’t.
‘You drank the same poison you gave me?’ Grainne thought about that midsummer wine, thought about Brede handing her the glass. If Phelan had drunk the same, he must have an antidote. Then she thought about him taking her hands, both her hands in his, in his mockery of fealty, asking his yearly question, and when she gave her annual refusal, he had handed the glass back – no – there was no antidote, and there was no poison until she refused, and each time she refused – Grainne shuddered.
‘I trusted you. I trusted Aeron – why would she – she would have told me – Lorcan is truly yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘You would not have me.’
‘No, Phelan. Do not try to blame me.’ Grainne covered her eyes. Her mind painted pictures for her, casual laughter at Phelan’s teasing protestations of love; that absurd leap from the roof to escape his more amorous advances. And he had still hoped? She couldn’t believe it. And he had asked her to hand-fast every year for fourteen years, and he had not, could not have started poisoning her that long ago.
‘What changed?’ she asked. ‘What made my refusal worth poison?’
‘You were always so self-sufficient.’ Even though Sorcha no longer held him to truth, Phelan told it, exhausted and past caring. ‘I thought if you were weaker you would rely on me, need me, want me. But you stayed strong, despite everything. The more I hurt you, the stronger you got, and the more I loved you, and wanted you more.’ He laughed, and would have shaken his head, if only he could, and he would have wept, but Grainne might then think he was lying still, and he would not have her misunderstand him now.
Maeve nodded to Inir, and Cei. Inir because he, like her, loved Killan; Cei because he did not. She could barely wait to saddle her horse. Inir pulled the tangle of reins from her hands.
‘Roof?’ he asked. She blinked, looking across the river at the mill and nodded. They set off running towards the fastest possible route for their goal.
Brede stayed away as long as she dared. At the door to Grainne’s quarters she stopped. She didn’t want to go back in.
Would she have done this if she were Grainne? Would she? She could smell Phelan’s fear, his humiliation, his distress; it disgusted her. And worse, there was Sorcha. She took a steadying breath and pushed through the door.
A constant tremor shook Phelan’s limbs. Sorcha was sitting at Grainne’s feet, her face buried in the Queen’s skirts. She lifted her head as Brede entered, and turned a tear-stained anguished face towards her.
‘Maeve will come,’ Brede said, feeling nothing for Sorcha, wanting an end.
Grainne inclined her head stiffly, refusing to lower her guard now. The smell of fear was so tangible and rancid that Brede gagged. She went to the balcony shutters and threw them open. She filled her lungs with the clean warm air, and stared wistfully down at the riverbank below. Brede sensed angry movement behind her, and turned, her heart pounding. Phelan hadn’t moved. The Queen looked straight into Brede’s furious fearful eyes, and let her objection die.
Wing Clan, she reminded herself, pulling her gown closer about her neck, against the faint breeze that stirred the foetid air. She felt cold to her marrow, but she couldn’t expect a nomad, used to the Plains wind, to understand that.
Phelan felt the breeze against his back, and was grateful. The tremors faded.
Inir checked that his sword was loose in its scabbard for the fourth time. He glanced at Maeve, her face pale as the moon, and as impassive.
‘We’ll take this as gently as we can,’ she said softly.
‘We need someone up on the wall,’ Inir suggested. Maeve glanced up.
‘We do? You think he’ll run?’
‘You know he will.’
Maeve fought a constriction in her throat. Did she?
‘Is there something I should know?’ she asked.
Inir loosened his sword again.
‘If we’re right to be arresting Killan, he has been fostering our confidences, he has been betraying us, you and me, not just whoever it is he thinks is his enemy.’
‘If.’
‘Maeve, you know it, I know it. It makes sense doesn’t it? As soon as you rejected him, he turned to me. He wanted a conduit for information about what we were doing, what the duty rota was, how many guards. He had no reason to be here, he had no real work. We were duped, used.’
‘He’ll try to run.’ Maeve moved into shadow.
‘We may have to kill him.’
Maeve nodded slowly, considering whom she could trust to do that, if it came to it.
‘Could you?’ she asked, her voice unrecognisable.
Inir wiped sweat off his palms and shook his head.
‘You?’
Maeve raised her head again, sighting along the edge of Killan’s roof. She considered what she might have told Killan that he could use, and her heart twisted with grief, and anger, and doubt. She weighed him in the balance of her heart.
‘If he makes me.’ She gripped the hilt of her sword, thinking about Killan’s hands twining into hers, thinking about her blade in his flesh. She shuddered. ‘I’ll take the wall. Wait for me.’
Inir stood motionless in the alley, his eyes flickering from the lighted window in the attic, to the wall above, until he saw Maeve silhouetted against the evening light. He turned to Cei, pointing down the street.
‘If he goes for the roof, he can get down at the corner. Stay here. If he gets by me, stop him, if he gets to the roof, go there and meet him.’
Cei nodded curtly. Inir cleared his throat, and leant on the door, pushing his way into the poorly lit stairway. He made his way up the familiar narrow treads which seemed even more precarious now. At the doorway he hesitated, listening. Killan was not alone. Nothing for it, he rapped briefly on the doorpost and pushed through the curtain.
There was a swift giggling scuffle from the bed. Inir caught sight of a woman who he was relieved to not recognise, and Killan untangled himself from his bedding laughing.
‘Inir! I thought you were on duty tonight.’ Killan sounded warm, welcoming, slightly drunk.
‘That I am,’ Inir replied, pleasantly, sauntering to the middle of the room, putting himself between Killan and the sword belt draped over the only chair. The woman pushed hair out of her eyes, and reached for the clothing strewn beside the bed.
‘So, this is business?’ Killan asked, his voice levelling into caution. The woman glanced up sharply, thrust her unclothed feet into her boots, grabbed her breeches, and sidled to the doorway. Inir held the curtain aside for her.
‘I’m here to arrest you, Killan,’ Inir said softly, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. ‘Please don’t make this difficult.’
‘Difficult?’ Killan threw back the bed covers, revealing his utter nakedness. Inir let his eyes wander over his body, his hand groping for the back of the chair and the shirt tangled with the sword belt. He threw it at Killan. Killan nodded slowly and drew the shirt over his head. ‘I owe you that.’
‘This is deadly earnest, Killan. I hope it’s a mistake and will be sorted out by morning, but I must assume it isn’t.’
‘Breeches, boy,’ Killan said tersely, searching under the bed for his boots. Inir caught the breeches up for the floor, and for a second his eyes were not on Killan. There was a knife in Killan’s boot top, and there was a knife in the air, and Inir was flinging himself sideways, and Killan was out the window. He didn’t get far, Maeve’s blow struck him to one side of his neck and he crumpled at her feet. She crouched beside him, turning his unconscious face toward the light. She stroked the side of his face absently, then peered in through the damaged shutter, at Inir lying in a tangle of clothes.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes.’ Inir fought to his feet. ‘Just feeling stupid. I hadn’t drawn my sword.’
Maeve shrugged.
‘We bot
h wanted not to have to. Come and help get him in.’
Inir came to the window.
‘Are we going to get him dressed?’ Maeve considered the bared thigh by her foot, and curled her toes against the urge to kick Killan really hard.
‘I don’t think so, no. Let’s get him bound up and out of here. He’ll be awake by the time we’re in the street, I expect. What’s the humiliation of walking Broad Street in nothing but a shirt compared to what he’s dealt out to us?’ Inir shook his head unhappily. ‘I really thought he cared for me.’
Maeve sighed.
‘I think perhaps he really did – and for me, but it didn’t make a difference, beyond making it easier to get us to talk to him.’
‘Do you think you ever said anything really damaging?’
Maeve closed her eyes and nodded.
‘Probably. Perhaps even enough to get me hanged.’ She gazed at Inir, ‘You?’
Inir nodded. They looked at each other. Maeve uncurled her toes. ‘If you’re thinking what I am, about the drop from this roof, and the silence of the dead, I hope you realise that as a sworn officer of the Queen’s bodyguard our first duty is to bring justice to this – piece of shit, whatever the consequences.’
Inir nodded, ‘Duty,’ he said firmly.
‘That’s right.’ Maeve leant and yanked Killan away from the drop, towards the window. Inir reached to help her haul him in over the sill.
‘Bastard,’ he said coldly.
Maeve leant once more through the window and whistled for Cei. She saw his shadow detach from the corner.
‘I have to get back,’ she said quietly and stepped back out onto the roof. She measured the leap required at the end of the alley, glanced quickly at Inir to make sure he was coping, then ran, and leapt.
At last, footsteps echoed on the stone stair outside. Brede went to the door, sword at the ready.
Maeve stepped back slightly, seeing the drawn blade.
‘Steady,’ she said, making a half question of the word, recognising how on edge they all were, her own heart pounding and her breath uneven gasps which were not solely the result of her break-neck rush across the roofs of the city.
She glanced furtively at Phelan’s immobile form, then expectantly at Grainne, as she bent her knee into an approximation to a bow.
Grainne gestured her upright, then rested her hand on Sorcha’s shoulder.
‘It is time,’ she said.
Maeve couldn’t understand Phelan’s unresisting silence, but recognised that Sorcha had something to do with it. So it was to Sorcha that she looked now.
The warriors drew their swords, ready to escort their prisoner. Sorcha forced herself to her feet. She looked Phelan in the face, searching for something – remorse, or perhaps forgiveness. She saw only loathing. She mustered her resources, sang a few notes, and set him free.
Phelan felt the sudden jumping of muscles at last his to control, but not controlled. He forced the trembling into a dull shudder, fighting the urge to let his knees bend under him. He looked around slowly, relishing the movement. It was as he thought; the room as he remembered, the escort as he anticipated. He stepped toward them, warriors he once commanded, now ready to kill him, unarmed and bound though he was, should Grainne give the word. He was certain that she would not give that order; she wanted him alive for now. Phelan took another step forward, testing the strength of his legs; sufficient for what he planned. His eyes swept over Sorcha, and he shook his head slightly.
‘I would not have thought this of you,’ he said, his voice rasping on the last word. Sorcha flinched away.
He bowed his head to Grainne.
‘Cousin,’ he said, unrepentant still, undaunted. She half raised her hand, a fluttering in the corner of his eye, no time to think what it might mean: Phelan moved swiftly. He made no attempt to harm Grainne, no bid for freedom. He dived for the balcony, the open shutter, and the freedom of the air.
Maeve’s fingers grazed his shoulder as she lunged after him but no more than that, and Phelan flung himself from the parapet, out and down, falling three storeys.
Maeve stared down in horror, her warning to Inir stark in her mind.
Far below her, Phelan stirred. His arms still pinioned, he began to crawl, with agonising slowness, forcing himself toward the river through sheer will. Maeve scarcely heard the commotion behind her, too shocked to take in what else was happening.
Brede reached Phelan first. She made no attempt to touch him; she simply stood between him and his goal, understanding what he was trying to do. If he died, he could not be forced to bear witness at any trial, there would be only her word and Sorcha’s that he had confessed, and that he implicated those others who should stand trial with him. Grainne might be accused of his murder, which would further discredit their evidence. Phelan must not be allowed to die.
So, Brede stood between the man and his drowning, and hated herself. He was bleeding and broken, and he cursed her with steady loathing. If ever cursing might be effective, this cursing should be.
Corla arrived, out of breath, and tried to assess his injuries. He screamed at her touch, and Brede pulled her swiftly away. Corla gagged quietly, heart-sickened at Phelan’s broken struggling and at Brede’s grim refusal to allow him to die.
Brede tried not to think of what she was doing. She wanted nothing more than to allow Phelan to welcome the embrace of the Scavenger – nothing.
Sorcha now, collapsing to her knees beside Phelan, setting about his healing; grim faced, icy voiced, visibly shaking. She sang, and willed his body to mend, but Phelan’s will was stronger. To heal, the body must wish to be healed. Sorcha was so tired already, and he wished to die. And still Phelan cursed.
Sorcha sat back on her heels, taking her blooded hands away from the tensed, unmoving body.
‘I can’t hold you,’ she said quietly, and the tension left Phelan in a rush, and with it, his last breath.
Brede closed her eyes, relief weakening her.
Sorcha reached out once more to Phelan, smoothing his hair. Now that he was gone, she could afford to remember him as he had been, the amusing young friend of her youth, the reckless laughing boy, the vulnerable one, always in love with someone – always in love.
‘I would not have thought this of you,’ she whispered.
Somehow she must find the strength to stand. Somehow she must get to her feet, and somehow she must tell Grainne that Phelan had beaten her. She stared without thought at Phelan’s bruised, distorted face, slackening in death. At last she held out her hand to Brede, asking for help to rise, and looked up into Brede’s face for the first time. She met an expression that she could find no words to encompass – the blindness in Brede’s eyes, the bleached-bone pallor of her skin. Brede eyes dropped to that outstretched hand and she stepped away. Sorcha made to wipe her eyes, and understood Brede’s involuntary wincing away. She wiped her hands against the thin grass, but it was not enough to clean the blood from them. Slipping on the sloping ground she forced herself to the water’s edge, plunging her hands in to the ice-cold water.
Brede helped Sorcha back to her feet, offering no apology nor explanation.
Sorcha went, trembling, to explain to Grainne.
Brede watched her go, and a sudden need to see nothing but a horizon engulfed her – no walls, no monarchs, and no witches. She closed her mind to the exhaustion in Sorcha’s walk, and allowed her to get to the gate before she started after her. She didn’t plan to go back into Grainne’s tower, or anywhere else, with Sorcha. She turned sharply towards the stables, her mind icy.
Maeve was still in Grainne’s chamber, stiffly at attention. Sorcha met her eyes, and shook her head. Maeve, to her surprise, found new depths for her despair. She had not thought to fail so completely, and she had liked Phelan – She didn’t understand why she was still standing there, why Grainne had not ordered her execution. Grainne saw the shake of Sorcha’s head and sighed.
‘I need to sleep, Sorcha. How can I sleep?’ she tried not
to sound like a petulant child, but she was too distraught to be dignified.
‘I am here,’ Sorcha replied wearily.
‘No, you’ve done too much already. I’ve asked too much of you; you and Brede. Now I have tasks I do not think I can ask of either of you. Maeve shall be my guard for the next watch, and after her, Tegan, if she has returned. Find me drugs – that’s all I ask. You need rest; take as long as you need.’
Sorcha considered Grainne levelly. She translated her words – Get away from me. I can’t bear to have you here now.
Well enough, Sorcha preferred not to be close to Grainne now either. She bent her knee, formal, contained. She put the herbs where Grainne could reach them, gathered up a cloak, and left the Queen’s quarters.
Sorcha ran down the stairs, almost blind with anger and exhaustion. The halls seem strangely unpeopled. She forced herself to stop her headlong flight, and fought for calm. This was an unnatural quiet, as though the whole city held its breath in fear. Even though several feet of stone closed off the courtyard, Sorcha could hear the flurry of pigeons on the walls. She closed her eyes. She thought of Brede, and the terrible, closed expression that had passed over her face inflicted itself upon her memory. Sorcha shivered, and pulled the cloak close about her. Walking slowly now, she stepped out of the grey light of the tower into the brightness of the courtyard that separated the tower from the barracks. She glanced up at the pigeons, lead-grey wings spread, as she passed under the arch into the practice yard. Here too there was a feeling of desertion. Across the yard then, and round to the stables. If Brede could not be found, there would at least be the horses. Macsen would be a poor substitute, but she could pretend he understood.
Grainne looked at Maeve’s immobile face.
