Queens of the Sea

by Kim Wilkins

  ‘Alder, my lady.’

  ‘Alder, my son is very upset. He will continue to be upset until he has his box.’

  Alder shook his head. ‘The king will need to make those decisions, my lady.’

  Linden came to Rose and put his arms around her, buried his face in her middle. She looked around her. It was a guest room of some sort, with a box bed, a chest, a table and one narrow shuttered window, closed firmly. Without daylight, the hut was gloomy. It would have been warm if it had been prepared. Tweoning rugs, famous throughout many countries, were nailed from one end of the room to the other. Patterns of stylised birds and wolves linked together by complicated interlocking designs in reds and golds. But everything was covered in a film of dust, and the rugs smelled stale and mouldy.

  ‘You cannot think to leave us in here without explanation.’

  ‘I am certain there is an explanation coming,’ Alder said, then dropped his voice. ‘My lady, I have a boy about your age. I will do neither of you harm. I swear it.’

  Rose felt a little cheered by this and rubbed Linden’s head. ‘We’ll get your box of things as soon as the king comes to see us. I’ve met him before. He’s very tall and has no hair at all.’

  Linden looked up, his curiosity distracting him.

  ‘And did you see the beautiful gardens outside? He tends to those himself. He’s famous for it. Perhaps he will let us walk in them, if we ask him kindly.’

  Linden released her and went to sit on the edge of the bed, lacing and unlacing his fingers again. Rose paced, hoping that the movement of her body might keep her mind still. Time dragged. It was nearly an hour before the door opened and King Tolan of Tweoning stood there.

  Linden jumped to his feet. Rose paused in her pacing and turned to face him. He had become more stooped with age, his earlobes longer and his nose more hooked.

  ‘This room is a disgrace,’ Tolan said, in his booming voice. ‘Do you not know who this is?’

  Alder shook his head.

  ‘Go immediately to the kitchen and get three men over here. We’ll need the rugs scraped, dried posies, clean blankets and soap wax.’ Tolan returned his attention to Rose. ‘I do apologise, Princess Rose, but I will have your accommodation smelling of lavender and lye in no time. We weren’t expecting you.’

  ‘I hadn’t expected to be here.’

  Linden had begun to whine again, and as it was the closest he had ever been to talking, she turned to watch him for a moment.

  ‘What is wrong with the lad?’ Tolan asked.

  ‘He wants his box of things from the cart, my lord,’ Alder said.

  ‘Well go and get them for him. Maava above, we can’t have him making that noise.’ He turned his sharp eyes on Rose. ‘Is he simple?’

  Rose bit back her usual retort. ‘He cannot be separated from me,’ she said instead. ‘Or he whines like that. Constantly.’

  Linden looked at her curiously. He knew it was a lie.

  ‘We won’t separate you. Oh no. And look, here is Alder with your box. There you are.’

  Linden took the box and returned to the bed, pulled out his maps and laid them all around him. Thumb in mouth. Soothed at last. Alder handed Rose her pack.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘For your kindness.’

  ‘Now go and fetch the cleaners,’ Tolan said. ‘Leave us be. We have much to discuss.’

  The door closed and Tolan strode across the room and opened the shutters. A cool breeze licked in, stirring the dust, but lighting the room. He sat on the bench and indicated she should do the same, but she did not.

  He shrugged. ‘And what was the lost princess of Ælmesse, or shall we call you the lost queen of Netelchester, doing wandering about in the wilds of Bradsey?’

  ‘My business is my own.’

  ‘An Ærfolc driver? That cart is marked all over with their squiggly lines. Have you been hiding among the natives, my lady? They’re an untrustworthy lot, you know.’

  ‘So the victor says of the defeated.’

  ‘Did the driver not run and leave your poor simple son undefended? Proof right there of the ways of the Ærfolc.’

  Rose wouldn’t be drawn into an argument.

  ‘It’s a dangerous time to be travelling in Bradsey, Princess Rose,’ Tolan said, his eyes flicking to Linden. ‘Raiders everywhere. I suppose I shall alert your family to come and collect you.’

  ‘I don’t need your help.’

  ‘I think you do.’ He smiled. His mouth was small, but his smile made his gums visible. ‘You can be our guests for a little while. We will treat you so well.’

  ‘Please, let us be on our way.’

  ‘Unaccompanied by a good Thyrsland armed force? No, my lady. That would be irresponsible. I think the kings of Ælmesse and, yes, even Netelchester, would be happier to have somebody come to escort you.’

  ‘Wengest doesn’t want me,’ she said, hoping she sounded terse rather than desperate.

  ‘Well, we will get a message off to somebody soon. I have a few questions to ask, not of you. Counsellors and so on. But you will be well cared for, I do promise you that. By this afternoon this place will be sparkling and you’ll have a meal and I’ll bring over some of the old toys my boys used to play with before they became men.’ Again his eyes lit on Linden, whose head was bent over his maps.

  Every muscle and sinew in Rose’s body tensed. Any second, he would notice the resemblance to Wengest …

  But then Tolan’s eyes returned to her and he smiled. ‘You are safe now, Rose. Enjoy your time with us.’

  Rose did not smile in return, but nor did she serve him the vivid retort she wanted to. Instead, she simply decided that she would leave the moment she could. ‘Will the door be guarded?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, no, no. You’ll have your privacy.’ He nodded once, said, ‘We will talk again,’ and left.

  Rose was about to let out a breath of relief, when she heard the latch fall into place.

  You’ll have your privacy. No guard on the door – a lock instead.

  On Ash’s journey north, every inn and trading post had a different story to tell about how Blicstowe had succumbed to the ice-men. All differed slightly: some were too fantastical to be believed, while others were so laden with gruesome detail that Ash wanted to squirm away and hear no more. But she and Sighere managed to piece the story together. Bluebell’s army had been lured into the woods by a declaration of war from the Ærfolc. The army had been trapped there with magic and raiders had tricked their way into the remotest gate in the city wall, a trade gate that led direct to loading yards and the poor end of town. Nobody knew when the Ælmessean army would return from the woods, or even if they would ever return, and Ash longed more intensely than she ever had for a return of her magical ability. She and Sighere made plans for Ash to go as swiftly as possible to her niece Rowan to see if she could free Bluebell.

  But then a day outside of Blicstowe, on back ways that would not be patrolled by the Crow King’s army, they heard the welcome news that Bluebell and the army had found their way out, five days after disappearing, only to discover they had been defeated by trickery.

  For some reason, this news made Ash worry about Bluebell even more, and she pushed Sighere to change horses and make way quickly for Æcstede, which was where the Ælmessean army was now camped.

  All the while, the closer they drew, the sicker Ash’s heart became. Leaden. She silently ranted to herself about how this was her fault. How she should not have left such a mighty queen as Bluebell without the protection of some kind of magic. How she had imposed upon her sister’s softness for family to let Sighere go at a time when her hearthband was so diminished.

  Sighere barely spoke either. She assumed he was struggling with his own self-blame.

  They pushed on, through tiredness and desolation, towards Æcstede, coming around and down to avoid raiding parties, and finally splitting off the Giant Road to see a large field full of refugees. Eight horse-drawn carts were lined up along the muddy road, an
d a line of robust men and women were unloading supplies. Ash and Sighere passed around them and into the village, where more refugees waited. Those with children had camped under the overhangs of the stained wooden buildings, while others had clearly been exposed to the elements for a number of days; wet and shivering, huddled under oiled capes, trying to keep fires alive. The afternoon shadows were long, the buildings holding the chill in the air. Ash reined in her mount and gazed in horror. Citizens of Blicstowe outside in the cold autumn night, instead of safe in their warm houses.

  Then the thought occurred to her that perhaps these were the lucky ones. Willow would have already put so many to the sword. Everyone in the family compound would be dead. The thought hit her with full force: all the staff, who already gave so much of themselves for her family, now sacrificed to them. The injustice burned in her chest.

  Sighere had dismounted and handed his destrier to a stablehand, and came to help Ash down.

  ‘Is this real, Sighere?’ she breathed, not even sure if she said it aloud.

  ‘We must find my king,’ he replied, all lovers’ intimacy between them crushed under the pressure of the awful moment.

  Ash followed him towards the alderman’s hall, where a weary-faced guard opened the heavy wooden door for them. Inside, a large table had been set up by the hearth, candles dripping on each corner. The table was covered in unrolled maps and scribbled diagrams on vellum, and Bluebell stood, bent almost double, over it, arguing animatedly with members of her hearthband, and a man Ash recognised as the alderman of Æcstede.

  As the door opened and a gust of cold air blew in, all except Bluebell looked up. It was only when Ash called her by name that she stood and turned her attention. Ash would not have seen that expression on her sister’s face for all the gold in Thyrsland. She had seen Bluebell in grief, in fury, even in love. But she had never seen her in such helpless shame.

  Ash rushed forward to put her arms around her sister. She had a brief impression of hard muscle under cold mail, but then Bluebell was patting her shoulder and pushing her away, murmuring, ‘Not now, Ash, not now,’ and turning her attention to Sighere.

  The alderman stepped forward. ‘Princess Ash,’ he said. ‘You look weary. Let me take you to your sister’s room. I am afraid you will have to share. Æcstede is … overflowing. As you see.’

  Ash nodded and allowed herself to be led away, glancing back over her shoulder before the door swung shut. Sighere stood next to Bluebell, very close. Her sister was once again bent over the documents in front of her, tapping furiously on one of them. Then the door closed and she saw no more.

  Bluebell did not want to admit that she had already thought of all possibilities. There must be some yet to be explored. Plans to keep the rest of Ælmesse safe in the short term were in place. War bands had been dispatched to every village and town, and instructed to round up farmers and hunters and those living in remote places to come within the walls of an urban centre. For all she knew, any of them could be under siege any moment. Supplies were arriving for the refugees from Ælmessean towns, and requests for help sent to Tolan (who she knew wouldn’t help), Wengest (who would be on his way, under the terms of their alliance), and Renward (anyone’s guess). But armies and war took time to organise, especially as all such operations had to be kept secret from Hakon and Willow, who would not hesitate to burn Blicstowe and all her thousands of citizens to embers.

  In the meantime, trade would stop or be renegotiated with Blicstowe’s new rulers. The quiet but determined minority of Maava-lovers in Ælmesse would agitate for acceptance of the trimartyr king and queen. The folk of Blicstowe would do as they were asked out of fear for their children’s lives. As winter approached and food became scarce, empty bellies would speak to Ælmesseans louder than reason.

  Bluebell had devoted her years of kingship to breeding loyalty through love and protection. Willow could wrench loyalty towards herself in one season through fire and fear.

  She was tired, so tired. But it seemed wrong to sleep when she had not solved the problem of how to take Blicstowe back. Sighere shoved her out of the hall a little before midnight, insisting that she was no use to anyone unless she slept. She was unjustly angry with him. He wouldn’t have taken the other half of the army into the woods as Gytha did. But no, he had been off with Ash at the seaside. It did not matter how often she reminded herself that she had let him go, she was still angry.

  Not angry enough to forget she had to listen to and rely upon him.

  She and Hyld returned to their lodgings. The fire had burned low and she could see Ash, sleeping on her side, on the floor beside the hearth. She had left the bed for her. This gesture angered her too. Did Ash not realise that Bluebell deserved no comfort? She struggled out of her mail, prised off her boots and lay like a rod on the bed, her mind whirling.

  If …

  No …

  What about …

  No …

  Around and around, scenario after scenario. Sleep came nowhere near her. Hyld’s soft snoring made her stupidly furious. She muttered and swore to herself. But it seemed to take more effort to close her eyes than to keep them open.

  In the darkest hours of the morning, Ash sat up and said, ‘Can’t you sleep?’

  ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Ash crawled up onto the bed beside her, and lay down curled against her. ‘I know you feel bad –’

  ‘“Feel bad”?’ Bluebell spat the words, then realised turning on her sister wouldn’t help. More quietly she said, ‘I am destroyed by this. There is no Bluebell left.’

  Ash stroked her hair. ‘You are still in there.’

  ‘I am Thyrsland’s joke.’

  ‘Your reputation is mighty.’

  ‘I am desperate.’ Bluebell sat up. ‘I cannot sleep. Trying to sleep is making me angry. Will you walk with me?’

  ‘Now?’ Ash said, then quickly corrected herself. ‘Of course.’ She rose and pinned on a dress and cloak as Bluebell pulled on trousers and shoes.

  Hyld woke and climbed to her feet, stretched while yawning, her tongue rolling up. Bluebell rubbed the dog’s head and endured a stab of guilt for making them all go out in the cold. But lying in bed was making her crazy. She had barely slept four hours together since emerging from the forest. The memory of that moment was burned so deeply and sharply into her mind that she could not stand to think of it; and yet it was always waiting, beyond her field of vision, to snap into her mind’s eye at any moment, searing her anew.

  Ash opened the door for them, and they stepped out into the cold. Clouds hung low, and mist clung to the gables of the buildings. They made their way along a muddy alley and out to the town square, where families huddled together against the cold under makeshift shelters. Bluebell’s eye caught on a woman with four little ones. The woman had fallen asleep sitting up, and her fire was burning low. Bluebell picked her way over sleeping bodies to stir the fire and place another log on it. The woman woke up, smiled at her weakly.

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’

  The woman’s gratitude stung Bluebell’s heart. She crouched down and stroked the hair off the forehead of one of the children, a little girl of about four. ‘Where is their father?’

  ‘Still in Blicstowe. Alive, I hope.’

  ‘I hope the same for my own husband.’ She shook her head. ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘They say you were tricked. It is not your fault.’

  ‘I was tricked, but it is still my fault, for I am the king and it is my duty to protect you all.’

  ‘That is too much responsibility for one woman.’ She glanced down at her children.

  Bluebell stood and looked back over her shoulder to where Ash and Hyld were waiting. On weary feet she returned to them.

  ‘Where shall we walk?’ Ash said.

  ‘Anywhere but the woods. I will never enter the woods again,’ Bluebell replied grimly, and they made their way towards the road and started along it, avoiding the mud. Bluebell outlined the situa
tion to Ash, including all of the strategies she had planned and dismissed. Ash listened. Soft footfalls in the dark. Hyld growled low in her throat at some night creature in the undergrowth but, with a word from Bluebell, stayed on the road. They reached the junction that led straight down to the Giant Road and turned back. A half-hour had passed and Bluebell was empty of words.

  ‘So you see, I do not know what will happen and I fear the very worst,’ Bluebell said. Then she glanced at Ash. ‘If you were … as you had been …’

  ‘I know,’ Ash said. ‘I could try to control their fire.’

  ‘Blicstowe is the best fortified town in all of Thyrsland,’ Bluebell said. ‘Before we get anywhere close to the inside of it again, the whole city will be in ashes.’

  ‘Bluebell,’ Ash said. ‘I must go west.’

  Bluebell stopped, glared at her in the dark. ‘Oh, no, no. You are not taking yourself into exile again. I need you by me. If you and Sighere had been here I –’

  But Ash was already holding up her hands in a stop gesture. ‘Hear me, sister. For I may yet be able to help you.’

  Bluebell resumed walking, couldn’t bear to be still. ‘Go on then. I have talked for long enough.’ She kept a firm fist on top of her hope.

  ‘I am being drawn to the Brenci Isles, off the west coast of Ælmesse. Drawn as though a thread pulls on my soul. I do not know why, but I hope to find my magical ability there once more. When I return, perhaps I will be sufficiently restored to keep their fires low long enough for one of your plans to work.’

  ‘The Brenci Isles?’ A thought, half-buried from childhood, tickled at the back of her mind. ‘It is owned by birds.’

  ‘And yet, that is clearly where I am being drawn. Rose’s mute son, Linden, has a talent for finding things. He drew a map: marked a crown on the islands.’

  ‘A crown?’ Bluebell shook her head in resignation. ‘Go then, for I am desperate.’ Her guts swirled with fear and guilt. ‘How long will it take?’

  ‘By land then sea, it is perhaps a three-day journey.’

  ‘You will be gone a week or more, then,’ Bluebell said. ‘We will have to hold until you return.’