Blood Ties (9 page)

Saker

H
E NEEDED
bones. The right bones, restless in the earth. He went to his workroom, to the big map spread out on the table, the most complete map of the Domains that he had been able to buy. There were a few massacre sites marked in red — Death Pass, Turvite, Carlion. But too few. So many more had been slaughtered. Carefully stored scrolls filled the shelves around him, but so little of their information was useful. What did he care about the names of the killers, or who their fathers had been? Why should he want to know how they had held their weapons, how they had swung them against his people — his peaceful, gentle people? The poems and histories had been written by the invaders, and gave no details about those killed, least of all where to find their bones.

Saker slumped at the table, head in hands, another night’s study ending in frustration. There must be other scrolls, other histories . . . He felt the bag of stones at his waist. At least Friete, the enchanter, had taught him how to cast, had given him a way of supporting himself. It was useless to cast for oneself, every stonecaster knew that. Either useless or dangerous — one or the other. But sometimes the temptation was irresistible. He dug his hand in the pouch and drew out the necessary five stones, cast them with a practiced flick of the wrist. But they landed, not spread out across the table in an arc, but in a huddle on one spot, facedown. Right on top of Connay, north of Whitehaven. Two days’ walk away.

He didn’t bother to turn the stones over. Their position was enough.
Connay
. The gods had spoken. He would find what he needed in Connay. He packed, and then picked the stones up almost reluctantly: Revenge and Rejoicing, Death and Bereavement, and the Chaos stone lying on top of them all. His spirits rose. They were exactly the same stones as that first stonecasting after Friete’s death. Saker wondered why Death, Bereavement and Chaos were now facedown.
Secrecy,
he thought.
I must work secretly. That is the message of the stones.
He went out whistling, headed for Connay.

Bramble

B
RAMBLE WANTED
to arrive at the linden tree early, just in case. Ghosts rise, if they rise, three days after death, but not to the minute. It might be an hour earlier or two hours later. Some ghosts never came — those who had died slowly, and knew they were dying and had said all their farewells. “May you have no quickening” was a blessing, a wish that the gods would give you a good death, where you had no need to come back to say goodbye or ask for forgiveness or confront your killer, where you went straight on to new life. “May you quicken and never be reborn” was a curse.

It was hard to see ghosts in daylight. Most ghosts were just a pale waver in the air, like heat shimmer above paving, but some were more substantial, blobs of white in the shape of the dead person. Travelers, it was said, could see ghosts better than other people, but Bramble had never found it so. Maybe she didn’t have enough Traveler blood in her. But she had attended a few quickenings in her time, as most people had, and she knew she would recognize the chill of the flesh as the ghost arrived.

As she approached the linden tree, she heard men’s voices. She stopped behind a yew and watched.
So he had some friends,
she thought. There were three men in warlord’s uniform, sitting at the base of the tree, on the other side from where the blond had fallen. They were talking idly. One was throwing pebbles at the nearby willow; another, an older man with brown hair and a beard, had his head tipped back to look at the leaves above him; the third — the redhead who had been with the blond in the forest when the wolf had been shot — was sharpening his dagger with a small whetstone. He spat on the stone as she watched and honed the blade with deep concentration, as though preparing it for someone’s flesh.

Bramble couldn’t decide whether to leave immediately, or wait. If the blond quickened — and he would, she knew it in her bones — she should know what happened. His friends were here because he had died suddenly, but they thought it was by accident. If the ghost was strong enough to be seen clearly, it could let them know the truth. On the other hand, if they found her here, at this place, at this time, death was the best she could hope for.

The ghost decided for her. It took form, shimmering and pale gray, lying on the ground just as the warlord’s man had lain three days ago. Bramble felt her skin chill and grow goose bumps, even from so far away. The three men jumped to their feet, and the ghost did too. They confronted each other. The dead man was just a blur, but it was clear enough for his friends.

“You’re dead,” the redhead said, gently enough. “You rode into the tree limb.” He pointed to the branch above their heads. “Three days ago. This is your quickening.”

The ghost put out his pale arms and waved negatingly.

“Yes, yes,” the redhead said soothingly. “I know it’s a shock. But you really are dead.”

The ghost pointed to the tree limb and waved both arms again.

“Yes, that’s the branch,” the older man said. His voice was very deep, and hard. He sounded bored. “Just accept it, Swith. You’re dead. No use going on about it.”

Swith
. Somehow it troubled Bramble that the blond should have the same name as her crotchety old friend. She didn’t want to think of him as a real person, with a name and friends who cared about him.

The ghost waved an arm, shook a fist in the direction of the tree branch.

“He’s not acting like it was an accident,” the redhead said uneasily. “He’s not being reasonable.”

“You expect him to be different now from when he was alive?” the older man said scathingly. “Come on, we’ve done what we came for. Let’s get back to Thornhill. I’ve got work to do even if you haven’t.”

The redhead looked troubled. “What if it wasn’t an accident?”

The ghost pointed his arms at his friend and seemed to nod, although it was hard for Bramble to see.

“It wasn’t an accident?” the redhead said. The ghost made a victory gesture above his head.

“Oh, shagging gods!” the older man said. “Of course it was an accident. Swith just doesn’t want to be remembered as the idiot he was.”

The youngest of the three, a man with big ears, sniggered.

The ghost fell down upon his knees. It sobered even the sniggerer.

“They never found his horse, Beck,” the redhead said quietly.

Beck,
Bramble thought,
that’s the warlord’s second in command.

“That was a good horse,” Beck said thoughtfully. “I trained him myself. Worth killing for, if you had somewhere safe to take him.”

“I think we’d better talk to the warlord. Try to find the horse. If it’s still out in the forest, well, then it’s an accident. If not . . .”

The older man sniffed, then nodded. “All right. I’ll talk to him. Let’s go.”

She waited until the three men had mounted and left. The redhead clearly felt awkward about riding away from the ghost, just leaving it standing there by the tree. He tried to wave goodbye to it, but halfway through caught the eye of the older man and he turned the movement into a fumble on the reins.

They went west up the slope, toward Thornhill, without looking back. When they were out of sight, Bramble slowly came forward, her knife tight in her hand. When the ghost caught sight of her, he pointed one long pale arm at her head, turned as though to call back the men, then realized he couldn’t. Bramble swallowed. Up close, the chill was much worse. She took a deep breath. Words had been laid down for this, words that had to be said.

“I am your killer,” she said to him, trying to look him in the eye. “Lo, I proclaim it, it was I who took your life from you. I am here to offer reparation, blood for blood.”

She cut her wrist with a sure flick of the knife and offered it to him, her whole body tensed against what was to come. But the ghost backed away and waved his arms:
No
. She could almost see his mouth, a slightly darker shape, form the word.

“If you do not forgive me, you will be caught here in this place, with no chance of rebirth,” Bramble said.

He lunged forward, his hands out for her throat, forgetting for a moment that he no longer had a body to do damage with. His pale form passed right through her; she felt a horrible chilly wave. The burial cave smell enveloped her and she fought to stop herself vomiting.

The ghost turned, furious, unappeased, and raised its fists to the sky in anger.

It was enough. Bramble turned and ran back toward the stream.
Now,
the gods said in her mind.
Now
. She ran home, straight to her mother’s workshop.

She fetched up at the side of the loom, panting. “I’m leaving. I — I’ll go to Maryrose. I’m going now. Don’t worry. And if you’re asked, you know nothing of where I am or why I’ve gone. You all come soon.”

Her mother sat with her mouth open, astonished. Bramble moved around the corner of the loom, hugged her briefly, kissed her cheek, and ran out headed for her father’s workshop before her mother could recover her breath.

Her da and granda were standing at the workbench, looking at some plans. As she ran to them they turned to face her. She reached up to kiss each of them on the cheek —
NOW,
the gods insisted — then ran out without speaking. She ran for the forest as though she were a wild goose flying.

She found the roan waiting for her. He nuzzled her shoulder while she tried to calm herself. His warm breath steadied her nerves, brought her back down to earth. She found that she had cut her forearm on the wild dash through the trees; it had ripped against a branch. Without thinking, she took her skirt off in haste and staunched the blood flow, then realized the stains she was making on the fabric.
Rot it,
she thought,
I could have used this skirt
. She tore enough off to make a bandage then tossed it aside. Her breeches would be enough. It would probably be better if she looked like a boy anyway. She pinned up her braid and put on a tight-fitting leather hood that she usually wore against the winter snow, and retrieved the carefully packed bundle from the rear of the cave and tied it to her back. Then she led the roan to the mounting block and climbed on his back.

“Come on, then,” she said. “Go.”

She found that her mind had been working on its own these past three days. There was a plan all ready in her head, though she hadn’t been conscious of working it out. She would head for Carlion immediately, but through the forest, not on the road where the warlord’s men would be sure to find her. It would take longer, because she would have to go up beyond the waterfall, beyond the chasm, to find a ford where she could cross the river, so she could circle down to the road through the forest on the other side. Longer but safer. The warlord’s men would start their search from the linden tree, so she had time.

She knew the forest better than anyone, but the roan couldn’t move through the undergrowth as she could, so they kept to the track, as they had the day before. The roan recognized the way and went happily enough. It was a warm day, with sun filtering down to her where the trees were less dense. They moved from shade to sun and back again, warmth and coolness, like the rhythm of the roan’s soft hoofbeats. It had lulled her, so the sound of men’s voices at a distance, the jingling of harness, caught her by surprise.

They had started their search from Thornhill, not from the linden tree. And they were coming steadily from the west. She turned to head more directly for the chasm. There were rocks near the waterfall, with caves . . . Perhaps she and the roan could hide there. These men didn’t know the forest the way she did. She was confident that she could outsmart them in her own territory. Then she heard the baying of the hounds.

The roan’s head went up, too, and he took a breath to whinny. She leaned forward quickly and held his nostrils closed. He looked at her reproachfully and she stared back at his enormous eyes.

“No noise, my friend,” she whispered.

He let his breath out slowly, and she let go, then urged him to a quick walk.

The hounds’ note changed. Bramble had watched the hunt go by too many times not to recognize it: “We are on the scent!” The roan quickened his pace when he heard men’s voices urging on the hounds. He jumped at one voice in particular. A deep, hard voice.
Beck’s,
Bramble thought.
The older man. The clever one.
The roan almost stumbled, then began to move faster, taking the rough ground in his stride, ignoring Bramble completely. She lay down low and clung to his neck with both hands as they moved rapidly through the undergrowth.

Behind them the hounds were belling furiously. Bramble tried desperately to think what to do. There was no time to hide. No way to get up above the chasm in time to cross the river and confuse the scent. She tried to think of other streams nearby, but there weren’t any. She could probably climb a tree and let the roan go — the hounds would follow the horse scent. That would be the sensible thing to do. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t abandon him to the chase. What if the hounds’ master didn’t whip them back in time? What if the bloodlust got too much for them? What if they brought him down? These hounds were used to hunting people and horses as well as deer: they would leap for the throat. If she was still on the roan, at least she could help fight them off until Beck controlled them. He had admired the roan; he would save him. She decided that they would stand at bay at the chasm — a bad place but it was all they had.

She clung on as the roan raced faster through the trees. She craned for one look over her shoulder. Beck was in the lead, his face pale beneath the beard, his eyes intense.

“There!” he shouted. “It’s just a boy! Get him!”

The roan broke into a panicked gallop. Bramble suddenly knew who had been responsible for those welts and scars on his hide. But they were going too fast . . . They were too close to the chasm: they’d never be able to stop in time.

The roan didn’t falter as they broke from the trees and headed wildly toward the abyss. Bramble considered tumbling from his back before he reached the edge. Then she heard Beck’s voice calling.

There were worse things than death.

There would be a leap and a moment suspended, and then a long hopeless curve to the rocks and the river below. They would fall like leaves between the clouds of swifts and then be washed away by the thundering rapids. Bramble clung to that thought. If their bodies were washed away then there could be no identification, no danger of reprisals on her family.

She hung on tighter.

The roan’s hindquarters bunched under her and they were in the air.

It was like she had imagined: the leap, and then the moment suspended in the air that seemed to last forever.

Below her the swifts boiled up through the river mist, swerving and swooping while she and the roan seemed to stay frozen above them. Bramble felt, like a rush of air, the presence of the gods surround her. The shock made her lose her balance and begin to slide sideways.

She felt herself falling.

With an impossible flick of both legs, the roan shrugged her back onto his shoulders. Then the long curve down started and she braced herself to see the cliffs rushing past as they fell.

Time to die.

Instead, she felt a thumping jolt that flung her from the roan’s back and tossed her among the rocks at the cliff’s edge on the other side.

On the other side.

The roan slowed down and turned to head back for her. She stood slowly, muddled and shaken. She couldn’t see properly, everything was in shadow, as though it were night. She reached out to touch the roan’s shoulder. She knew she was touching him, but she could barely feel the warmth of his hide. She could barely hear; everything seemed distant, dull. She was breathing, but the breaths gave her no life. She felt like a dead woman breathing out of habit, as ghosts do when they first quicken, before they realize they are dead.

Her sight cleared, although the light still seemed dim. Her hearing came back a little. On the other side of the abyss a jumble of men and horses and hounds were milling, shouting, astonished, and very angry.