Blood Ties (25 page)

I woke desperate for water and found a stream. I knelt and drank. A new beginning, that moment was. I had thought, waking, that the center of my heart was now empty, but kneeling, with the water cupped in my hands, I realized I was wrong. It was cold and numb and full of hate, but still dangerous. I would take payment for what Acton’s people had done to me and mine. Revenge was all I had left.

Saker

S
AKER AWOKE
from a dream of his mother calling his name and realized how stupid he’d been.

“Alder, arise,” he had said. The one difference, the
only
difference, between the spell he had used on his father and those he had tried on other bones was his father’s name. He needed names, not just bones.

But the names of the slain had been forgotten. The killers had not recorded the names of those they killed — they hadn’t known them. How could he recover the names of those lost forever?

It was a cold night, but he was sweating with excitement. He got up and paced around his room, trying to work it out. Perhaps a spell? A divination spell? But the enchanter had never taught him those. He went down to his workroom and worried the problem all night, walking, talking it over with himself, consulting his scrolls in the hope that somewhere a name had been recorded. Nothing.

Then, as the sun edged over the low hills to the east of Whitehaven and lit the tops of the trees at the edge of town, he realized afresh how stupid he was. The people he wanted to raise were of the old blood. They would have followed the custom whereby the first living thing the mother sees outside the birthing room gives the child its name. It was considered good luck to see a bird; his own name, Saker, was a kind of falcon. In any large group of the massacred, there would be those named after birds, trees, flowers, animals . . . All he had to do was try some. Surely he would know when he had the right names — his Sight would tell him.

He stopped short as he realized what this meant. It was time to raise the dead.

Bramble

A
S BRAMBLE
grasped the red-scarfed lance, she felt the fog being ripped away by a wave of sensation: life was coming back, her spirit was returning. It hurt, as birth always hurts, but she welcomed it with astonished joy.

“Kill Reborn!” the crowd shouted, and she brandished the lance in triumph. She
was
reborn. The sights and sounds of the crowd, the other chasers, the vivid green of spring all around her were overwhelming. Gorham ran to the finish line and thumped her leg in congratulations, panting too hard to talk, grinning madly. She laughed back.

She followed him up to the counter and received the winner’s bag of silver, still too dazed to speak. She just smiled, and smiled, and sometimes grinned, but everyone seemed to think that was quite normal.

The party that followed was long and loud and exuberant. Sendat was celebrating the good luck of being granted a Kill Reborn, and it was determined to celebrate thoroughly.

If she’d wanted to, Bramble could have got drunk ten times over without spending a copper. Everyone wanted to buy her a drink, clap her shoulder, smile into her eyes. Quite a few wanted more than that. She suspected that if she’d been clubfooted, squinty and with breath like a banshee she would have still had all the men after her. Good luck, they say, rubs off, and where better to rub it than onto a man’s privates? She could see them reasoning that out.

After the fifth fumbling attempt to seduce her, she slipped out to the stable to talk to the roan, her blood bubbling with delight. She was alive again, aware of the pleasure of taking each breath: the glass was broken, the fog dispersed. From the moment she had grabbed the lance with the red scarf, death had retreated from her. She was truly reborn.

The waitress found her and hustled Bramble back into the common room. “The warlord’s here! Come on, come on, don’t keep him waiting, it’s an honor,” she said, picking bits of straw off her clothes and reproving her under her breath. She pushed Bramble forward to the hearth where the warlord stood with the inn’s best tankard in his hand.

Thegan was a tall man, tawny-haired and blue-eyed, a bright cornflower blue, with a firm mouth and long, strong hands. He was dressed in dark brown, a good serviceable color, which was made luxurious by the cut and pile of the fabric and by the emblem stitched in gold on his shoulder: a spear and sword, crossed. Laughing at something one of his men had said, his face was alive with pleasure. Bramble could see why the waitress was blushing and fidgeting, hoping for him to notice her. He was comely enough to make any woman blush.

Then he turned his eyes on Bramble and she saw, without surprise, that they were cold as stone behind the cheerful facade. He had a mouth, in repose, that was joined to his nose by long lines that ran down to the corners, deeply etched: the mouth of a man with strong desires, who kept them under tight control. And hard eyes.

A woman moved forward beside him, a lady. There was only one person this could be. The warlord’s lady, Sorn. She was like a picture of autumn in a tapestry, with rich auburn hair and green eyes, in a dark green dress with a border of embroidered claret and gold leaves around the hem, neck and cuffs. Her pale skin was fine-pored and delicate, showing the blue veins at temple and wrist. A lovely woman, Bramble thought, wrapped in femininity and assured grace. Only the nose was out of place, a man’s straight nose, which gave her face strength but left it looking a little lopsided. But young — much younger than Thegan. Sold to the highest bidder, most like. She smiled at the woman companionably and Sorn smiled back.

“So this is our Kill Reborn,” Thegan said. A cheer went up around the room and he smiled more widely. “It was well done.”

No doubt she was expected to curtsy and blush and call him “lord.” Bramble didn’t know how to curtsy and she wasn’t about to learn. “Thanks,” she said.

His eyes narrowed. It was the same reaction she’d had from the warlord’s man, but with a difference. The warlord’s man didn’t know how to control his anger; this one did, and that made him more dangerous.

“It was a good race,” he said, testing her. Next to him, Sorn stayed perfectly still, watching Bramble intently.

Bramble nodded. “I enjoyed it.”

They stared at each other for a moment, acknowledging enmity. Sorn bit her lip as though to hold back a smile. Then the innkeeper came up with a tray of drinks and food, and slipped between them, breaking the stare. And just as well, Bramble thought, making her way out to the stables again as the others clustered around the drinks. There was no way that could have ended well.

Gorham and Maude were happily ensconced in a corner talking horses with a bunch of chase enthusiasts. He raised a glass to her as she walked by and they smiled twin smiles of mutual congratulation. It helped her shake off any unease left from the encounter with Thegan. She slipped into the stable and laid her cheek against the roan’s side. She was full to the brim with happiness and so was he, she could tell. He pricked his ears as though he heard again the cheers of the spectators and snorted as if he wanted to race again.

She patted him, fed him carrots and promised him they would race again soon.

They rode twice more that year, in different towns, and won each time, making them eligible for the Pless Challenge in autumn. She never overtook the Kill again — they had learned caution. Besides, she didn’t want to take the risk: stealing the scarf and lance from the Kill in autumn was the worst of bad luck. She was reborn; it was best to leave well enough alone.

Thanks to being the Kill Reborn, Bramble was immediately as well known among chasers as the most experienced rider. She was offered more horses to ride than she could ever have taken, but she refused them all. She wasn’t interested in chasing with another horse. She grew to enjoy the claps and calls as she mounted the roan before a chase, to relish the cheers afterward. But it was the ride itself that kept her at Gorham’s, kept her from the Road — the chase, and the feeling of having escaped death. Perhaps she could escape the demon’s prophecy as well. Perhaps, now she was alive again, she could love and be loved.

The Pless Challenge was the most prestigious and hotly contested chase in the Domains. No horse and rider combination could enter unless they had won at least three consecutive chases, so the competition was tough. Bramble studied the racecourse for days before the chase, although it was off limits to horses until race day. She saw other riders doing the same thing. Most she knew from the other chases, although one was new: a young man with long blond hair drawn back in the ponytail sported by most of the expert riders. He prowled the course with long, rangy strides as though he had to stop himself from breaking into a run. His ponytail bobbed along behind him and it made Bramble chuckle, although she couldn’t have said why. His hearing was excellent. She was on the other side of a field, but his head went up (just like a horse, she thought) and he whirled around to see her.

He grinned and started to walk over to her. “The Kill Reborn!” he shouted halfway across the field. “I’ve heard about you!”

He sprang to a dead stop in front of her and examined her. “Ah, yes, a good native type, excellent conformation, not too much bone, though, may have trouble in heavy going.”

Was that a joke? She couldn’t quite tell, couldn’t read him, but she decided to act as though it were. She examined him in turn. He was dressed as she was, in rider’s leather trews and a loose linen shirt, nothing fancy, but good quality, with well-stitched boots. A red-fringed kerchief around his neck added a touch of flamboyance. He looked like a caricature of Acton’s people: hair so blond it was almost white, pale blue eyes, fair skin, and a tall, loosely connected frame. He wore small gold earrings that drew attention to his long neck.

“Hmmm,” she said. “Thoroughbred. Pure bloodlines, but a bit long in the back, and those pedigreed animals can be very nervous types. Waste a lot of energy. Expensive to feed, I’d say.”

He laughed aloud, throwing his head back. She smiled involuntarily. “Gods, you’re right there!” He grinned at her, showing crooked teeth. “I’m Leofric. Leof. Come and have a drink with me.”

It was those teeth, she decided later, that threw her off balance and made her accept his invitation. They were so unexpected in such a beautiful man, and they got under her defenses. It was like Wilf back in her home village — sweet but plain — and imperfection somehow always made her gentler than she would be otherwise.

They walked back to Pless across the fields.

“So, the Kill Reborn in Sendat . . .” he said.

“That’s me.”

“How many chases had you ridden before that one?”

His intentions were obvious — size up the opposition. Fair enough.

“None.” His eyebrows went up.

“But you’ve been riding a long time?”

“A few months.” She saw with satisfaction the shock on his face.

“Gods . . . and you just decided to start chasing?”

“Yep.”

“So, what, you’ve found some spell to make you win?” His face was suddenly intense, as though, if such a spell were possible, he would move heavens and earth to get it.

“That’s me. An enchantress.”

He dissolved into laughter, as though the intensity of the moment before had never happened. “Absolutely!” he said, batting his eyes at her. “I came under your spell as soon as I set eyes on you.”

“What makes you think I’d bother putting a spell on you?”

He stopped and grasped her shoulder to turn her toward him, then tilted her face up toward his with a finger under her chin. She was torn between wanting to slap his hand away and wanting to rub her cheek against it. She kept still. He leaned closer to her until she could see the sapphire glint in his eyes.

“Wouldn’t I be worth putting a spell on? They say that in the Wind Cities the women have a spell that turns men into love slaves. Wouldn’t you like to use that one on me?”

His voice was low and intimate, practiced, assured. He was all too used to being irresistible, she decided. “Then I’d be responsible for feeding you — I can’t afford it.”

He chuckled again and let go of her chin. “Now that you mention it, I am famished!”

They went to the first inn they came to, the Shield, the most expensive inn in town, right next to the river.

“I’m staying here,” Leof said. “It’s not bad.”

The taproom looked more like a restaurant than an inn, with the walls painted the green of spring beech leaves, and the frieze patterned with autumn leaves in russet and tan. There were long cushions on the benches and the tables shone with polish. It was a far cry from the inn nearest the farm, where she sometimes went with visiting grooms, or the alehouse in her home village.

They sat at a bench near the window and looked across the river to the chase grounds. Leof waved to the barman and he came over. Not quite a man, Bramble thought. He was no more than sixteen, a lithe boy who might have been good-looking without a disastrous case of pimples. He was trying hard to flirt with Leof, smiling, smoothing his brown hair back and standing as close to him as he could.

“Ale, maybe, and some new bread and cheese?” Leof suggested. She nodded. “Your best ale, now,” he said to the boy, and winked.

The boy blushed and scurried off to the kitchen. Bramble raised an eyebrow at Leof. He laughed.

“No, no, I prefer women. But there’s no need to be rude about it, is there? He seemed like a nice young lad.”

She thought he just liked admiration, and didn’t much care where it came from.

While they waited for the food and drink, Leof cross-examined her on the chases she had been in since the Kill Reborn in Sendat. Two could play at that game, she thought. He tried to shrug off her questions.

“Oh, I’ve ridden in a few chases, I suppose. It’s not a bad inn, is it?”

“I asked how many,” she said with a smile.

“Twelve,” he said, smiling back.

The boy hurried back with a full tray and set everything out on the table. He lingered until Leof smiled at him again, then tucked the tray under his arm and strolled off, trying to be nonchalant.

“How many wins?”

He hesitated, pretending that he was deciding how much cheese to cut.

“If you don’t tell me, someone else will.”

He looked up and chuckled. “Well, that’s true. Ten. Here, have a drink.”

He passed her a tankard of ale and bit enthusiastically into the bread and cheese. Bramble watched, amused. He did everything enthusiastically. She was aware of her body and her immediate surroundings in the same way as when she was riding: the softness of the cushion under her buttocks and the hard edge of the bench against her calves, the smell of the beeswaxed table, aged cheese, and horse and hay from Leof and herself. All around them people were drinking, talking, eating, but those sounds seemed to disappear, leaving them in a quiet space, so quiet she could hear him swallow a gulp of ale. Everything seemed more alive, the colors were stronger, the sounds sweeter, the smells more evocative. He’d had that effect on the bar boy, too, as though Leof carried some music around with him that made life more intense.

“Why haven’t I seen you before?” she asked.

“I’m from the north. I haven’t raced in Pless before.”

“And do you always take the opposition to an inn the day before a chase and try to get them drunk?”

“Only if they’re as gorgeous as you.”

Bramble felt the base of her spine tingle. She wanted to turn her arm over as it rested on the table, to expose the soft skin running from wrist to elbow . . . just to see if he’d notice, look . . . touch. It had been a very long time since she’d wanted to show anything of herself to anyone. She took her arm off the table and tucked her hand under her thigh.

Leof noticed and took her other hand from around the tankard. He stroked the ball of his thumb around her palm. She felt warm down to her toes, from the inside out, and her breath came faster. So did his.

“I tell you what,” he said. “How about a wager? If I win, you make love to me. If you win, I make love to you.”

She laughed. “What if neither of us wins?”