Waterborne Exile (39 page)

“Then why are you here?”

“Presently? I am Marten’s messenger boy. After that… it rather depends on you.”

“You have seen Marten?”

“He is at Highkell, delighting the courtiers with his wit.”

“Then you all now serve Vasic?”

“No, my lady. It was expedient for a time, that is all.”

“Are you telling me you have turned coat?”

“After a fashion, my lady.”

“Then how do I know I can trust you?”

“Alwenna, I died for you. What more can I do to prove my loyalty?”

Was he speaking the truth? Of course he was. Now he met her gaze unflinching. This was the man she’d mourned all these months. Returned to her. She stood up and reached out one hand towards him then halted. Her fingertips trembled. She had touched Tresilian all those months ago at the summer palace, and every fibre of her being had been revolted at the corruption she found there. The moment was etched on her mind forever, the sense of decay, of mould, of everything that had once been good now broken and corrupt, as if the goodness had been sloughed away leaving decay in its place. Would Weaver now be similarly tainted?

There was only one way to find out.

Inside the rock chamber the baby cried out. Alwenna ducked back inside the doorway, hurrying to the cradle where the baby slept on, disturbed for a moment by some dream or other.

Weaver waited at the doorway. “The child is healthy?”

Alwenna nodded, and gestured to Weaver to see for himself. “She is healthy.”

“A girl then?” Weaver crossed the floor softly to look down at the sleeping baby. The curtain fell over the doorway behind him, muting the daylight, enfolding the three of them in some separate place, far from the intruding eyes of the rest of the world. “She is perfect. I see your likeness in her. And her father’s.”

It didn’t seem to occur to him invoking Tresilian in that room was a bad idea. At first. Until he looked directly at Alwenna. “Those were better days. It is good that she is born from them. Do you not think so?”

“I suppose… I hadn’t given it much thought. She is what she is.” She moved over to stand next to Weaver. The baby shifted slightly in her sleep, flung one arm out sideways then settled again.

“You have done well, my lady.” Weaver took her hand in his. She started at the unexpected contact, but she didn’t pull her hand away. Beneath the calluses his hand was warm. She closed her fingers about his, letting his need for contact fuel her own. Goddess, how long had it been since they were last together? She’d believed this moment impossible.

And he was holding himself so carefully in check, she sensed. The sight told her it was so. She could sense the pulsing of blood through his veins, the beating of his heart, strong and true, pulsing away the memory of the moment it had stopped. Pulsing, living, turning away from the darkness, death, from his failure, from disgust–

“Goddess, Weaver. What did they do to you?”

His fingers tightened about hers. “For a long time I couldn’t remember. Now I have… I have no wish to speak of it. My business now is living.” He raised her hand to his lips and drew her closer. He was whole. She knew it. He had not been corrupted by the rites as Tresilian had been. Had Tresilian always been the weaker man? Weaver bent and kissed her. Why was she thinking of her dead husband? Perhaps at heart she was convinced Weaver would betray her the same way Tresilian had. Perhaps she would betray him.

She ran her hands up his chest, tugging at the drawstring of his shirt as he kissed her, slow and lingering. Then he drew her close and she turned her attention to unfastening the rest of his clothing, kissing him ever more hungrily.

As Weaver unlaced her gown Alwenna knew a moment’s doubt.

“I have battle scars of my own, now.”

Weaver slid a hand over her stomach. “Honourably won, my lady.”

Since they had last lain together her body had been changed by the passage of the baby. Her stomach was still soft and flaccid where once it had been flat and firm. But he didn’t seem to find her wanting. She thought no more of the past as they lost themselves in a present neither had believed possible.

The funeral procession stretched from Highkell right down the gorge. The Lady Drelena’s body had to be carried out on a litter, just as she had arrived so few weeks ago. An abrupt communication from the Lord Convenor Etrus had made it plain it was not acceptable for his daughter to be interred so far beyond the sound of the sea. Inexplicably, Vasic had not argued with Etrus’ demands. She was to be returned home to the Outer Isles, to rest there with her ancestors, a stone’s throw from the shore.

Vasic walked now behind the litter, head bowed. To Marten’s surprise, the king’s grief for his queen seemed genuine. After the initial shock he had become sullen and withdrawn. No awkward questions had been asked about Drew’s pardon, and Weaver’s disappearance had not been remarked upon, if it had even been noted. A replica dagger rested undetected in the cabinet from which Marten had removed the ornate blade. He guessed both men should have reached their destinations safely by now. And he was glad to be on the way himself.

He would accompany the funeral cortège to the Outer Isles, as ambassador from Vasic’s court. Once there… He might be wise to disappear, and never show his face again at Highkell, but he and wisdom no longer travelled together. Marten still had work to do there: that throne was the Lady Alwenna’s by right. And the Lady Drelena’s death would not go unavenged. Her killer would be brought to justice, unless Bleaklow got to him – or her – first.

The errand boy had died under questioning in the first frenzy to learn the truth about Drelena’s death. Marten and Bleaklow had been unable to learn any more. Drew’s nightmare had been too imprecise to tell them more than they had already guessed. The priestess was keeping herself to herself and appeared to be as subdued by the tragedy as everyone else at court. Durstan had delayed his journey to the summer palace to officiate over today’s ceremony, intoning invocations to the Goddess as what seemed like the entire populace of Highkell had shuffled past the coffin, now mercifully closed, to pay their respects.

Bleaklow walked ahead of Marten in the procession, just behind Vasic. They had established a strange friendship. Marten could understand the intensity of Bleaklow’s loyalty to the Lord Convenor and his family, although he suspected Bleaklow had felt rather more for the Lady Drelena than loyalty. Marten himself had admired her, but scarcely known her long to enough to form anything more than favourable first impressions, whatever the rumours said. The conviction someone had contrived her death to strike against him, however, that weighed heavily on his conscience. Even if he had not sworn to Bleaklow he would do everything in his power to bring the guilty party to justice he would still have felt honour-bound to do so. No, however little Marten relished the prospect, he must return to Highkell. And if he wished to return to Vasic’s court and wield any influence at all, he must cover himself in glory in the Outer Isles. He had no illusions that would be easy.

And he had no business pondering such worldly considerations at a time like this. Disgusted with himself, he bowed his head and muttered a prayer to the Hunter for the Lady Drelena. Whatever else he might have to do when he reached the Outer Isles, he would have no need to feign grief.

It was still dark when Alwenna picked her way down the slope from the cave. Erin was still off somewhere with Malcolm, as Alwenna had expected. The baby in her arms stirred in her sleep and snuffled, wriggled a moment then drifted back into a deeper sleep.

She didn’t have to do this.

She could turn around right now, set the baby back in the makeshift cot, lie down on the straw mattress next to Weaver, pretend none of this had happened. No one had seen her. She hesitated. There was nothing to say the elders had been right, after all. None of them wanted her here. She’d always been aware of that. The sleeping baby made a little sighing murmur.

Alwenna raised her chin, stiffened her shoulders and ignored the tug of pain from her scar. She had to do this for her child’s sake. As long as there was a chance the elders were right – and she’d seen enough visions of her own not to question their judgement – as long as there was a chance she could protect her child, as long as she had breath to try to make a difference, she must act. She continued down the steep path. A small stone twisted beneath her foot and her ankle tightened, an echo of the old injury. A sharp reminder of Highkell. And the threat she would protect her child from, no matter what the cost.

She knocked softly at the door to the place that had once been Marten’s home. There was no response so she knocked again a little louder, then rattled the handle. There was a mumble, then a scuffling sound as someone crossed the floor. With a scraping sound the bolt was drawn back.

Brett blinked at her in the moonlight. He was already tall enough to need to stoop beneath the lintel over the door.

“What–?”

“Wake your mother. I need to speak to her.”

He frowned. “But – it’s the middle of the night.”

“She won’t mind.” Not this time.

The youth turned away from the door, but was taken up short by his mother’s voice, low so as not to waken his brother.

“What is it, Brett? Is it your father after all?” She appeared at his side, drawing a shawl up round her thin shoulders. Her mouth tightened to a thin line as she recognised Alwenna. “Oh. What do you want?”

The carefully-prepared speech fell away from Alwenna. She wound the fringe of the baby’s shawl about her fingers. “I need to ask a favour of you.”

“A favour? Of me? Have you run entirely mad?”

“Ma, there’s no need for that.”

“I can think of no one better fitted to care for a child.” Alwenna rushed the words out before she could change her mind.

“To care for a child? Why?” The woman’s eyes flicked to the sleeping baby’s face again, her expression softening as she did so. Alwenna fought the urge to turn away, to run back up the hillside to her cave with the precious bundle.

Instead she held out her arms, offering the sleeping baby to Marten’s wife. “Because I can’t take her with me to the place I need to go.” Her voice caught in her throat for a moment. “She’ll be safer her with you. She’ll be safe. I know it.”

The woman reached out slowly, her eyes suspicious as they rested on Alwenna’s face, softening again as she focused on the child. She took the bundle gently, drawing her close, her expression suddenly hungry. “I can take care of her. How long will you be away?”

Alwenna drew a breath. “I won’t be coming back.” Her voice came out tiny, breathless.

The woman looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”

“I’m leaving. I have to, for all your sakes.” She needn’t tell them what visions she had seen. “I have enemies who… I mustn’t let them find me here. And I mustn’t let them find my child. That’s… That’s why I want you to care for her. I know you will keep her safe. I want you to raise her as one of your own. Let her call you mother, let her never know I exist.”

“But–”

“That’s the only way I can be sure she’ll be safe.”

The child stirred and the woman soothed her, cradling her in her arms with a new intensity. “How could anyone harm such an innocent?”

“They never will if I leave her here with you.”

“But how can you possibly leave her?”

Alwenna drew a tight breath. “I must. If I stay with her it will destroy her. I would have her live and be free.”

“I don’t know how you can leave her.”

“That’s because you haven’t seen what I’ve seen. There’s one more thing. Marten sent the dagger back with Weaver: I must take it with me.”

“So that’s it. You would trade your own child for a worthless dagger.”

Goddess, this was harder than she’d ever imagined. “It’s the only way to ensure her safety. I will take the dagger – and its ill luck – far away and bother you no more.”

The woman nodded. “What will I tell Marten if he returns?”

“Tell him what I have told you.”

“He won’t like it.”

“All the more reason for me to go now. While he is far away.”

“He’ll blame me.”

“Erin will back my word.”

“She’s not going with you?”

“No. Where I’m going, no one must follow. She will stay here and help you. She has already sworn to do so, although she doesn’t realise the full extent of it yet.”

Alwenna took a step back. The baby stirred again, as if she sensed her mother’s intentions. “Raise her as your own. Name her as your own. Let her never know her true father’s name. Will you do that?”

The woman nodded again, her eyes suddenly full in the moonlight. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

It was Alwenna’s turn to nod. She bit her lip to keep it from trembling. The sky was already beginning to lighten in the east. “I must go, before Erin returns.”

The woman frowned. “And just like that, you would walk out on her?”

Still suspicious, even now. “Think what you will of me, Rina, but know this – you have misjudged me all along. Whatever you think of me, I know you will not judge the child because of it. I know my presence here has brought you grief. I hope now my daughter will bring you comfort.”

“So you would sell her to me to ease your conscience? Do you tire of her as quickly as you tired of my husband?”

“Ma…” Brett, who’d listened in silence up to that point, stepped forward.

“Oh, think what you will. I haven’t time to argue with you now.” The sky was perceptibly lighter in the east.

“I may have wronged you, although I still cannot understand you.” Rina nodded towards the chest on the floor. “Brett, get the key from under my pillow and give her the dagger.”

Brett hurried to obey, handing Alwenna the cloth-wrapped bundle. She didn’t need to open it to be certain what it contained. She stuffed it down inside one of the saddlebags and slung them over her shoulder once more.

“Let me accompany you, my lady.” Brett glanced guiltily at his mother.

Alwenna shook her head. “It is better that you remain here.”