victory gesture above his head.
“Oh, shagging gods!” the older man said. “Of course it was an accident. Swith just doesn’t want to be remembered as the idiot he was.”
The youngest of the three, a man with big ears, sniggered.
The ghost fell down upon his knees. It sobered even the sniggerer.
“They never found his horse, Beck,” the redhead said quietly.
Beck,
Bramble thought,
that’s the warlord’s second in command.
“That was a good horse,” Beck said thoughtfully. “I trained him myself. Worth killing for, if you had somewhere safe to take him.”
“I think we’d better talk to the warlord. Try to find the horse. If it’s still out in the forest, well, then it’s an accident. If not . . .”
The older man sniffed, then nodded. “All right. I’ll talk to him. Let’s go.”
She waited until the three men had mounted and left. The redhead clearly felt awkward about riding away from the ghost, just leaving it standing there by the tree. He tried to wave goodbye to it, but halfway through caught the eye of the older man and he turned the movement into a fumble on the reins.
They went west up the slope, toward Thornhill, without looking back. When they were out of sight, Bramble slowly came forward, her knife tight in her hand. When the ghost caught sight of her, he pointed one long pale arm at her head, turned as though to call back the men, then realized he couldn’t. Bramble swallowed. Up close, the chill was much worse. She took a deep breath. Words had been laid down for this, words that had to be said.
“I am your killer,” she said to him, trying to look him in the eye. “Lo, I proclaim it, it was I who took your life from you. I am here to offer reparation, blood for blood.”
She cut her wrist with a sure flick of the knife and offered it to him, her whole body tensed against what was to come. But the ghost backed away and waved his arms:
No
. She could almost see his mouth, a slightly darker shape, form the word.
“If you do not forgive me, you will be caught here in this place, with no chance of rebirth,” Bramble said.
He lunged forward, his hands out for her throat, forgetting for a moment that he no longer had a body to do damage with. His pale form passed right through her; she felt a horrible chilly wave. The burial cave smell enveloped her and she fought to stop herself vomiting.
The ghost turned, furious, unappeased, and raised its fists to the sky in anger.
It was enough. Bramble turned and ran back toward the stream.
Now,
the gods said in her mind.
Now
. She ran home, straight to her mother’s workshop.
She fetched up at the side of the loom, panting. “I’m leaving. I — I’ll go to Maryrose. I’m going now. Don’t worry. And if you’re asked, you know nothing of where I am or why I’ve gone. You all come soon.”
Her mother sat with her mouth open, astonished. Bramble moved around the corner of the loom, hugged her briefly, kissed her cheek, and ran out headed for her father’s workshop before her mother could recover her breath.
Her da and granda were standing at the workbench, looking at some plans. As she ran to them they turned to face her. She reached up to kiss each of them on the cheek —
NOW,
the gods insisted — then ran out without speaking. She ran for the forest as though she were a wild goose flying.
She found the roan waiting for her. He nuzzled her shoulder while she tried to calm herself. His warm breath steadied her nerves, brought her back down to earth. She found that she had cut her forearm on the wild dash through the trees; it had ripped against a branch. Without thinking, she took her skirt off in haste and staunched the blood flow, then realized the stains she was making on the fabric.
Rot it,
she thought,
I could have used this skirt
. She tore enough off to make a bandage then tossed it aside. Her breeches would be enough. It would probably be better if she looked like a boy anyway. She pinned up her braid and put on a
“Oh, shagging gods!” the older man said. “Of course it was an accident. Swith just doesn’t want to be remembered as the idiot he was.”
The youngest of the three, a man with big ears, sniggered.
The ghost fell down upon his knees. It sobered even the sniggerer.
“They never found his horse, Beck,” the redhead said quietly.
Beck,
Bramble thought,
that’s the warlord’s second in command.
“That was a good horse,” Beck said thoughtfully. “I trained him myself. Worth killing for, if you had somewhere safe to take him.”
“I think we’d better talk to the warlord. Try to find the horse. If it’s still out in the forest, well, then it’s an accident. If not . . .”
The older man sniffed, then nodded. “All right. I’ll talk to him. Let’s go.”
She waited until the three men had mounted and left. The redhead clearly felt awkward about riding away from the ghost, just leaving it standing there by the tree. He tried to wave goodbye to it, but halfway through caught the eye of the older man and he turned the movement into a fumble on the reins.
They went west up the slope, toward Thornhill, without looking back. When they were out of sight, Bramble slowly came forward, her knife tight in her hand. When the ghost caught sight of her, he pointed one long pale arm at her head, turned as though to call back the men, then realized he couldn’t. Bramble swallowed. Up close, the chill was much worse. She took a deep breath. Words had been laid down for this, words that had to be said.
“I am your killer,” she said to him, trying to look him in the eye. “Lo, I proclaim it, it was I who took your life from you. I am here to offer reparation, blood for blood.”
She cut her wrist with a sure flick of the knife and offered it to him, her whole body tensed against what was to come. But the ghost backed away and waved his arms:
No
. She could almost see his mouth, a slightly darker shape, form the word.
“If you do not forgive me, you will be caught here in this place, with no chance of rebirth,” Bramble said.
He lunged forward, his hands out for her throat, forgetting for a moment that he no longer had a body to do damage with. His pale form passed right through her; she felt a horrible chilly wave. The burial cave smell enveloped her and she fought to stop herself vomiting.
The ghost turned, furious, unappeased, and raised its fists to the sky in anger.
It was enough. Bramble turned and ran back toward the stream.
Now,
the gods said in her mind.
Now
. She ran home, straight to her mother’s workshop.
She fetched up at the side of the loom, panting. “I’m leaving. I — I’ll go to Maryrose. I’m going now. Don’t worry. And if you’re asked, you know nothing of where I am or why I’ve gone. You all come soon.”
Her mother sat with her mouth open, astonished. Bramble moved around the corner of the loom, hugged her briefly, kissed her cheek, and ran out headed for her father’s workshop before her mother could recover her breath.
Her da and granda were standing at the workbench, looking at some plans. As she ran to them they turned to face her. She reached up to kiss each of them on the cheek —
NOW,
the gods insisted — then ran out without speaking. She ran for the forest as though she were a wild goose flying.
She found the roan waiting for her. He nuzzled her shoulder while she tried to calm herself. His warm breath steadied her nerves, brought her back down to earth. She found that she had cut her forearm on the wild dash through the trees; it had ripped against a branch. Without thinking, she took her skirt off in haste and staunched the blood flow, then realized the stains she was making on the fabric.
Rot it,
she thought,
I could have used this skirt
. She tore enough off to make a bandage then tossed it aside. Her breeches would be enough. It would probably be better if she looked like a boy anyway. She pinned up her braid and put on a
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