Fly with the Arrow: A Bluebeard Inspired Fantasy (Bluebeard's Secret Book 1)

by Sarah K. L. Wilson

The sovereign at the head of the table opened his eyes again, and the room fell silent. His voice – again – was authoritative, though barely louder than a whisper.

  “Play resumes at Peak of Night.”

  Chapter Twenty

  It was like a wildcat had been let loose in the room. The moment the Sovereign closed his eyes again, the Lords and Ladies of the Wittenbrand scattered.

  Some leapt from the side of the fungi ledge. I gasped at that, but no one seemed concerned. Perhaps they could fly, or maybe they were athletic enough to twist and land on another ledge. Some rushed out the door. Some moved to watch the stonemason etching their names in the rocky wall, chatting loudly about the results of the nations drawn.

  Bluebeard helped me up, leaving the cloak on the floor. Did he want my back on display? I opened my mouth, and he pressed a finger to his lips as if the two of us were sharing a delicious secret. I pressed my lips together tightly to show him how irritated I was. I was not cattle. I was not a prize dog. I was his wife, and if that meant to him that he could use me as he liked, to me it meant that I was his equal and deserved to be treated as such.

  But I could wait until we were in private to tell him that. I could wait until it was just the two of us. And then I would show him how to treat his wife.

  He’d wanted an answer on whether I would work with him. I wanted an answer on whether he would work with me.

  I let my eyes glitter with suppressed anger but before I could do more than look at him, an icy hand touched my back and I flinched in pain. Something fumbled at my wrist. I spun in time to meet the gaze of the Sword. Something about the way he was looking at me made my mind go numb for just a moment.

  Bluebeard’s hand shot forward and caught the Sword’s wrist, hauling his hand from my back. “Look all you want, but please don’t touch,” he said smoothly.

  “Why ever not, Arrow?” the Sword asked, leaning smoothly against the woven table, his hip jutting out saucily as if he was completely at his ease. He picked a bloom up from the table, twirling it between finger and thumb before burying his nose in it. “It’s not like you really touch them. You’re more frigid than winter’s bite.”

  “And more ruthless,” Bluebeard countered. “I’ll take more than your fingers if you touch her again. You’ll be thinking fondly of the black of frozen flesh the frost steals when you compare it to what I demand in payment.”

  The Sword bit his lip at me and then the corner of his mouth turned up. “I think she’s received the message.”

  He sauntered away, leaving Bluebeard standing there with his chest and fist thrust forward as if he were on the verge of giving chase. His lip curled up a little and he reached to take my hand.

  Which was when I realized someone had tucked something into it. A scrap of paper, if I wasn’t mistaken. I slid it between my fingers and offered my other hand to take his. Bluebeard whistled as he guided me down the steps and out of each doorway. His band joined him again, one by one, as if drawn by his low whistle.

  They weren’t the only ones. Little birds fluttered down, landing on his head and shoulders and singing sweetly in harmony with him.

  “A fine showing,” Grosbeak murmured. “The nations are all key ones and very close to one another. Close enough for the opening moves to be very interesting. They may already have agents in each others’ courts. It will be a fine Turning of Ages this time around. Very fine.”

  “Are they truly playing on behalf of the nation whose leader they chose?” I asked Grosbeak, and was surprised when Bluebeard’s hand tightened on mine. It wasn’t painful, but more ... tense ... as if he feared the answer to this question.

  “Haven’t you heard tell that the Wittenbrand play games with the fates of men?” Grosbeak asked me.

  “I’ve heard the rumors.”

  “Now you get to see it. A real game with real people and nations as the markers. If your nation is lost, you lose.”

  “What do you mean by lost?” I asked weakly, conscious that Bluebeard was squeezing my hand even more tightly – and that in his other fist he held the king of my nation in miniature.

  “Ever heard of the Eldenheim? The Corrindale? The Xan Tharan?”

  “I have not,” I said, licking my dry lips.

  “Well, there you go then. Lost means lost.”

  Lost. My family. My home. My nation.

  He held their fate in his palm.

  Quite literally.

  Which meant he must not fail. If he failed, he would lose everything I loved. Everyone I cared for. And that meant that if I turned on him and gave him up to the King of Pensmoore – if that wasn’t him shrunk to the size of a finger and stuffed into my husband’s palm – then far, far worse would happen than simply me losing my life and all my days. And what if our king didn’t know about this? Maybe he sould be told that much at least. It was hardly betraying anyone to tell him about his own fate – and possibly the best bit of information I could glean for him.

  I felt dizzy.

  At the last door, Vireo rejoined us.

  “So,” he asked my husband, “What is it to be then? I had a herd of pigs riding on famine.”

  “Famine?” I gasped. My eyes were so wide they were beginning to sting.

  “War,” Bluebeard said quietly. “It’s to be war.”

  The band around us seemed grimmer somehow, their faces hardening, grips tightening on sword hilts. Did that mean they would fight?

  “We’re ready, Arrow,” Sparrow said grimly.

  “The flat tokens that Coppertomb threw determined the game,” Grosbeak told me. “Famine, Pestilence, War, or Cataclysm. The games of the lives of men. Cataclysm is my favorite. Very dramatic. Most of it is determined by chance. War is the most strategic. It favors the thinkers and plotters. Like the Arrow here, or the Sword.”

  I risked a glance at my husband’s face and shrank at what I saw there, for that was not concern or horror. In the lines of his face were anticipation and giddy eagerness. He couldn’t wait to start. And if he lost, then everything would be lost to me.

  Despite the frigid air, I felt hot all over.

  “And could he have chosen not to play?”

  Every eye was glaring at me now.

  Grosbeak laughed. “Well, if he didn’t play, he would no longer be a prince of the Wittenhame. He would forfeit his lands and people. Any claim he has laid on the mortal world and any magic he may derive from his claims there would be lost. He would lose his position and someone else would claim it. Vireo perhaps, or another Wittenbrand. Whoever made the claim would have to pass through a series of trials to take the role, but there would be many who would try to do that. If you don’t play, then you are no prince of our land.”

  “Are we returning to your home, my lord Arrow?” Vireo asked crisply, refusing to look at Grosbeak or acknowledge the assumption that he was next in line for Bluebeard’s position.

  “Immediately. My wife needs feeding and sleep.”

  “And tomorrow?”

  “You know none of us may act until the bets are placed,” Bluebeard said briskly. Our escort shoved through the last of the stumbling dancers in the snow below the bottom steps. Around us, the day was bright and merry but the Wittenhame were stumbling to their homes nearby, putting their hands up to shield their eyes from the morning sun as if it was offensive to them and not the golden delight of the heavens.

  “Others may choose to act sooner,” Vireo replied, stone-faced.

  Grosbeak chuckled. “You know the Sword will cheat. He’ll already be sending messages. Nothing you can prove – just little things to pave the way.”

  “I am not the Sword,” Bluebeard said menacingly. “I am so much worse than he could dare to be.”

  The Grouse House took that opportunity to make an appearance, fluttering down from one of the trees and landing in front of us so inelegantly that I was afraid it would crash.

  Without a word, Bluebeard swept me off my feet and into his arms and marched up the stairs.

  “Ge
t sleep and food into you,” he called over his shoulder. “And be back here before first dark. We have planning to do and strategies to make.”

  He yanked the door open and stepped inside with me still in his arms, pausing only when he saw there was barely room to stand inside.

  “My people,” he said, his voice ragged. “You have come to me.”

  My jaw dropped at the various people assembled in the room. Some sat or stood on or flapped over the desk. Some on the bookcases. Others on the hearth. The rest of the floor was packed with people of every size – one nearly the size of an oak tree, others so small they rivaled my fingernails. They had wings, or webbed feet, or horns that curled, or spiraled, or were straight. They had large, sharp teeth and broad, flat teeth. Some had papery skin like birch bark and others were ridged like a maple tree. Some hovered on dragonfly wings and some bore bird wings tucked modestly behind their backs. Some presented wide antlers and some hair like dandelion frills.

  Bluebeard glanced at me, an odd expression on his face that looked almost like pride – but that could not be right. After a moment, he seemed to realize that he couldn’t speak to me, so he spoke to them.

  “This is my newest wife, Izolda of Pensmoore. I present her to you.”

  “Lady,” the nearest one squeaked – a woman, perhaps? – who was shaped like a porcupine and completely covered in quills. “We thank you for your sacrifice.”

  And then they all swiveled away from me and toward Bluebeard and she spoke again. “We came together, but I was elected to speak. We suffer, Lord of Riverbarrow. All down the River the old ways die and the folk die with it. Our trees are cut, our swamps drained dry, our flowers plucked. We wane and die, we waste and grow hollow. We cry to you for salvation.”

  “Patience, my folk,” Bluebeard said, but his face was pale and for the first time since I met him, he seemed afraid. “I work to buy it all back and make you free.”

  “We know you care, Lord of Riverbarrow,” the porcupine lady said. “But we dwindle. Some of us are the last of our kind in your lands. And we fear that if you do not act quickly, there will be no folk for you to save.”

  He ran a hand over his face, and I could have sworn his lovely eyes were wet with tears. The blood streak on his cheek smeared and he bowed his head.

  “I hear your words, my folk. And I listen. Please have faith in me for a little while longer.”

  They nodded gravely and then passed him one by one, leaving out the door. Each of them touching him as they left – as if just touching him would work some kind of magic.

  Furtively, I stole a look at the tiny paper rolled up between my fingers.

  I nearly dropped it in my shock. I could have sworn that the Sword had given it to me, and yet it was in my brother’s hand. It read:

  Izolda,

  We will come for you. Have no fear.

  Svetgin

  My brother’s words, in his hand. I looked up quickly. None had seen me reading the paper except Grosbeak, who raised a single eyebrow and smiled nastily. But even though I knew that my husband must win in this game with the lives of men, I couldn’t help the glimmer of hope that seeing my brother’s words drove into my heart. He knew where I was. He was coming for me.

  Could that even be possible? He had sent a note – a feat I’d thought impossible. Perhaps the only limit here was my own imagination.

  The last of the folk trooped out the door and Bluebeard shut it behind them, leaning his head against the doorframe. His shoulders slumped as if he was carrying a terrible load.

  I ought to fight with him. I ought to tell him he was terrible and cruel and disrespectful and all the other things I’d observed since he put me on the back of his elk and ridden through the madness into this wild world. But how did you kick a man who was already so far down?

  “I’ll give you a hint,” I said calmly, setting Grosbeak on the bookshelf.

  Bluebeard spun and looked at me, his eyes blazing a question and irritated at my interruption all at once.

  “The name I call you comes from a color,” I said calmly.

  His forehead wrinkled in puzzlement, but he no longer looked defeated.

  I strode over to the edge of the fire and picked up one of the books on the hearth. Its name was on the spine. Marvels of Modern Accountancy.

  Wait. Hadn’t he thrown this book in the fire when he was reading it the night we were wed?

  I shook my head. It was just a strange coincidence. I’d had a lot to think on that night. I couldn’t trust my memory about the details.

  Bluebeard moved to sit at his desk, poring over pages of what looked like poetry as if there were answers there. He opened his hand and put the little king down on the table so that he was standing, facing him. His feet were attached to a lead disc, so he could not move but he bellowed silently, shaking a fist. It made something cold seize in my chest.

  No, I would not be the puppet of the little king. I needed to seal things with my husband. I had married him. He held my nation in his palm. It was with him that I must forge some kind of alliance.

  “I would like to speak to you, husband,” I said calmly.

  He did not look up.

  I swallowed.

  This was going to be hard to manage when he couldn’t speak to me but harder still if he wouldn’t even look at me.

  He gestured to a table in one corner of the jumbled room that was laden with food. I was not hungry. Okay, I was hungry, but I was not going to eat until I made my point.

  “It’s important that we talk.” I made sure my voice was very clear.

  He still didn’t look up. He took out a pen, dipped it in an inkpot and began to write. I peeked over his shoulder. He was writing poetry. The fate of my world and the lives of those wild folk hung in the balance and he was writing poetry.

  I shook my head and took a deep breath. Calm, Izolda. Losing your temper now will help nothing.

  I waited and waited for what felt like an hour and still, he did not look up or even so much as glance toward me.

  I needed to get his attention. I put my hands on my hips and then immediately let them drop again. The pain in my back was too intense. I was swaying on my feet from exhaustion and anxiety and hunger. I needed to eat and I needed my bed.

  But if I left things like this, night would fall again and my voice would be lost to me before I could do anything to change what was.

  The room was full of items – books and trinkets. Curiosities and precious things. The raven flapped over one bookshelf, tempting me, but it was important to choose things that were valuable enough that he’d notice but not so valuable that it would hurt him.

  The raven walked across the desk and tilted his head at Bluebeard. My husband paused his writing and tilted his head in a mirror image of the bird, his cat’s eyes flashing in the fire. So, he would not pause to hear me but he would pause to stare at a bird?

  I shook my head. Well, that settled it.

  With care, I strode to the hearth and picked up Marvels of Modern Accountancy. I cleared my throat and then threw it in the fire.

  “Thank you,” the fire rumbled, puffing up to twice his height for a moment before calming back down.

  Bluebeard’s head whipped up and he looked at the fire and then at me. I picked up the next book and this time I read the title aloud.

  “Crop Rotations: How to Account for Them Without Making Your Head Spin. Clever.”

  I threw it into the fire. Sparks puffed into the air and the fire belched loudly.

  “Thank you.”

  Bluebeard dropped his pen and rushed across the room as I picked up a third tome.

  “A Head Above the Rest: Ancestry of the Landholders of Pensmoore. Well, don’t they think a lot of themselves.”

  Bluebeard’s hand caught my wrist before I could throw it into the fire. His eyes blazed into mine.

  “Don’t like the disrespect of having your books burned?” I asked Bluebeard acidly. “Well, I don’t like disrespect either. I’m your wif
e. I am not a broodmare to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. I am not cattle to be traded in and stalled. I am not a pretty necklace to be bought and placed within a jewelry box. I am a living woman with a mind and abilities and there are things I can offer you.”

  “She speaks as though she possesses something I do not already own, my fire,” Bluebeard said, shooting a glance at the fire.

  “Yes, my master,” the fire said.

  “You drew my king from the molten lead,” I said, catching his gaze again and looking into it with enough intensity to hold it. “You carry the fate of my nation in your hands.”

  He tilted his chin up arrogantly.

  “And you carry the fates of those wild folk who came here to plead with you,” I added, and he softened just a bit, his face relaxing slightly.

  I felt my own brow furrowing. That was the path to his heart? This strange, violent man cared about that odd collection of creatures more than anything else? It was ... surprisingly endearing.

  “You think I am only of value to you for the days of mine that you can spend to get what you want.”

  He raised an eyebrow in response.

  “You are wrong. You asked me if I would work with you. My answer is yes. But will you work with me? You will find it much easier to get what you want with me as your ally rather than your enemy.”

  He raised the other eyebrow as if he didn’t believe I could be his enemy.

  “I could speak during the night and take your magic away,” I threatened. His grip on my wrist tightened, his eyes blazing with deadly warning. “Yes, you’d kill my family and nation, but you might already do that with foolishness in this game of war you are playing.”

  “She speaks as if I believe that she would doom us both, my fire.” His voice was low and insinuating.

  “Yes, my master,” the fire said. “But have a care. There is a fire in this one. Like recognizes like.”

  “Have I mentioned you are a rare fire beyond mortal worth?” Bluebeard said.

  “You have not, my master.”

  I flicked my wrist and the book sailed into the fire’s maw. He consumed it with a burst of orange flame and Bluebeard clenched his jaw so tightly that I heard his teeth click.