The Dowry Blade (28 page)

Chapter Thirty

Maeve waited until Grainne drifted into sleep before she slipped away. She couldn’t wait any longer for Tegan. Right now, she did not know how to control the feeling of betrayal and contamination and hopelessness that smothered her. She was afraid she might hurt Tegan if she saw her; if Tegan didn’t strike her down first. Closing the door softly behind her, she breathed more deeply, and leant against the cold wall.

What now?
Her mind slithered away from that other betrayal, those friends whose treachery led her here, to these choices. She half knew that she was about to make a bad choice, but still her mind screamed at her,
I can’t, I can’t,
and at end, there was only this one, last, dreadful, thing left for her to do. Maeve rubbed at her face, and pushed through the outer door. She stumbled down to where Riordan guarded the stairs. She glanced from her brother to Cei, and could find no words. Riordan’s eyes flickered across her face, and he drew his sword, slowly – not wanting to precipitate anything. Maeve glanced at the blade, and found the strength to straighten her back, to smile in reassurance.

‘A guard is needed above,’ she said, her voice husky.

Riordan nodded, and gestured Cei away up the stair.

‘Maeve?’ he asked, his voice barely a whisper, the sword still in his hand.

‘What you do not know, you can’t be blamed for,’ Maeve said, gripping his shoulder. ‘I have orders from the Queen, and I…’ She shook her head sharply, it wasn’t safe. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered and walked briskly towards the barracks.

Riordan didn’t sheathe his sword. His mind raced, telling over the prisoners and his sister’s expression. He had to do something, but he could at least give her some small moment of grace, As soon as Maeve was safely out of sight, he called Cei back, and sent him for reinforcements.

Maeve slipped through the stable, loosening the tether of her horse, gathering saddle and bridle. Aware of the increased amount of activity between the barracks and the tower, she scarcely stopped to ensure the buckles of the saddle were secure before she mounted, and was away.

Stealing out of the city, Maeve was forcibly reminded of Tegan’s anger at the lax security, and for the first time allowed that she was right – although she no longer cared. As soon as she could safely do so, she allowed her horse free rein, riding along the river as fast as the horse could go in the darkness, wanting only to put a good distance between herself and any hunt that might follow.

It was only when she was challenged by the sentry that Maeve realised that she had forgotten the first rule of a warrior’s life.
Enemy territory
.

She stared down at the spear point levelled at her heart, at the red marking on the shaft, and made a swift decision.

‘I have news for Lorcan,’ she said calmly, ‘from Phelan.’

Disturbed by the distant clatter of hooves on cobbles, Brede stirred, and began to dream, and woke suddenly from that dream, afraid. A rider burst into the courtyard, almost falling as she dismounted a horse that hadn’t quite come to a stand. Brede dragged her clothes into a semblance of order and went to investigate. Sorcha wasn’t far behind her.

Tegan grabbed a torch from its sconce, calling out for Maeve. She scarcely glanced at Brede, save to nod to her.

‘Is Maeve still with Grainne?’ Brede murmured to Corla, as the crowd in the yard increased in size. Corla shook her head.

‘Horse has gone,’ Eachan muttered, a sense of unease gripping him.

‘Who’s Maeve?’ Neala asked, her clear voice piercing above the uneasy muttering. Brede gave her a brief description. Neala nodded in understanding.

‘She rode out of here shortly after the hour,’ she said.

‘She did what?’ Tegan asked. ‘Where was she going?’

‘How could I know?’

Brede sensed a ripple of anxiety pass through the small crowd of Maeve’s warriors; each and every one of them knew what had occurred this day, each of them save Tegan. Quickly she drew Tegan by the arm, pulling her into a corner of the yard.

‘Phelan’s dead,’ she said bluntly. Tegan gasped.

‘Hush,’ Brede said. ‘I’ve not done. He threw himself from the balcony of Grainne’s chamber. Maeve let him fall. There are prisoners, Killan and Ula among them. Grainne will have given Maeve orders.’

Tegan’s face became drawn, her distress apparent even in the uncertain light of the torches.

‘Has she carried out those orders?’

Brede glanced at the knot of warriors, noting who was absent.

‘Those set to guard are not here, but their horses are, so you can hope they’re still at their places,’ she said. Tegan closed her eyes, understanding what would push Maeve into flight. Those traitors were Maeve’s drinking companions, friends, and closer even than that.

‘Then she has gone.’

Tegan pulled away from Brede’s grasp, unable to contain her anger at Maeve, nor her grief for her. She strode once more to the centre of the yard, calling for attention.

Tegan put aside grief.

‘There is an army out beyond our walls,’ she said, her voice suddenly soft, but carrying for all that. ‘Lorcan’s army, brought here by Phelan, and now it seems that Maeve may have gone to tell the enemy what has befallen him and his spies. I’m going to find out what our liege lady wants us to do.’ Her words fell into a silence, broken only by the hiss of Eachan’s breath, drawn through his teeth. Tegan beckoned to Sorcha. ‘I think Grainne may need you.’

Eachan grabbed at Tegan’s arm, furious with her.

‘You don’t know what you’re saying. How could Maeve
know
Lorcan would be out there? If she has found him she’s probably dead.’

‘I hope she is,’ someone in the group of warriors muttered.

Tegan pulled her arm free of Eachan’s grip, unheeding.

‘Grainne needs me,’ she said coldly.

Eachan turned to Brede, hoping she would talk sense to Tegan, and perhaps even to Grainne, but he saw the drawn, disquieted look on her face and asked a quite different question from the one he had planned.

‘What ails you?’

‘Is Grainne going to have them all killed? Without trial?’ Brede asked faintly.

‘They are traitors,’ Eachan said, hushing her firmly, turning her by the arm, back into the seclusion of the stables.

‘Are they? I hope you’re right, Eachan, because if they are not, none of us are safe, and I have been ...’ She couldn’t finish. ‘Whatever the outcome of this battle, I’m leaving as soon as it is safe to do so. If it isn’t too late already. I have to take Neala back to Wing Clan.’

‘More frightened of staying with the witch than of going home finally?’ Eachan asked gently. Brede pulled sharply away from him.

‘Neala needs to be with her kin.’

‘And you don’t? Why are you so afraid to go back? You could have gone back any time in the last ten years if you’d wanted to, but only now, when there’s something that might be worth staying away for, you go back. It makes no sense.’ Eachan reached to clasp her shoulder. ‘Rumour has it that Maeve let the General fall, but it was you provided him with the chance, opening the shutters as you did.’

Brede had been trying to dodge that memory.

‘You’re finally in danger of making enemies, girl. Keep your head down for a while, if Grainne will let you. See if she still loves you. We might as well all be on trial for our lives just now, thanks to Maeve.’

‘Don’t blame Maeve.’

‘I don’t, but Grainne will. I’ll keep an eye on your next-kin. Go build bridges while you’ve the chance.’ Eachan gave her a shove between the shoulder blades that set her off balance. ‘Go on, Grainne listens to you, see if you can dig us out of this, before you go.’

Uncertainly, Brede made her way to the foot of Grainne’s stair.

Riordan let her pass, but Brede went no further than the outer chamber. Sorcha caught sight of her and stilled her impatient walking, holding her arms out in welcome. Brede kissed her briefly, and drew away.

‘Why are you still out here?’ she asked.

‘Tegan is with her.’

‘I don’t hear anything.’

Sorcha shrugged helplessly.

‘She won’t be shouting, with Maeve’s brother at her door.’

‘Does this change your plans?’

‘It must. Lorcan is at the gate. Any peace talks must happen at once.’

‘But after that?’

Sorcha shook her head and set her mind to their more immediate preparations, and started by searching under the bed for the discarded greatsword. It gave her a moment to recover.

‘We don’t need that, do we?’ Brede protested, at the thought of the blade. She had come to hate that weapon.

‘Grainne will need it,’ Sorcha said, suddenly wanting to smash the sword and Grainne with it.

‘For what?’

‘As a symbol of her sole rule – to remind Lorcan that his bid to use Phelan failed.’ Sorcha straightened from her search. ‘Perhaps to behead her traitors, I don’t know – where is it?’

‘In the stable.’

Sorcha sighed.

‘Why did she choose Maeve?’ Brede asked.

‘Revenge. She wanted Phelan alive, Maeve failed her. Be grateful she didn’t choose you.’

‘Has she some other revenge planned for me?’

Sorcha gazed at Brede. So soon after her rage at Grainne that question chilled her. She couldn’t shrug the uneasiness away.

Brede walked to the inner door, shamelessly pressing her ear against it.

‘I still can’t hear anything. Nothing at all.’ She caught Sorcha’s look, lifted the latch and pushed hard on the door.

‘How is it with the Queen?’ Sorcha asked, trying to steady her voice.

‘She sleeps,’ Tegan said quietly.

Sorcha could think of only one way Grainne could sleep now.

‘What are you thinking, Tegan? Would you let her slip into death so quietly? Why did you say nothing sooner?’

Tegan’s impassivity slipped from her face, and pain and exhaustion and grief were there, like bruising.

‘I’d willingly let her sleep, and yes, let her die, if that’s what she wants,’ she said defiantly, but she could not meet Sorcha’s enraged, wide-eyed anguish. Sorcha pushed her aside, flinging herself down at the bedside.

Sorcha took her friend’s hand in hers, lacing her fingers between Grainne’s.
Not dead yet.

‘Go guard the door, Tegan,’ she said, as kindly as she could bear to be. ‘This is my work to do now.’

Tegan withdrew reluctantly.

For a moment Brede thought she might follow Sorcha into Grainne’s room, might in some way assist. She caught the intense concentration on Sorcha’s half-turned face, and found no place for her.

‘So –’ she turned away without finishing the thought.

Sorcha gazed at Grainne’s face, seeing that her spirit was far withdrawn from reality. It would be so easy to let her slip away now, peacefully, as Grainne must wish to go. Sorcha let the Queen’s limp hand fall, and checked the herbs that she had left, so conveniently within reach. If Grainne truly wished to die, the dose she had taken would free her, but if she did not wish it, she could fight the numbing of her thoughts, the slowing of her heart – perhaps it was even an accident. Sorcha hesitated to discover Grainne’s choice, but, despite Tegan’s challenge, to leave without trying to revive her was beyond her.

Sorcha considered, weighing her resources against her friendship. She decided, despite her own mind-numbing exhaustion, to be gentle – to use her own strength rather than Grainne’s. Sorcha lay beside the Queen, her hands entwined with Grainne’s. What she planned was dangerous; she didn’t want to slip out of consciousness and fall. She chose her song with care, winding gently into Grainne’s mind, smoke from a dying fire.

Grainne had slipped a long way out of herself, needing a great distance to find her peace. Sorcha stirred her gently, igniting the embers of her consciousness. She found a taint of death there, Grainne’s long illness, and now this flirtation with the Scavenger. Sorcha felt Grainne’s awareness of her, the half protest and then – clawed despair – pulling them together into the abyss.

Sorcha tried to draw back to the surface of her wakeful mind, but she couldn’t bring Grainne with her. Grainne clung to Sorcha within their shared consciousness, holding her back, pulling her deeper into the darkness. Sorcha stared down into the dark, trying to assess the depth. The darkness was velvet soft, uncertain – nothing to hold onto, nothing to take a bearing from. Sorcha tried to work out how far Grainne had sunk, how far Grainne had dragged her – and suddenly she was struggling against the gentle silence, not to save Grainne, but to save herself – aware that her body couldn’t support that effort for long. She fought to free herself of Grainne, panicked into a silent screaming, lashing out with all of her power to free herself of the suffocating nightmare that was Grainne’s death. And still Grainne clung to her.

The song died on Sorcha’s lips, as she stared into the face of the Scavenger. No nightmare this, but cold reality – Sorcha hadn’t expected the harbinger of death to be beautiful, it was a heart-stopping shock. Just for a moment she stopped struggling. The Scavenger untangled Grainne’s limbs from Sorcha’s with slow patience, determined to make her give Grainne up. Sorcha forgot to fight, forgot to think, forgot to breathe. Grainne’s limp arms draped about the Scavenger in a travesty of an embrace, as it collected her to its breast, gently, lover-like – and still the Scavenger’s eyes held Sorcha’s.

Tegan sat with her back against the door to Grainne’s chamber, with her drawn sword across her knees, and hoped for the song that pulled against Grainne to end; yet when the song finally drifted into silence, she waited, unwilling to discover the result of Sorcha’s efforts. When she still heard nothing, no movement from beyond the closed door, she knew she could wait no longer.

Grainne lay motionless and blank-eyed, one hand trailing over the edge of the bed, almost touching the floor. Sorcha sat beside the Queen, her hands clenched into Grainne’s hair, rocking in silent grief. Tegan looked at the Queen, who lay, so clearly dead, in the room she should have been guarding. Were it not for Sorcha, and the almost silent gasps of despair that racked her, Tegan could feel relief at the sight. Quietly she pulled the door shut, and walked the few yards to the outer door where Riordan stood guard.