The Dowry Blade

by Cherry Potts

  Brede slid from the horse’s back. Her leg collapsed under her, suddenly useless. The horse stepped away, startled, and Brede had to grab the rope rein, to prevent him bolting. She was dragged a few steps, before the horse would settle. She bit her lip against the new pain of the grazes on her unprotected shins, reminded of her first meeting with Sorcha, and Macsen’s ill-tempered stamping. At least this horse hadn’t tried to kill her. Brede folded that memory away, in the part of her mind where she refused to dwell, and tried to work out how to get her legs to move.

  The horse had wandered a short distance, its head sunk almost to the ground. Brede whistled to it and it walked back to her, hoping for a handful of oats. Brede pulled herself up, using the horse to rest against. The horse still refused to go any closer to the body, so Brede took the long sword as a crutch once more.

  She leant heavily on her sword, bending reluctant knees to get down to the level of the body. She hugged the cold metal to her, desperate for something to hold on to, as a spasm of pain shot up into her back, leaving her gasping. Brede put the sword to one side with slow determination. All she could do was wait. Slowly the worst of the pain ebbed, and Brede turned once more to the body beside her.

  The head and one arm trailed in the water, and it took some effort for Brede to drag him clear of the river and turn him over. An oldish man, his throat cut. Brede wiped her hands uneasily. She glanced about her, but there was no sign of anyone nearby. The body was quite cold, losing the first stiffness of death. He had lain here long enough for his murderer to be far away. Brede shifted awkwardly away, wanting no more to do with this ending. She glanced almost furtively at the body. Her eyes strayed to his feet.

  Boots.

  Her feet were freezing. Brede shuddered, thinking of Maeve going through the pockets of the woman she had killed. She eyed the boots again. Too big, but not much too big. She stretched a cautious hand to the man’s foot, gave an experimental tug. The boot shifted easily; too big for him too. Thanking the Goddess for the waning stiffness in the body, Brede worked first one boot, and then the other off the corpse’s feet. Another wave of disgust hit her. She placed her bare foot beside the boot, measuring. She would need to wrap her feet to stop them slipping and rubbing.

  She tore lengths of cloth from the remains of her cloak, trying to keep the cloth smooth as she forced her feet into the boots. Scrambling to her feet, the boot dragged her damaged foot straight for the first time, forcing it into alignment with her shin. Brede hadn’t been aware of her limping tendency to turn her toes inward. The boot acted as a splint, but too late for mending the defect. She gasped, gritting her teeth against this new pain, wanting to rip the tormenting leather from her and throw the boots into the river. The dead man’s bare feet accused her, the toes pointing vainly at the sky. Brede struggled to the horse, every step setting fire in her bones. She stared up at the horse, wondering whether she had the strength in her arms to pull herself up onto its back, with no saddle to give her purchase. She decided that she had not, and headed back to the ruined bridge, and the damaged footing that would give her the height she needed to remount.

  Secure on the horse’s back once more, Brede re-examined the riverbank; there was no question of fording the river here. There was no obvious track away from the bridge in the other direction, Reluctantly she turned her back on the water, and took the horse slowly back along the road, looking for a turning. She found one almost immediately, disguised by the gorse and hawthorn growth, but visible now in the early dawn light. This track was more regularly used, and swiftly curved back to follow the river downstream. Barely out of sight of the road, she came upon more bodies. Irrationally, she was grateful that the man had not died isolated from his family. She was shocked at being comforted by carnage. The small farm by the river was deserted now, the raiders long gone, whoever they were. Brede searched through the few remaining possessions scattered across the yard. She took a blanket, and a half loaf of bread, not too spoiled for eating. She thought of her parents, victims of just such a raid, and remembered picking through her own scattered belongings, delirious and in pain, hoping for anything that might still be serviceable. Nothing here could be of use to the slaughtered owners. She forced her thoughts away from the sprawled bodies, determined to prevent herself from trying to work out the relationships between each cold, motionless form. Taking what she needed, she remounted the horse, using the mounting block in the silent yard.

  Sunlight spilt across the river, lighting those silvery pebbles, stained dark with blood. Brede encouraged the horse back onto the riverside track. There might be a bridge further on, but there might also be the raiders. Brede wanted only to cross that river and ride as fast as the horse would permit her. She didn’t plan to stop again. It was not so far: if she rode fast, she could be at the city in a matter of days.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Exhausted by days of riding without sleep, Brede was surprised that she could find the way to the city. It seemed centuries since she had first come here. There was still a sense of danger in the country immediately around the city; she flinched fearfully from any sound, watching for any sign of warriors.

  So, the northern gate, and an area not overly familiar to her. She was not challenged at the gate, although the women on guard gave her a sharp look, before letting her through. Brede was glad she had made no attempt to hide the greatsword. Although most people were not armed, each knot of refugees had at least one blade amongst the bundles, goats and hens, and children; she would have been out of place, suspicious, without a blade readily to hand. Some soldiers still wore green, but with red badges on their sleeves, an attempt to create a link between the old enemies, but the tension and the heavy guard at the gate didn’t speak of reconciliation, and the red-coated warriors did not all wear corresponding green badges. She walked the horse towards the warriors’ quarter, and the barracks; disconcerted to find several of the bridges dismantled or barricaded. At last she crossed the main bridge, the only stone bridge, hoping for someone with answers for the questions that crowded her mind.

  Brede sat her horse and, trying not to let her glance stray to the shuttered windows of the tower above her, watched the traffic through the gate; watching for someone she knew. She didn’t wait long. Several people she recognised, but who did not recognise her, came through the gate, and then Corla.

  Corla was preoccupied, but she was well trained; she noticed the stillness amid the bustle. She pulled her horse to a stand; turning her head to stare curiously at the stranger waiting just far enough from the gate to be unobtrusive, just close enough to be noticed, if she wished to be noticed.

  Corla walked the horse towards the stranger, drawn by her watching, her stillness. Closer now, she saw the face, and recognised it, but could give it no name.

  ‘Corla,’ the stranger said quietly, by way of greeting.

  Corla recognised the voice, despite the effort it cost Brede to make her vocal cords work after nearly two years of silence, and realised that above all, it was that stillness that had confused her. She had never thought of Brede as still; and the horse was such poor quality –

  ‘You should not be here,’ Corla said, keeping her voice low.

  She reached out and touched Brede’s shoulder, for the benefit of anyone watching, indicating that this was a welcomed chance meeting, although that was not the truth; and the touch was as much for her own benefit, to convince herself that she was not hallucinating.

  ‘How so?’ Brede asked, her voice rasping painfully.

  ‘Lorcan’s not forgotten you. He thinks you’re dead, but he hasn’t forgotten. If you’re seen here, you will be in danger.’

  ‘I have something of Lorcan’s that I wish to return.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A sword. It has brought me nothing but trouble. I’d be glad for him to have it back.’

  ‘Are you out of your mind? Look, come with me; get away from here. If Maeve sees you –’

  Brede turned her horse, allowing h
im to fall in step with Corla’s youthful roan.

  ‘Maeve is here then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Tegan?’

  Corla shook her head.

  ‘I’ll take you to Tegan. I was going in that direction in any case. She’ll know what to do with you.’

  Corla surveyed Brede thoughtfully.

  ‘Is it only two years?’ she asked wonderingly. ‘I’d not have recognised you – but cover your head, shade those eyes, you still look like a Plains rider. That isn’t wise.’

  Corla fished awkwardly in her saddlebag, and handed a battered broad-brimmed hat to Brede.

  Brede pulled the hat well down, shading her eyes from view. She felt ridiculous; she had never worn a hat in her life.

  ‘So,’ Brede said. ‘Where is Tegan?’

  ‘Keeping an inn.’

  Brede laughed.

  ‘She said she would, when she got sick of soldiering. Where?’

  ‘West Gate.’

  Brede didn’t respond, a fleeting image of a splash of sunlight in darkness; lighting Sorcha’s shoulder and neck, her own hand, not quite touching Sorcha’s face –

  ‘Maeve wouldn’t let her go further, wanted to be able to keep an eye on her. I think Lorcan would like Tegan well away, out of his lands; or dead, of course, that would suit him well enough – but Maeve is valuable to him.’

  ‘Maeve is close with him?’ Brede asked.

  ‘Not so much close, more useful. He won’t argue with her over Tegan.’

  ‘I didn’t know Maeve was so ambitious,’ Brede said quietly.

  ‘Nor did any of us – although it kept her alive, and us too I don’t doubt. She is tolerated, and plays the consummate mercenary,’ Corla said. ‘Brede – you should not have come here.’

  They rode the rest of the way to West Gate in an uncomfortable silence, Corla restless to be out of Brede’s company, Brede unsettled and uncertain.

  Tegan greeted Corla with pleased surprise, and was puzzled when her old comrade merely lifted a shoulder and grimaced.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked sharply.

  ‘Not what, but who,’ Corla responded, beckoning Brede from the shadows.

  Tegan saw a woman who would have been tall, if she could have stood straight. Her dragging limp was painful to watch, and disguised a walk Tegan might otherwise have recognised.

  Brede pulled the hat from her head, and ran a hand through her hair, as far as the tangled braid would allow. That gesture Tegan recognised, but couldn’t believe she had seen.

  ‘What is this?’ she asked, abruptly feeling unsafe. ‘What is this?’

  Brede waited in silence, as Tegan stepped closer, peering at her face. She didn’t believe she had changed so much that Tegan would not recognise her.

  Tegan did not doubt the identity of her visitor. It was the how and why that concerned her.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, keeping her voice low, pulling Brede back into the shadows, keeping her body between Brede and anyone who might glance in her direction. Tegan wasn’t pleased to see Brede, and yet for all that, she wanted to keep a hold on her, perhaps even embrace her. A strange feeling, after so long.

  Tegan drew away, glancing at Corla. The warrior caught the look, shrugged.

  ‘I’ve places to be,’ Corla said. ‘Stay safe.’ She left swiftly. Tegan hoped she would keep silent about this meeting.

  ‘I’ve brought Lorcan his sword,’ Brede said at last, feeling as she spoke that this was not, after all, why she had come.

  ‘And how were you planing to deliver it? Between his ribs?’

  ‘I don’t much care. I don’t want it. If Maeve has access to him, perhaps she –’

  ‘No,’ Tegan said swiftly. ‘No, you aren’t going to deliver that sword, through Maeve, or any other way. Sell it, if you can, or lose it. It has been nothing but trouble, and there is enough of that already. Can you imagine what kind of furore there’d be if it turned up now?’

  Tegan stared once more into Brede’s face, hardly able to trace anything she recognised there, save the dark watchful eyes.

  ‘I thought you were dead,’ she whispered, and hugged Brede fiercely, her arms loosening from Brede’s shoulders reluctantly, registering the uneven shoulder blade, the thinness –

  ‘So did I,’ Brede said, but her voice cracked, failing to make a joke of the pain in Tegan’s words. She shook her head abruptly, refusing to dwell on it. ‘I was told it isn’t safe for me here?’ she asked, afraid of the response.

  ‘We’ve things to say to one another,’ Tegan said. ‘Come and sit down.’

  She led Brede through to her private quarters, issuing terse instructions to the boy in charge of the barrels. She tried not to watch Brede’s painful progress, resisting the temptation to take her arm, to assist her.

  Brede lowered herself slowly into a chair, and glanced about, imagining she would recognise something; she did not. Tegan frowned, and took a bottle from a shelf, and a couple of mugs. She poured, and handed one mug to Brede.

  ‘You look as though this might help,’ she said.

  Brede took the mug without comment, and took a small mouthful. The liquor was harsh, shocking to her mouth after so long, but welcome.

  ‘So,’ Tegan said. ‘Tell me where you’ve been, and why you look as though the Scavenger spat you back.’

  ‘I don’t know where I’ve been, exactly. I know I’m alive, and for now, that’s more than enough. I need something to do with my life, and none of the skills I’ve trained for are the least use to me. I thought I’d deliver the blade to its owner, then take my bearings from there. That sword has been an unreasonable burden, ever since I found it.’

  ‘You should’ve left it there.’

  Brede didn’t answer. She couldn’t imagine what her world might have held, had she not taken the sword from its resting place.

  ‘Perhaps you should take it back?’ Tegan asked.

  ‘No. She didn’t want it. I doubt I’d find the place now. Tegan, there are things I would ask you. I don’t know – how the land lies, I don’t know who my friends are. Tell me what has been happening.’

  ‘Where have you been that you don’t know?’ Brede shook her head, having no answer. Tegan frowned at the continued silence, then said: ‘Well. Lorcan has taken the crown, you must know that at least?’

  Brede nodded, and took another swallow of Tegan’s brew.

  ‘Lorcan made promises, far too many to be able to keep. Many who were loyal to him throughout the war are no longer so, feeling that they have been sold short. Others – not so loyal – have been found out, and are on the run, making common cause with anyone with a grievance – Madoc for one. They’re in revolt.’

  Brede made a face. Madoc again – she couldn’t pretend she was surprised.

  ‘The Horse Clans are in turmoil,’ Tegan said, trying to sort through the chaos to find the issues that would matter to Brede. ‘There are factions within factions, and confusion on all sides. The war isn’t over; perhaps it will never be, now. There are still those loyal to Grainne’s memory, or at least to the principle of female rule, who don’t accept Lorcan’s claim to the throne – the loss of that sword hasn’t helped him there – although who else has the right?’

  ‘That’s where you stand is it? No other choices, so accept the inevitable?’

  ‘Why not?’ Tegan asked, surprised that Brede hadn’t reacted to mention of the Dowry blade.

  Brede shrugged. It didn’t seem to matter as it once did.

  ‘I’ve hung up my sword,’ Tegan said softly. ‘My concern now is to make a living here.’

  ‘And Maeve?’

  ‘We’re no longer close. I do not ask.’

  ‘Corla told me.’

  Tegan shrugged, determined to turn the conversation away from Maeve.

  ‘Well, and have you been in contact with your Clan kin?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I have no kin in Wing Clan, save Neala. They cast me
out.’

  Brede cast her eyes down. Tegan turned away, on the pretext of refilling her mug.

  ‘You and Sorcha have been blamed for Grainne’s death. You had, to all intents, stolen the sword, and run for your lives. Lorcan needed someone to blame. You were conveniently expendable. No one much cared what happened to you, it wouldn’t have jeopardised any future treaty to put the blame on you.’

  Brede handed Tegan her mug to be filled once more. The alcohol was beginning to deaden the pain in her leg, but more was needed to deal with the ugly images her mind insisted on conjuring.

  ‘And rumour takes hold so swiftly, doesn’t it, when no one says it’s false. You knew, Tegan, yet you said nothing?’

  ‘Who would want to hear that Grainne died by her own hand?’

  Brede shook her head.

  ‘Corla said that you and Lorcan don’t see eye to eye?’

  ‘How could we? But Lorcan knows me for a mercenary, so for him, that is the role I play. What do I care who pays me? I told him. And when that viper Doran came back with your horse on a lead, and said you were dead; what point was there in saying the rumours were untrue? It would only have drawn Lorcan’s attention. Besides, it was the sword he was concerned about, not Grainne, and you did have the sword.’

  Tegan shook her head, shifted her gaze elsewhere. Brede tried not to think about that silence, but she had to know.

  ‘And who told Lorcan that?’

  Tegan continued to look away.

  ‘So,’ Brede asked. ‘Was it you? Or Maeve?’

  Tegan drew in an unsteady breath. ‘I was asked. Lorcan can be – persuasive. Riordan knew I’d been in Grainne’s quarters, perhaps he even saw you take the sword. There was nothing to be gained from silence, once you were safe away.’