Authors: Cherry Potts
The Dowry Blade (48 page)
Ashe felt the tremor of power again, intoxicating, like nothing else she had ever experienced. It was as though, lizard-like, she had regrown a severed limb.
Ashe remembered Brede’s analogy, telling Aneira that she had not thrown away a sword, but cut off her sword arm. Well, if she had the arm back she need not pick up a sword. She looked about her for Brede, found her gone from the doorway and found an impending loss that was far worse than a severed limb.
Brede reminded herself that she had grown used to being alone, but she still felt that strange echoing darkness inside, the almost fear; a bleakness that she used to welcome as a balm to her heart. She prodded at the feeling, trying to force it to its limits. The precipice was still there, the cold howling wind trying to drag her down. She found the edge and stood on it, daring the roaring monsters of her mind to tear at her, and the wind died, and the abyss was only a few feet wide, difficult to span, but not impossible. They had not taken Sorcha from her completely with their ritual, the memories were still there, safe, precious.
Brede saddled the horse. The citadel was strangely quiet in the aftermath of the singing. The horse clattered across the weedy cobbles, and she flinched from the noise. Morna stood at the door to the kitchen. Brede nodded to her as she passed. She was glad to be out in the bustle of the town. Out here, it was safe to think about Ashe, about the sudden rush of power Brede had seen engulf her. It was safe, out among ordinary mortals, to be bitter; to be angry that after all, she was not needed, not regretted, not missed.
Ashe almost saw her go, catching only the last flicker of the horse’s tail, the echo of its hooves under the gateway. The new power roared in her, swelling in her blood, tingling into her hands. She knew with an outraged certainty that if she raised those hands, if she made the sign for
stay
, Brede would not go. She watched her treacherous hands, already moving, and forced them down. Perhaps she should in truth cut off her arm. Would she so soon forget what could be accomplished by ordering a living creature to stillness? Bile rose in her throat, anger at herself outweighing even the dread that she had allowed Brede to turn her back on her once more.
She had passed some unseen barrier. She was no longer a Songspinner, she was something more, she need not rely on her voice, or any other one fragment of her self. She glared at the meaningless handful of stones in her palm. All this she had, and nothing that she wanted. Well. Ashe gathered all of that power, all of it, and focused on the stones, filling them brim full of the molten lightning that crackled through her bones.
And then she spoke.
Islean, leaving the hall behind Ashe, almost lost her footing at the top of the steps leading to the courtyard. A handful of small stones rolled away from under her feet. She recovered her balance, and recognised the stones, cracked and scorched though they were. She took in her breath to call for help, and then she saw that Ashe had left more than the stones. As she stared across the courtyard, there was a slight shimmer in the air. She looked closer, approaching carefully. Ashe had left a message; a feeling that seeped into her as the shimmer touched her. She heard a voice, one she had hoped to hear again, but the message was not so welcome.
I am not a Songspinner
, Ashe’s voice whispered, and the shimmering faded.
Out in the town, Ashe ran as though the Scavenger were at her heels. She knew the town, far better than Brede; she knew the alleyways, the slips, the twists, and the stairs that were impassable to a horse. Reckless in her headlong race for the town gates, she stumbled often, still unused to relying on her body to get where she wanted to go. She slipped, she fell against the townsfolk; she knocked children flying. She was past caring. Ashe had but the one aim: to reach the gate before Brede. Her feet weren’t the only part of her body that she bruised. Her lungs burned and laboured, but it meant nothing, there was only the gate and the black horse approaching it.
Brede wasn’t hurrying, but the horse had a good steady pace, a long gait, and she went a route unimpeded by market stalls and the press of bodies. Brede didn’t notice, she was planning her best route, her hopes of employment, the chances of a change in the weather to the waiting snow; anything, so that she might ignore the shouting loneliness that crowded her. Somewhere within that wall of plans, she discovered that the Dowry blade was still beneath the bed in the Songspinners’ guest chamber. For the space of a heartbeat she considered turning the horse about and going back for it; but no: it was another ghost laid.
Brede reached the gate first.
Ashe had no breath left. She leant against the gate, raging, unable to find the strength to even step through the portal. Her legs trembled violently; she wanted to fold herself into the ground and cry. Now she might have used her power, had she not abandoned it.
Reckless
, her mind screamed at her,
you see what you’ve lost?
Ashe pulled herself up. Brede hadn’t gone far, she might still catch her.
And what then?
she asked, harsh with dwindling hope,
what then
? Another silent, embarrassed denial?
But still Ashe walked, limping now, after the receding horse.
I’ve done with grieving,
Brede told herself, wiping away tears, unable to understand why she was weeping.
I am cured of my loss.
The stuff of sorrow no longer knit for her, there was only dragging regret; she had left behind something she needed. She pulled the horse to a stop.
The silence out here, almost into the shade of the forest edge, reminded her.
Silence:
Ashe.
Brede eased herself from the horse, landing heavily. She walked the horse around in a slow circle, loosening the cramping pain, thinking of unknotting muscles, of bones knit true and strong, thinking of Ashe’s fingers forcing the pain out of her, taking it into herself.
Ashe felt her name called; felt Brede’s thoughts touch her. She looked up. The dark blur ahead was a blur no longer. She could see Brede clearly, standing beside the horse, twitching the saddlecloth into place as though there were some deep significance to the way the fringes lay. Brede wouldn’t look at her, not yet.
Ashe stopped walking, and Brede felt the resistance to her call, only now realising that she had called. She glanced up, puzzled. She saw the unmoving figure on the road, scarcely believing in it; sure that it was her imagination conjuring the woman, but she left off arranging the horse’s gear.
Ashe resumed her weary walking. Brede saw the limping tiredness, and knew that this was real: that this was Ashe following her.
Brede held to the horse, uncertain of her balance, doubting the cautious delight that welled up in her mind. She pushed herself away from her support, found her balance secure and started to walk back towards the city, and towards Ashe.
First published in UK 2016 by Arachne Press Limited
100 Grierson Road, London SE23 1NX
© Cherry Potts 2016
ISBNs
Print: 978-1-909208-20-9
ePub: 978-1-909208-21-6
Mobi: 978-1-909208-22-3
The moral rights of the author have been asserted
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