Deep Water (53 page)

Bramble knew that feeling. She felt sorry for him, but she was worried. What was he doing up here in the woodland, waiting,
skulking? Where was Acton? Surely it was too soon for him to die? He couldn’t be much older than the last time she had seen
him, not if Wili were pregnant. The stories all talked about him ruling Turvite, setting up the warlord system, pushing the
invasion further and further — surely that would take years more?

Then Red saw Acton, down at the steading, coming out of the main house, talking briefly with Wili, and then going to a barn.
A few moments later he emerged, riding one of the stocky little ponies Bramble had come to admire.

He rode up the slope and passed Red, whose breathing came faster as Acton went by. Red reached down and brought a knife out
of his boot. Not an eating knife. This was a fighting dagger, meant for killing.

Acton rode further up the slope, his breath and his horse’s blowing clouds of steam. He was growing another beard, but it
was still short and outlined his face. His expression was hard to read; the set look might just be due to the cold, but she
didn’t think so. He looked like someone going to do a job he disliked.

Halfway up, though, his face changed. He looked into the woodland and smiled, as though he had seen someone he knew. Bramble
knew that smile, the sideways smile that he cozened women with. Bramble could have hit him. He was courting someone again.
Now, of all times! But instead of riding toward whatever girl was smiling back at him, he raised a hand in farewell and continued
on.

Further up the hill the forest curved around and continued in a thick ribbon of larch and spruce trees along the lower slopes
of the mountains. As Acton disappeared into those, Red followed him, skirting the open spaces until his path crossed Acton’s
tracks just inside the belt of trees. Then he followed the tracks through the trees. Where they ended, he waited. Acton was
higher up the steep hillside, near the cliff which showed the entrances to some caves. Dotta’s caves? Bramble wondered, and
then was sure. It had to be, so close to Wili’s settlement.

Acton tethered his horse to a low bush and disappeared inside the cave. Immediately Red started to run forward, treading as
much in the horse’s tracks as he could. He fetched up, breathing hard, against the cliff face next to the cave entrance, and
peered cautiously around into the cave. The passageway, winding between rough walls, was empty, but Acton’s tracks were clear
in the dirt, overlaying another set of footprints.

So someone was waiting for you, Bramble thought. What a surprise. I wonder if Asgarn is man enough to do his own killing.

That was the moment that Bramble understood. Acton never had set up the warlord system. They had killed him first and used
his name afterward to gather support.

She was filled with rage. Asgarn and shagging Oddi. This was their doing.

Red crept along down the passageway as stealthily as he could, and paused at a turn, where the rock screened the cave beyond.
There were voices, hard to decipher. Red didn’t have Baluch’s sharp ears. He edged closer to the opening.

Then Bramble heard Acton laugh in response to some comment. “Is this what you and Oddi have been scheming about? The Moot
has ruled us for a thousand years, would you give all that history away? The Moot
works.
It has proved itself. That’s why I copied it in T’vit. It’s a curb on the headstrong and the foolish. The weak are protected.”

“The weak are
favored
, you mean.” That was Asgarn’s voice, of course, bitter and harsh.

Red slid to the very edge of the opening and peered around. Beyond was Dotta’s cave, but it smelt stale, of old ashes and
grease from the small oil lamp that sat on a rock, giving a wavering and fitful light. Dotta was long gone, and her sacred
fire with her. Bramble hoped she was safe.

Acton and Asgarn were facing each other, looking like two versions of the same man. Both tall, both fair, both strong and
wide across the shoulders. Only the hair was different, and the way they stood: Asgarn with shoulders hunched and fists clenched;
Acton upright and at ease, Asa’s brooch on his cloak catching the lamplight like a star. Oh, be careful! Bramble thought.
Don’t be so sure of yourself.

“The strong are forced to carry the weak,” Asgarn said.

Acton looked at him with curiosity. “Because we are all one people, of one blood. Should we not help each other?”

“The strong don’t need help and the weak should pay for the help they need.”

“Pay how?”

“In obedience. And other ways, if necessary. Labor. Gold. Goods.”

“No,” Acton said. “The chieftain has a duty to his people. Generosity pleases the gods.”

“A ruler should look to his own interests first, and then give what he can, in return for loyalty.”

Acton paused, as though he could see that this argument could go on forever without either of them shifting position. “I cannot
support you,” he said. “I think you will find that most of the Moot council is of my view. I have already received endorsement
for my free towns.”

“Aye, they’re short-sighted, like you. They don’t see where that will take us. But uninterested in power? I don’t think so.
I think enough of them like the idea of being fully in control of their own territory. But it would be just like you to convince
them. Just like you to lead us all into disaster, like you always do. Come over the mountains! you said, and so all of them
went and died, just so you could feel good. If we’d taken this territory in the first place, Swef and Asa — yes, and Friede,
too — they’d all still be alive.”

“That’s true,” Acton said quietly.

“Oh, yes, admitting it makes you sound so noble, doesn’t it? You’re good at that, aren’t you? At having grand schemes. You’re
good at convincing people to die for some stupid noble idea. Like you convinced my
brother
!”

Asgarn sprang, drawing the knife from his belt. Like Red’s, this was a killing dagger, not a belt knife. Acton was ready for
him, his own knife out and his arm up to deflect the first blow. They began to wrestle for supremacy, kicking and hitting,
shouldering each other around the cave.

Bramble could feel Red tensing, getting ready. If only Acton had lived! If only he had swung the Moot his way, there would
have been no warlords, ever. How different the future might have been. The future came down to now, to this moment in a cave.
To Red.

Because it was clear that Asgarn was tiring. Acton’s immense strength was slowly winning out, forcing Asgarn back, step by
step. Once he was pressed against the wall of the cave he would have no chance. If Red chose not to help Asgarn . . .

Bramble felt his muscles tense in preparation and screamed into his head:
No! Noooo!
He faltered and she was exultant. She
could
stop him. She
would
, and take whatever consequences that came.

She gathered her strength to shout again into his mind, but the gods flooded into her, overwhelmed her, pressed her back,
silenced her, and Red leapt from the shadows and raised his knife high.

He swung the knife down into the middle of Acton’s back, and then reversed his grip so he could strike up, under the ribcage,
up into the heart. Bramble was straining to break free of the gods, straining to touch his mind again, so as the knife went
up, and in, it was as though her own hand guided it, her own arm gave it strength.

Acton slumped down, the knife still in him. Asgarn kicked him as he fell and bent over him to say harshly, “Before you go
to the cold hells, tell my brother from me that I have avenged him.” He glanced at Red, who stood frozen, staring at Acton,
his heart thumping and his eyes burning dry. Asgarn’s face drained of fury. “And tell Geb the same, for Red.”

At the name, Red’s eyes filled with tears and he took a deep, sobbing breath. He nodded slowly, in a kind of desolate satisfaction.

Acton’s eyes had rolled up and his labored breathing changed to the death rattle. Bramble was almost angry with him. It seemed
impossible that he should be lying there. He was so strong! He was too full of life to let a nothing like Red overcome him.
Each labored breath dragged the air from her own lungs, so that it felt like she was dying, too. She needed him to get up.
Get up! she pleaded silently. But his breaths were weaker, the rattle more pronounced. Her eyes were full of tears, but they
were Red’s tears, and his heart, beating fast, and his lungs at last dragging breath into them. She wanted to reach out and
touch Acton, to at least ease his passing, but of course Red did not respond to the thought. She had never felt so helpless,
not even when the roan was dying in her arms. At least she had been able to comfort the roan in his last moments.

Asgarn reached out and ripped the brooch from Acton’s cloak. He gave it to Red, and put a hand on his shoulder. “That was
well done. Keep this in memory of a great deed that must remain secret.”

Red nodded. His heart was slowing, his eyes clearing as he wiped tears away. There was a sense of freedom from pain and pressure,
as though Acton’s death had lanced a boil.

“You know where to put the body?”

“Aye.”

Asgarn clapped him on the shoulder again. Playing the part of the warlord, Bramble thought bitterly.

“Loyalty will be rewarded,” he said. He shrugged his cloak back into place and strode out of the cave without a backward glance.
Red looked down at Acton. Blood was seeping out of his back and spreading across the cave floor, but he was still breathing,
just.

Red bent and took him under the arms. Bramble had so wanted to touch him, but not like this… not to take him to his grave.
Red began dragging him to a passageway in the back of the cave, the same passageway that Dotta had led Gris down, the one
she had told Bramble to remember.

Bramble braced herself for the long, winding path down to the painted cave, but the waters came: as slow and inexorable as
funeral music, as strong as winter. The water covered her, smothered her, stopped her breathing as Acton’s breathing was stopping.
She had killed him, and now she was dying, and that was as it should be. She was content with that; so when the waters receded
and left her high and dry under the trees of the Forest, it seemed like a betrayal.

T
HE MIST WAS
so thick that they could barely see each other’s faces, but there was movement out there, beyond their circle. From the corner
of their eyes, by the prickling on the back of their necks, they knew something, or some things, were out there, circling
them, watching, listening. Searching.

Martine opened her mouth to speak, but Safred put her finger to her lips, signaling for silence. They leaned close together
over Bramble so that their heads were almost touching.

“This isn’t about you going to the island,” Martine whispered. She was sure of that, somehow. “What are they looking for?”

Safred looked down at Bramble. “We should have left her out there,” she breathed, worried. “Rigged up a sun shelter or something.
She would have been safe there.”

“What do you mean?”

“What she’s doing leaves her soul unprotected. Going, she was protected by the gods at the altar. If she is coming back… perhaps
the mist is their protection against — against whatever threatens.”

“The Forest?”

Safred shrugged helplessly. “I don’t think so. Something beyond life.”

Zel interrupted. “You don’t want to say it, but it’s the demons that eat souls, isn’t it?”

Safred’s face confirmed it. Martine had never quite believed in that story — the demons were supposed to eat the souls of
those who had lived badly, without generosity or courage or kindness. The souls of the evil, the petty, the mean-spirited.
She wondered if they had eaten Acton’s soul. It would be ironic, if all this effort had been for nothing, because his soul
was long since dead.

“They’re real?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Safred whispered. “The gods won’t answer when I ask. But, there’s something out there.”

“Is there anything we can do?” Cael’s face was pale. It was the first time he had shown any fear, and that made Martine’s
gut turn over.

Safred hunched her shoulders, uncertain.

“There is a… a spell,” Martine said.

Zel looked at her, shocked. When the old women were at the Autumn Equinox, the young women sang the dark song, the song of
protection against evil, to guard their families against the coming winter. Against all demons. But it was secret, passed
from mother to daughter of the old blood.

Oh, Mam, forgive me, Martine thought, but I can’t leave Bramble unprotected. She began to sing.

There were five notes only, repeated over and over again. The words didn’t matter, Martine had been told, but the melody must
be precise. Usually, women sang the names of their loved ones, or words like “safe” and “protected” and “life.” Martine sang
“Bramble,” spreading the word out over all five notes, repeating and repeating.

After a moment’s silence, Zel joined in, her hand sweaty in Martine’s.

The moving shadows in the mist seemed to pause as they sang. Then, as though they had been waiting for some sound, something
to center upon, they gathered closer. Gods protect us, Martine thought, I hope I haven’t doomed us all.

Then Safred joined in, singing not in the terrible, dead voice she used to heal, but in her own light alto. Cael opened his
mouth to begin, too, but Martine warned him with a shake of the head, no. She didn’t know what would happen if a man sang
those notes.

The mist began to draw back, leaving them in a small circle of clear air. But as it did, screaming began around them. It was
the sound of a rabbit screaming as the fox bites down, the sound of the lamb under the eagle’s claws, of a child falling over
a cliff. Small, defenseless, and totally false, it tried to lure them into breaking the circle, shock them to their feet.
Cael jerked as the first cry tore the air, but Martine had him by one hand and Safred by the other, and they held fast, singing
louder.