Deep Water (45 page)

My father and my uncle could not stand the shame. They raised their voices and then their hands to their captors and they
were punished: the first time a beating, the second time the left hand cut off, the third time death from spearing. “I will
keep no insolent servants,” Swef said in his pride. My mother killed herself that night and took my two baby sisters with
her. Because she was a thrall they would not give them a proper funeral pyre. The wood was too precious, Swef said. They
buried
them, like the carcass of an animal gone off in the summer heat.

That was the moment I decided to kill Swef, if I could, when I could; as the clods of dirt covered my sisters’ shrouds and
took my mother from my sight.

I said nothing. I did nothing. I worked hard and made him trust me. When the time came to select the staff for the new steading,
there was no question but that I would go, too. He thought I was loyal, but I took no oath except the oath to make his death.
That oath I kept.

When Hawk sought me out and asked me to lift the bars on the hall door, I was glad. But I made sure Friede would be safe.
She would have been safe, too, if only she’d
listened
to me . . .

I only have one regret. I wish that I had let her kill me, because then I would have had a warrior’s death. At a woman’s hands,
I know, but Friede had a heart as strong as any warrior’s, and I am sure the men she killed are feasting with Swith in his
Hall.

But mostly I wish that the Ice King had been satisfied before he ever ate my home; before our beautiful valley was crushed
and ground in his grasp. While I waited for them to drag me out to Acton, I set myself to remember all of it I could, because
I am the only one who remembers. All the others are dead, and when I cease to remember, that valley, green and shining and
lovely, will vanish altogether. Hawk’s people say there is no such thing as Swith’s Hall; that we will go onto rebirth if
we have lived well. But I would rather not be reborn. I would rather go on remembering; go on keeping my valley alive, until
the Ice Giants eat the sun.

L
EOF WALKED OUT
of the hall feeling like he was going into battle. The feeling was the same: the absolute necessity of not showing others
how he felt, in order to save lives. In battle, it was the lives of others he held in his hands; the men under his command,
who needed him to be calm and disciplined and rational, or they would die. Now, if he showed how he felt,
he
would die. Any officer who desired a warlord’s wife knew the penalty was death.

He had to fill his head with warnings because he could still feel Sorn’s pulse leap under his fingers and see the flush sweep
up her cheeks as he touched her hand. As he had, all unwittingly, looked into her eyes and wanted her.

He had let it happen because he had thought he was in love with Bramble. Without the memories of her — on the roan, at the
inn, in bed, absurdly, terrifyingly, high in that pine tree — occupying his mind and making him guilty, he would have considered
whether it was wise to spend so much time with his warlord’s young wife. He would have noticed her with his mind, instead
of with his heart. Would have appreciated the gentle grace of her walk, the firm curve of her smile. And, appreciating, kept
his distance, aware of the danger. Gods knew he would have relished the sight of her in any other circumstances; would have
smiled and cozened her into bed in a heartbeat if she’d been just another girl.

As it was, he had been blind, and walked into a snare of his own devising. Worse than blind, because he had snared not only
himself but her in the net. At least, he thought he had.

She had been brought up as the lady of the fort, which meant that she was trained to hide her feelings; trained to be calm,
serene, unflappable. The flush on her cheeks when he had unthinkingly touched her hand could have meant any number of things.
Anger at his impudence. Surprise. Warmth at simple human contact. Swith knew she got little of that, especially with her lord
away. His touch could have meant nothing to her, or been a petty annoyance. She might not even have realized how he felt.
It was over in a moment, after all; how much could she have read in his eyes?

The thought should have been a relief, but instead it wracked him with doubt and the desire to know. To be sure.

He went about the rest of the day doing all his duty plus some extra, like inspecting the smithies, and made sure his work
was exemplary. He might betray his lord in his thoughts, but he would never betray him in reality. It was a fine, noble thought,
but every time he assured himself, he remembered disobeying Thegan’s orders to capture Bramble. He had betrayed his lord for
a woman once before . . .

He debated whether to have his supper in his room or in the hall with Sorn. If she had not guessed, if she thought his touch
a momentary inattention to etiquette, he could still present an unruffled front and they could continue as they had been,
with their dignity unimpaired and loyalty intact.

He walked into the hall and up to the high table and saw immediately, from the paleness of her cheeks and the determined way
she tilted her head up to face him, that she had wrestled all day with the same snares as he had, and come to the same conclusion.
Underneath the tension and the concern, he realized that he felt a kind of triumph — not as pure as joy, not as simple as
happiness. They couldn’t possibly have joy or happiness, but still, she felt it too, and something in him exulted.

So he sat down beside her, as always, and greeted her formally, as always, and as always she asked him how the preparations
for war were progressing. He told her about the smithies and their output of helmets and swords; she inquired if the fletchers
needed more feathers; they discussed killing several of the swans for the feast on Thegan’s return and harvesting the feathers.

“I have heard that fletchers like swan feathers,” Sorn said, clearly inviting comment not just from him but from the other
officers, making the conversation general. She steered the talk between Leof, Gard and Wil on to a discussion of arms and
armament and then fell silent, as was fitting for a woman during such talk. Leof carefully did not look at her except when
he offered her bread, or salt to season the kid with olives. Carefully, she smiled her thanks and gazed on him and the others
impartially. It was a pretense so well devised that he realized she must have been aware for much longer than he had; he wondered
how many meals he had shared with her, not knowing that she played this difficult role. How many times had he made it harder
for her, unthinkingly blind?

Well, now they would pretend together, and together construct a bulwark against betrayal.

“My lady, would you have more kid?”

“Thank you, my lord, but no. I am satisfied.”

A small ironic curve showed in the corner of her mouth and then disappeared so quickly that he wondered if he had truly seen
it. Satisfied was the one thing she must not be, and she knew it. He must resist the temptation to increase their intimacy,
even by talking together in public.

“The sweetmeats, perhaps, my lady?”

“Just one, I thank you.”

So, he thought, no great play of denial. She was alert, too, to the desire for secret signals and to the danger they represented.
There must be
no
layers to their talk; no secrets shared; no hidden understanding. What is hidden may be uncovered. What is fed, grows. Sorn
was far more in control of this situation than he was. Far more practiced. She had sat through many such meals, he thought,
and not just since I arrived. Meals where what she felt and what she showed were completely at odds.

Leof wondered about her childhood. He had heard that her father had been a hard man and for the first time felt that sudden
empathy, the quick wrench of the heart which can herald love, not just desire.
No!
he thought, appalled. Not that. But helplessly, although his face showed nothing, as it showed nothing when he led his men
into battle, he conned the way the fire slid shadows across her face, the way her eyelids curved when she smiled, the sudden
flash of green when her gaze sharpened on a serving maid who flirted too openly with one of the sergeants in the lower hall.
He moved away a little so that he could not smell her scent, rising softly from her warmed skin.

“We will need more heavy drays,” he said instead to Wil. “But we cannot leave the farmers without a way to harvest, or there
will be dearth and death before spring.”

They launched into a discussion of the best way of balancing the needs of the warlord and the needs of the land, and Leof
was successful, for a time, at ignoring her. Until she rose to bow good night, and the men rose with her and bowed back, and
their eyes met — as she met all their eyes, for that was the etiquette, and there must be
nothing
, not even a lack of courtesy, to show that they treated each other differently. But at that moment he saw, behind the calm,
behind the courtesy, behind even the hidden desire, fear.

He worried over that glimpse all night. What was she afraid of? Betrayal? Love? Or the thing he did not want to acknowledge… was
she afraid of Thegan?

Inwardly, he knew she was right to be afraid. Thegan would be unforgiving. No warlord would countenance any hint of infidelity
in his wife, the producer of his heirs, even if the woman was innocent. There must be no whisper to taint the rightful inheritance
of the Domain. It was only twenty years since the warlord in the Far South Domain, old Elbert, had had his wife garrotted
because she danced with another man at the Springtree celebrations. He’d had no trouble getting a second, younger wife, because
all the observers had agreed she’d brought it on herself. Though there’d been no children from the second marriage, so maybe
the gods thought otherwise.

It came down to inheritance. If Leof cuckolded Thegan — the thought popped into his head unbidden, full of danger and excite-ment — Leof’s
sons could inherit the Domain. Which made him wonder why Sorn had not borne children. Thegan had a son — only one, true — and
he was an attractive man who had not been celibate since his wife died. Before his marriage to Sorn, he’d had a dozen women
that Leof knew of for certain, and no doubt many more. But there were no bastards, none in Cliff Domain, at least, and none
that he knew of here. Warlords commonly flaunted their bastards. Not Thegan.

His thoughts turned to Gabra, the son in Cliff Domain who had never had much of his father’s love, that Leof had seen. He
wondered whose son Gabra might be, and whether Thegan had accepted him unknowingly, cuckolded, or had arranged for his birth.
Pimped his wife? No, no, that was not possible. Bramble’s warning echoed in his head: Don’t trust him. Feverishly, Leof plunged
back into memories of Bramble, using her as a preventative against treason. But his memories of her had been leached clean
of desire, and they were no use as a defense against desire for Sorn.

Perversely, his lack of desire for Bramble made him readier to believe her warnings. Or was it just easier to think that betrayal
was excusable if committed against someone unworthy of his loyalty? He punched his pillow and forced himself to go over the
inventory of spears and slingshots in the armory until his thoughts grew quiet and he slept a long time later, then rose in
the early light, determined to continue pretending until the pretense was made real.

That morning he supervised the construction of a drying house, on the edge of the fort plateau, just inside the walls. By
autumn they would have half a herd slaughtered and the meat drying for winter stews and campaign food. He skipped lunch to
oversee the laying of the foundation stones for the new gate in the southern wall. That had to be done right. Any gate was
a potential breach in a time of siege and if the foundations weren’t strong the fort would be lost.

He approved of all the fortifications Thegan was introducing at Sendat. In Cliff Domain, not only was the warlord’s dwelling
fortified, but most of the towns. There had been years past, when the Ice King’s people had raided, that those towns had been
glad indeed that some warlord, sometime, had put time and silver into building proper defenses. So it might be at Sendat.
Soon.

H
EARING CAME BACK
first, but it was dulled. Bramble strained to make out the sound of voices. Then sight returned, but the light was dim. She
could see candle flames flickering, or was it oil lamps? There were a dozen of them in a small room, but still her eyes saw
vaguely. Everything seemed fogged. But she was seeing through a man’s eyes, that was certain.

The man blinked several times and made an effort to see and suddenly everything came clear, although she could feel the strength
he was using to pay attention. Only the body lay open to her: she could barely feel this mind. It was opaque, shut off. Not
from her, she didn’t think. This was a mind which habitually guarded its thoughts. She tried to get a sense of what he was
thinking, or feeling, and was disoriented. He thought in intricate layers, convoluted and intertwined, like the threads in
a complex weaving. Thoughts linked to other thoughts in endless speculation. She could make no sense of it, catch not even
one clear emotion. This mind was alien to her in a way none of the others had been, not even the goat girl on the mountain.
This mind was old, and it schemed.

“Oddi,” a voice said respectfully. His gaze sharpened on the speaker — Asgarn, his wiry hair catching the light from the candles
and seeming fairer than ever. “Are you ready, Oddi?”

Oddi, Bramble thought. That was the name of the old man at the Moot, the one who held the Mootstaff, the one who had made
Acton into the lord of war. He had been much stronger then. Age had caught up with him.

Oddi nodded, and Bramble could hear the bones of his neck creaking. Very old. But he still held the power in the room.