SLANDERS

Chapter 3: A bargain kept

Two fortnights had passed.

Emery had not slept. She lay awake through the final night, turning the coming fight over in her mind the way a soldier turns a blade testing its weight, its balance, the places it might fail. When dawn came she rose without ceremony, bound her hair, and walked to the field.

The whole family had gathered. Stepmothers she had never been introduced to stood in clusters with their daughters. Sisters she barely knew watched the empty space where their father would sit. The air smelled of trampled grass and nervous sweat.

Basilien arrived brighter than usual. A blue tunic shirt, brown leather trousers, the heavy sword swinging at his hip. His dark hair was damp, as if he had just washed. He took his place and spoke of loyalty, of grace, of the gods. His voice carried easily across the field.

“I have made my decision. The five who shall go forth and protect the honour of this house are Maeve, Saoirse, Aoife, Mirren, and Ailbhe.”

A low ripple of voices. Then a cry.

Ailbhe stepped forward. Eighth daughter. Her mother Annag had come from the Ulf clan, given to Basilien after he took an arrow meant for her father. Annag was known for her temper and her careful respect. Ailbhe had inherited neither in full.

“Father, please relieve me of this duty.”

Basilien looked at her. “Daughter, do you wish to plunge our house into the great abyss of Hel? This is the will of Dagda.”

Ailbhe’s voice shook. “Father, I am indebted to another. It is the will of Aengus Óg.”

Basilien’s patience thinned. “His will? And what do you know of the will of the gods?” He let the silence stretch. “I know of your trifles with the stable boy. Do not take me for a fool. You could have chosen a warrior. You settled for an ostler. Surely Aengus Óg would not ordain that.”

He raised a hand. “Fetch the boy.”

Guards dragged a tall, light-skinned youth into the open and forced him to his knees. He looked like something carved for a temple, and the fear on his face spoiled it.

“Your name, ostler.”

“Erik.”

“A beautiful name for a beautiful boy. Tell me, is it the will of Aengus Óg that you claim my daughter?”

“No, master.”

Basilien turned his head slightly toward Ailbhe. “You heard him. He does not speak for the gods. Neither do you.”

Ailbhe rushed forward and dropped to her knees. “Father, I have not seen two moons.”

Basilien studied her over the rim of a goblet he had accepted from a servant. “You are with child.”

She nodded.

“That is news,” he said mildly. “Is it not, Erik?”

The boy could not answer.

Basilien’s voice remained almost gentle. “My house will accommodate no bastard. You will pay for your crime, boy. The only question is the manner of it. How do you wish to die? Choose something that will please me.”

Erik bowed his head and began to plead. Basilien watched him without interest.

Emery stepped out of the line of daughters.

“Father.”

Every head turned. Basilien’s gaze found her and lingered.

“I will fight,” she said. Her voice carried cleanly across the field. “Against one of your strongest. For the lives of the boy and the child.”

A murmur rose and died.

Basilien set the goblet down. He studied her the way a man studies a blade he has not yet tested.

“You asked for the chance to train,” he said. “Two fortnights. The time is finished. You have not yet faced my strongest. This would be your first true test.”

“Yes.”

He considered her a moment longer. “Very well. We will make the bargain plain. You will face one of my strongest warriors here, now. If you win, the boy lives and the child is spared. If you lose” His eyes moved briefly to Ailbhe, then returned to Emery. “you take her place among the five. The boy and the child may still live, if the fight has been worth watching.”

He rose.

“Do you accept?”

Emery did not look at Ailbhe. She did not look at Erik. She kept her eyes on her father.

“I accept.”

Basilien gestured. A broad-shouldered guard stepped forward from the line of men scarred, calm, already reaching for a practice blade of weighted wood. Another was tossed to Emery. She caught it.

They faced each other in the open grass.

The first exchange was short and brutal. The man was heavier, faster than she had expected, and he did not treat her as a novelty. He tested her guard with three sharp strikes, then drove forward. Emery parried the first, turned the second, and felt the third smash through her defence and slam into her ribs. Air left her lungs in a hard rush. She staggered, reset her feet, and came on again.

She lasted longer than most expected. She used the grass the way Alasdair had taught her shifting, bending, refusing to plant herself like an oak. She caught him once across the forearm hard enough to make him adjust. She nearly took his knee. But strength told. A heavy blow numbed her wrist. The wooden blade spun from her hand. The next strike took her across the shoulder and dropped her to one knee. The final one landed between her shoulder blades and put her face-down in the dirt.

She tried to rise. Her arms would not answer quickly enough.

Basilien raised a hand. The guard stepped back.

Silence held the field.

Basilien looked down at her for a long moment. Then he spoke, almost lightly.

“The boy lives. The child lives. Ailbhe remains among the five.” His gaze settled on Emery, still on the ground. “And you will take the place that was hers. You leave with the others in two days.”

He turned away as if the matter had never been in doubt.

Guards helped Erik to his feet and released him. Ailbhe remained on her knees, shaking. Emery pushed herself up slowly, tasting blood and dust. Her ribs ached with every breath. The wooden blade lay a short distance away, useless now.

She did not look at her father again. She simply stood, collected what little dignity the dirt had left her, and walked from the field toward the only path she still knew the one that led back to the small room she shared with her younger sisters.

The bargain had been kept.

A week later the five were summoned to the great hall.

They stood in a line, newly dressed. Emery wore a gown that still smelled of the chest it had been taken from. Her hair had been braided with flowers, feathers, and thin ribbon; the scent of sweet grass clung to her. The other four had been prepared with equal care. Whispers moved between them like insects.

Saoirse stepped closer. She was the ninth daughter, born of Basilien’s sixth wife, Kara. Tall and precise, with long brown hair that fell to her waist and a mouth that rarely softened. Warriors had asked for her hand more than once. Basilien had refused them all.

“Sister Emery,” she said. “Why do you keep challenging him?”

Emery gave no answer.

Saoirse’s voice stayed low, but the anger in it was clear. “He feeds you. Clothes you. Keeps a roof over your head. And still you choose folly. For what? A freedom you have never even tasted.”

Maeve spoke from further down the line. “I think she is brave.”

Saoirse did not look at her. “You think everyone is brave, Maeve.”

Emery turned her head. “And why do you obey him so easily?”

“Because it is my duty. The gods will it.”

Emery’s reply came quieter than the earlier silence. “These gods you speak of—do they speak to you? Did they come when my mother lay dying? Did they bring herbs, or water, or even a kind word? I did those things. I was the only god she had at the end. So spare me their names.”

Mirren, sixth-born and already holding a cup of wine, gave a short, unpleasant smile. “You are your mother’s daughter,” she said, and drank.

Footsteps crossed the hall. Basilien entered without haste. He looked over the five of them as if confirming they were still intact.

“Save your sharp tongues for your husbands,” he said. “You leave for the five tribes of the kingdom.”

He named them one by one.

“Maeve—you will wed Sweyn of the Svear.

Saoirse—you will wed Arkyn of the Gutes.

Aoife—you will wed Cuyler of the Heruls.

Mirren—you will wed Gunner of the Danes.

Emery—you will wed Emund of the Rugian.”

He paused only long enough for the words to settle.

“Each of you will choose a guard. The weddings take place in one week. You have a single purpose: take control of those tribes. Make certain the house of Basilien is the one that stands when the dust settles.”

He turned and left them standing in the scented silence of the hall.