' Now, we're here–trying to rescue my true sister from her own mother.'
'Who just happens to be a queen amongst her own kind. Her hate has gone on too long Hazel–she's no longer the woman I remember. There's a hunger in her eyes, as if only destruction of England itself would sate it. It frightened me.'
'If we had help, we could find Cyrus and try to leave tonight,' Hazel suggested.
Gold thought for a minute. 'I know who can help us,' she finally said.
The Hermit
There was an open hearth that crackled and spat at him. Hot sap would ignite and pop. Small blue flames licked the blackened stone and baked earth that surrounded it. Its heat was close enough to be uncomfortable and inspired him to move. Beneath Cyrus was a rough–spun cloth; it scratched at his cheek, scrubbing his skin. An old woman sat in front of the fire. She watched him on a rickety armchair, enjoying either a cup of hot broth or tea, he could not be sure. In the air was a pressure of change. A volume of something unspoken and meaningful, as if the old woman’s essence was this place, infused into the earth and wood with time and energy. The home, such as it was, balked at him. He felt like an intruder here, as though his presence was somehow his own fault; his own body a foreign object that had disturbed a delicate harmony.
'Where am I? Who are you?’ he demanded.
'You are always exactly where you need to be.'
With that response, Cyrus kept to himself for a moment. The scab from the wound on his neck had fallen off at some point, leaving only tender skin. The bruise he had suffered however, was fresh and sharp.
'Where's the girl? Charlotte?'
'I am that girl.'
Cyrus shivered. He steadied himself up, wincing as he tried to walk.
'You're an old woman—she was a young girl.'
'Do you always trust your eyes then? Men seem to have complete faith in what they see and hear.'
'How else would I view the world?'
She turned to him, showing the two milky orbs where her eyes were once. Cyrus swallowed; he could feel his stomach creep, bile climbing his throat.
'There's more than looking to know the world.'
'Who are you to keep me prisoner?'
He stumbled to the entrance, only to find the door stuck fast. The crone coughed; there was another chair by the fireplace. She flicked at single, daggered finger at it. Cyrus rubbed his bruise, submitting. He sat, gazing at the pokey hovel. The mantelpiece above the fire was bare soil, a wooden board squeezed into hardened mud. The floor was smoothed stone, while black beams supported the low ceiling. He could spy two more rooms from where he sat, and guessed they were the pantry and bedroom. On the stone floor was a woven rug he had rested on, edges frayed, the colours bleached. If he focused, Cyrus could make out figures and animals in a grand segmented story.
'It was a gift from my husband,' said the crone.
'Pardon me?'
'It was an age ago—I was still full of whimsy. He was young back then too.'
'And where is he, your husband?'
She let out a cackle that disturbed him; tea trickled from her lip. With a shaking hand she wiped her chin and composed herself.
'Died in his sleep years ago,' she gave him a sly smile. Cyrus swore under his breath. She can see me fine even with her eyes lost. ‘I can see his successor as of now. Desperate; consumed by the past.'
‘Your husband’s successor? Do you mean Lord Turner?'
‘Lord Turner indeed.’ The old woman sat up, armed with a poker, and stabbed at the fire.
Cyrus stirred in his seat. 'Your husband was William Saville?'
She nodded. After a strange whimper left her lips, Cyrus refilled her cup with fresh tea from the stove.
'I still feel sorrow you know–even with my eyes ruined so. I cannot cry, but I still feel the pain.'
Cyrus nodded. He was afraid of asking the questions that darted around in his mind. He sat back, enjoying the warmth of the fire. The old woman threw another log on top, where it hissed before settling.
'My name is Cyrus. We were asked to take Elena Saville from here.'
She nodded. 'You did yes.'
'Then you know about her? Where she is?'
'I do.'
'How?'
'I did tell you there are more things than looking to know the world. By your knife you're a man who can fight?'
Cyrus held onto his sheath. 'I've seen fights.'
'But what do you feel during the fight?'
'Ready. Alive.'
She nodded; her lips slim. 'Then to explain it to you is pointless. Clairvoyance is the opposite. Men and women are different in the ways they knit the strings together.'
'Strings? What do strings have to do with finding Elena?'
'I did there were more ways than looking,' she smiled. 'But, Elena, she's far from here now.'
'Alex. Must be.'
'Yes, the other one, the rogue.'
He breathed a sigh of relief. 'What of Charlotte? The girl I journeyed with?'
'You fancy me as some kind of oracle? That I have the truth tucked away for your convenience?'
'She's important.'
'She is your little sister, of course she is important.'
Cyrus crumpled his lips. His gaze cast down. 'She is the only family I have left. Although she does not know it.'
‘Charlotte will journey soon, with others, and her family.'
'Hazel and Gold? Where will they go? Home?'
'You’ve answered your own question.'
Cyrus stood. He wiped away fatigue from his eyes and stretched. He checked his dagger. He looked at the woman, shrivelled and delicate. She huddled in her black furs and magenta dress, her face expectant.
'You don't have to linger here,' he said, 'come with us.'
'You are all unwanted folk. You cast of villains. You all have a bloody future ahead of you. Leave me be. There's little in London worth for me to go back to. There's more to do here.'
'How so?'
'Cwens come and go—some more quickly than others.'
Cyrus had never heard that word before, and wondered on its meaning. He opened what he hoped was the front door; it skidded wide, shedding grime and flakes of paint. Outside, Cyrus could see the cottage hid below a copse perched close to a cliff. The shrikes of crows and the stench of mulch drowned the silence in the small house. He took one last glance at her.
'You never mentioned your name Madam.'
‘Eleanor.'
‘Eleanor,' he added a flourish, 'may you find peace here.'
'Be swift Cyrus. Keep the daughters safe. They'll be heralds of all our fate.'
Before Cyrus could shut the door, it closed on its own, sealing the old woman with her rug, secrets, and a smile. The door was on a threshold, between a bank of rushes and a slide of earth that he saw the village before him. In the distance, he could see the spires of the neighbouring town; the wind pushing him inland. A galleon poised in the bay, smoke ringed its wood and burnt sails. Cyrus could see no life through the miasma, no shouts, no cries of distress. He cocked his head listened. There was a constant clatter at first, as if he was at a cooper. Or, perhaps, watching women wash their clothes on that striated board that bled the filth out. It rattled louder until he had to find shelter, his ears echoing the noise back inside themselves. His head was slick in ruby red pollen and his legs sank into slime below. A black morass flew overhead; cheering and heckling the morning sky. It was the witch–flight from the other day. Powerful drafts of air carried along the outcrop he hugged in vain. Cyrus considered it a miracle he wasn't seen. More and more they came, a vanguard of evil sisters. In the centre of them was a tall witch, her mucky white dress fluttering erratic as others sped past her. She barked some orders, and then shot off just as quick. Her staff balanced between her legs, its tip pointing north. Back to London.
Once all the witches became a single, sullen cloud in the distance, Cyrus raised himself. He shook from the cold; his skin and clothes sodden from the shoes t
o his shoulders. The walk to the village was stilted. His blood quickened. Noises made him twist around in paranoia, movement made him duck behind trees or bush.
From broken earthworks, formed into a rough ring, he saw a group of villagers emerge. They stumbled and fell, running in the direction of town. There was a commotion from inside a hall that had a bird's eye view of the beach. Cyrus noticed a great oak had split by some titanic force, caving the roof in. It was Charlotte who emerged from the hall, flailing her fists, followed by Hazel and Gold. They were in the process of being thrown out, pushed and prodded by young witches behind them. Dumped in front of the villagers who themselves were unsure of what to do. He moved out to greet them, not believing that Charlotte had lived. He pushed an impulsive thought to the back of his mind that he knew she was always alive. A bond that reminded him of her ever so often. Family. That inescapable force. Even if she didn’t know it. She bounded to him. Her skin was ashen pale, her clothes steeped in muck. He looked her over for any signs of mistreatment, but found none. Questions poured through him, fighting and spilling to become the first to pass his lips. She shook her head and slapped him on the arm, clasping one of her wiry arms over his neck.
'We should be dead,' he said, after a time had passed. Gold and Hazel kept distance, smiling at the scene.
'Yes, you’re right,' she mumbled.
'What happened to you?'
'They thought me a spy sent by Turner. Kept me locked up in a wine cellar they did,' she swirled her tongue around her mouth and spat. 'When the fighting finished, I was let free. Those Sisters, they're led by Elena's mother. Do you know what that means?' Cyrus nodded, but waved her to continue. 'There's going to be a conflict between them. That Sarah Saville is not going to rest until she has her daughter back. Or perhaps die trying.'
'What about Alex? What happened?'
'I didn’t see them. But he's disappeared, along with that girl.'
Cyrus doubted Alex had evil intentions. He wondered how much Isolde was willing to pay for his effort alone. If Alex even planned on selling Elena. He looked over at the galleon, still there, ready to sail.
'It takes a large crew, but we've got enough for a skeleton,' said Gold.
'That galleon is not exactly conspicuous. There are two problems. First, whoever attacked, I would guess at Turner, will send more ships. The second is avoiding the Navy coming into London, assuming we can manage the work between us,' said Hazel.
'Yet again, she's right,' said Charlotte.
'Know of any tricks or spells Hazel? Anything that would push us in the right direction?'
'You cannot push a ship, young master. The sea would always fight against you.' There was a booming voice, a voice of a stern father, of authority or command. Cyrus could see a coarse man strapped into a white shirt and brown leather breeches. He rested on a walking stick, his breath in short gulps. There was a reflection of joy in his eyes as he recognised Gold. A shade of sadness circled them as she dropped to her knees in a flurry of emotion. She sobbed, as the man rested one gnarled hand on her shoulder. Her tears streaking past her closed hands that stuck fast in disbelief.
'Ease Goldie, ease,' the man choked. 'Your old man is not dead; he has been well enough.'
Gold managed a hug, squeezing hard enough. Words had not come to her mouth yet. They remained frozen behind shivering lips, her wet eyes scanning him as if he was still a figment.
'Her father?' Hazel turned with a strange pout on her face.
'He died in her story. The one she's been telling for years. How he was a hero, how he saved many at the risk of his own life. Does he look like a hero to you?'
Cyrus’ question caught Hazel unawares. She stayed quiet, and observed the reunion. When she looked back at Cyrus, Hazel flushed red.
'Now that’s a heart–wrenching sight,' said Charlotte. Her attention was on the group of sailors who had stood behind the man. Their arms folded, eyes heavy and stances firm. 'and there's your crew,’ she added.
'It is that,' Cyrus looked among the men lined up. Several had begun to board whatever boats were at the dockside. They made for the galleon. He walked over to Gold, who was composing herself. Her puffy–raw cheeks belied the love in her eyes and the smile that was curling upwards.
'My father. Captain John Frost. A hero if there ever was one. He has saved more lives that day than was killed. This is Cyrus.'
Cyrus stood before the Captain. In his prime he would have been a bear of a man. Now, he could tell age had mellowed him. Perhaps what once was a mind and soul filled with adventure and the sea, now wisdom and guile had taken root. Cyrus shook the man's hand, and had to grip it with both of his own.
'If anyone can save more lives than that tyrant puts down, is a friend of mine.'
'Tyrants,' mused John. 'Turner and Isolde are in league with the devil, the faster they’re taken out of power, the better the world will fare.'
'There was a coven of witches, out there beyond the cliffs,' Cyrus pointed. 'We should be cautious.'
'We should, but they won’t attack if we fly our colours.'
Cyrus’ brow thickened. 'Why? They've attacked me, and others.'
'My wife is leading them, that's why Mr Cyrus. And, that's why I must chase after her afore she gets herself killed on this crusade.'
'Crusade?'
'She believes one of her daughters has been kidnapped. Kidnapped after being reunited all these years, how can one man be cruel enough to do that to a mother?'
Cyrus exercised his mouth, but nothing of merit came forward.
'You have something to say?' said the old captain.
'That kidnapper is my colleague. I know exactly what he is planning to do with Elena, and where he will take her. He's a straightforward man, straightforward motives.'
John gave him a measured look, scratching his beard with hooked fingers. He turned and looked at his crew. The oldest and most senior of which were waiting for his command with a knowing look on their faces.
'Well lads? What do you say? Shall we put down this monger of misery Lord Turner and rescue my wife afore she gets killed?' They roared, rattling their swords and batons with one hand. The others thumped their chests. From the rear of the crowd came shouts of returning to London, to the sea, and back to the life they had left behind. 'Then back we go!' Another roar of appreciation came at once. Cyrus moved among the seamen admiring their spirit and energy, ready to cast his lot in with them. He helped Gold and Hazel in a boat of their own, and manned the oars. As he rowed towards the ship, looking back one last time at the cliffs, he could see a speck of black. A woman shrivelled by age but no less potent in her twilight.
She smiled at him, one hand in a wave farewell.
The Tower
It had grown more intense. This feeling of trepidation repeated in Elena’s mind: this is not the answer; this is not the right way. Alex tacked a gale that sped them into the waters of London. Despite their sloop battered by the worst the sea could throw at it, it had managed to cut through the water without disaster. Elena checked herself. She had changed. A year ago, she would not recognise who she had become. Now, she was daughter to a Witch Queen; her father a captain of pirates. It had the makings of a fantasy. She hugged her knees close on the swaying vessel. The sea was plate–grey as it danced to the rhythm of whatever drums the deeps beneath beat. Her hood had lost stitching around the nape, rubbing her skin there. She scratched at it. She wondered in cautious thoughts how fortunate someone with a loving family was. How lucky she would be, to be safe and happy once again? How happy she could have been. Dots of tears slid down her cheeks. She mistook it for rain at first, convincing a part of herself that she was not upset. Relief that when the pressure finally did relent it came as a broken cry, one that Elena stifled. I am a witch then. Only daughters born of witches become witches themselves. What could she do? No magic for sure. No curses to cast upon anyone, no daggers raised in sacrifice, no spirits or animals had spoken to her. She was useless in her usefulness; an unwanted
necessity. That's not true. You are wanted, you are needed. Soon you'll be home, warm fire in front, a belly of hot food. Your mother planting a kiss upon your cheek. But you know who your true mother is, don't you?
'Lies,’ Elena broke the silence.
Alex slumped over the tiller; sight fixed ahead. 'What lies?'
'Nothing.’
Alex shook his head. ‘Get some rest, London is close by.'
'Think there's passage? Do you have money?'
'Just this,' Alex held up one arm, showing her a mark of a tower faded in spots. ‘And I can palm this old boat off to someone.’
Elena closed her eyes. Whatever that tattoo was, she trusted Alex to make the right choice for her. A rumble followed by a groan of her stomach broke the silence. When she reopened her eyes, Alex was dividing a morsel of tack and berries. Salted meat and fish turned her stomach as she gathered a scrap between her teeth and swallowed.
'Hot food in London I promise that much. There's a tavern that serves dumplings in gravy year–round. Nothing better after traveling by sea.'
'I believe you,' she gave him a thin smile.
Mother, father, I'm finally homeward. Would they recognise me? Has it been too long? What am I worth to them? It was a sick feeling, a sick idea that jolted her upright, her mind bitter, her heart aching. I'm just value, a figure for men. A tidy sum paid in coins and remittance; nothing more than marks on a paper and a nod of agreement. They were free, weren't they? Those women, flying on sticks and making witchcraft, they were happy enough, weren't they? I am stupid, stupid.
'How much?' The words came from her own mouth surprising herself and Alex. He looked at her with that glance meant to silence; her anger flashed. 'How much am I worth?'
Alex stayed silent.
'Enough then, is that it?'
No answer.
Elena stared at him with disbelief unchecked. It was true then. Greed. After all this, after all they had been through; all a false pretence.
'I thought it was more than this,' she sobbed.
The First House Page 20