by Kim Wilkins
‘Linden, my love,’ she said, crouching next to him and grasping his chin so she could look into his eyes. The words waited on her lips. Could she treat him as everyone else had? As a thing to be used? ‘Can you find us a way out of here?’
He blinked. She could almost hear the clunk of a gear falling into place, and she was both amazed and baffled by him. Yldra gave him this ability, but it was an uncanny ability. She would rather Yldra had given him the ability to speak, like a normal boy, not some strange undermagic that always held him apart from others. She felt raw with his vulnerability. The moment Tolan had discovered Linden could draw maps to find things, he had exploited the boy. Others would, too; his whole life. Even those who loved him.
Even Rose.
‘I am sorry to ask you, Linden. But I need to find an escape more than I need anything else in the world, now. And I promise you I will never ever ask you again.’
Linden flipped over his big map, the precious one. He dipped his goosefeather in ink and began a quick sketch. The bowerhouses, the road down the hill to town, a side lane, another building.
‘Yes, yes, but how do we get out of here? Out of our bower?’
She leaned in as he used the tip of his goosefeather to indicate the back wall of the bowerhouse. Rose frowned, eyes going up. The point he indicated was the location of the hearth. A Tweoning hearth, which meant it was made of stone and adjoined a funnel to the outside world. ‘We can get through there?’ she asked, more to herself than to Linden, but when she returned her gaze to him he was nodding vigorously.
Rose stood and walked to the hearth. Behind the fire, the stones were black with years of soot. As she looked closer, she could see an iron door set in the stone. Perhaps it led to the wood box: Rose had wood brought to her every day by Olgrid. The iron door was entirely covered in soot, almost indistinguishable from the stone, and only two feet high. The only way through it would be on her belly, if it wasn’t locked. Rose could not reach across to try it without burning herself.
She marched to the bucket of water Olgrid had brought in and then tipped the whole thing on the fire. A splash and a sizzle. Black water flew up and soaked the hem of her skirt. Smoke stirred in the room, then was sucked up through the funnel. Rose waited for the iron to cool, then reached across and pulled the hook.
The door opened. A cool breeze rushed in, stirring ash into the air.
She turned to Linden, who had risen and now stood there watching her.
‘Pack your things,’ she said. ‘Quick.’
Linden ran back to the table and gathered his maps, rolling them and shoving them in his box. Rose grabbed two silver cups she might be able to sell, and crammed them into her pack. She took the fire iron and used the bristled end to sweep aside the dead coals. There was no way around it: their escape would be messy.
When she was sure Linden was ready, Rose got down on her belly and wriggled through the iron door. The opening was only shoulder width across and she had to haul her hips through, thinking for one terrifying moment she might be stuck. Her hands and clothes were black with thick soot, but then she was through the other side, crouching to help Linden through.
Rose realised, in the panic of the moment, that she had forgotten to memorise Linden’s map. ‘Which way?’ she said to him, hands on his shoulders.
He pointed a soot-blackened hand down between the bowerhouses, where somebody was sure to see them out a window.
‘Are you certain?’
He nodded.
Rose closed her eyes, took a deep breath, released it. ‘Very well, then,’ she said, opening her eyes. ‘You lead the way.’
Down between the bowerhouses, her spine prickling, ready for discovery. Linden found an alleyway that no windows opened out on. Rose would never have been so bold as to go directly through the king’s compound, she would have tried to sneak around the edges. But Linden knew. He knew as though he had seen it all many times before.
He took her to a point inside the fence where there were handholds enough to climb up and over: the fence, after all, was to keep people out, not in. Then they were creeping down the inside of the low hedge that surrounded Tolan’s favourite gardens, hurrying down the hill, through a kissing gate then out onto a road that joined the road to town. Rose didn’t have time to worry about how odd they must look, all covered in soot. Linden’s feet were going faster than she’d ever seen them, leading her around onto the circle road for a few yards, then down between houses until they arrived at a back lane. The building he had drawn – an uneven rectangle on the map – was a stable. Outside the stable was a man hooking two horses up to a covered cart.
The man looked up and she froze, but Linden kept walking straight towards him. The man had only a few fluffs of hair on his head, making him look like a baby duck. A huge white moustache weighed down his face. He smiled at Linden and said, ‘Hello, young fellow. What can I do for you?’
‘Linden?’ Rose called.
Linden walked straight past the man and climbed into the back of the cart.
The man looked up at Rose and laughed. ‘Am I to understand you need somebody to convey you somewhere, my lady?’
Rose tried to wipe her sooty hands on her dress, but they came away just as filthy. She could not offer her hand to the man, but he waited for her answer nonetheless. ‘Which way are you heading?’
‘South-west.’
‘I’ll pay you to take us to Blicstowe,’ she said, thinking about the silver cups in her pack.
He was already shaking his head. ‘I can take you as far as the refugee encampment outside Æcstede. That’s where I’m heading with these supplies.’
Refugees? ‘What do you – what kind of supplies?’
‘Oh, old blankets and wet weather skins and such. The townsfolk have collected them up. I know the Ælmesseans are heathens, but that doesn’t mean we oughtn’t offer them our help.’ He indicated the cart with a tilt of his head. ‘Hop in with your boy, my lady. It makes no difference to me whether you pay me or not. I’m going there anyway, and you look down on your luck. But I won’t take you a foot closer to Blicstowe. Not while it’s crawling with raiders and we don’t know what they’re planning.’
On numb feet, Rose made her way forward. It was true then. Blicstowe had fallen to raiders. To Willow. Rose climbed into the cart and sat, her mind whirling. Linden shuffled over on his bottom to sit next to her, his hand on her knee. He was gazing at her in that engaged way with his neck held high. He was proud of himself for having found their way out.
But what kind of world had they found their way back into?
The cart bumped along roughly for the first two hours, but then they joined the Giant Road and could rattle along smoother and faster. Rose tore strips off her old nightgown to clean Linden’s face and hands, then did the same for herself. She brushed down their clothes, but they would need to bathe once they reached Æcstede. Or could they? With so many people displaced, could anybody bathe? Eat? Yes, her family ties would see she had the best care and attention but what of everybody else? The citizens of Blicstowe, her home town, camped in a field. Or worse, trapped in their homes with raiders in charge.
Over and over Rose said her prayers to the Great Mother, for she knew Bluebell would be making her prayers to the Horse God; but the Horse God never brought peace, and that was what Rose longed for most fervently. Linden watched her curiously as she said her prayers, head bent and eyes streaming with tears, then he returned to his map. His precious map. He had it unrolled on his lap and he was watching it keenly as they sped down the Giant Road.
Her stomach growled and she wished she’d eaten all of the breakfast Olgrid had brought them, rather than picking at it. She shuffled disconsolately through the supplies in the cart but found no food. Shoes, blankets, oilskins, boxes of flint and bottles of fire oil. Nothing to eat.
Rose climbed to the end of the cart and sat at the lifted flap to watch the road. Other riders and carts passed from time to time. They overtook a band of foot
soldiers and their stewards bearing the insignia of the bear of Lyteldyke. But, for a fine day in autumn, the traffic was not as busy as it ought to have been. She saw no trade wagons, which was the clearest sign Blicstowe was under occupation. The knowledge hit her again and again with its force, and her thoughts returned to Bluebell, to how this had happened, to the fates of her other sisters. She tried to ask their driver when they stopped to rest the horses and relieve themselves, but he knew nothing of the Ælmessean royal family – not even their names – except to say that Bluebell was definitely alive and that all of the kings of Thyrsland were negotiating with her about sending soldiers, but that the raiders had threatened to burn everyone in Blicstowe alive if she approached.
Rose felt the world tremble beneath her feet.
At length, as the shadows were beginning to grow long, their cart departed the Giant Road and made its way into Ælmesse. The way was slow now, as they passed through various checkpoints where soldiers asked their driver questions and wanted to inspect his load. Rose pulled the hood of her cloak and of Linden’s cloak up to hide them, and was treated politely but not recognised. Some of the soldiers were clearly Wengest’s, with their bright green, nettle-patterned sashes; and while she was happy that Wengest was fulfilling his part of the treaty agreement, she wished they weren’t around where they could potentially spot Linden.
Slowly, painfully, they drew closer to Æcstede. Rose was not exactly sure where they were, but Linden followed the map with unbroken concentration, until he suddenly rolled it up, cast it aside and stood up.
‘Linden?’ she asked.
He moved to the back of the cart and leaned out. Rose caught him by the waist, heart pounding. ‘What are you doing? You can’t jump out. You’ll break something.’
He struggled against her and she could do nothing but hold him tight and call for the driver to stop, which he did. Then Linden broke free and jumped down, and started to run.
The driver came around and said, ‘We don’t have time to stop. Night is coming.’
‘Go on without us,’ Rose said, grabbing her bag, dashing after Linden.
Linden found things. Clearly, he was on the trail of something. She knew she should trust him, but he was escaping so quickly. She redoubled her speed. ‘Linden, wait!’ She heard the cart move off. Linden had knowingly left his maps behind. What could be so urgent that he would do that? They crested a hill and below in the coomb she could see an army in training.
‘No!’ she cried out to Linden as he dashed down towards them, but he seemed to know to avoid the archery targets and skirted the woodland that encircled the training ground, picking over rocks with astonishing adeptness. Linden had never been a physical child, but now he moved as though a magnet pulled him, sure-footed and fast. Rose was still twenty yards behind him, tripping, catching herself, running hard.
Now among the men, he slowed. A few stopped to ask if he had lost something. Rose closed the distance, frantic. She could see their green sashes, now, the generals and the strategists who put the army through their paces.
Then, when there was five yards between her and her son, Rose saw something that made her blood go cold.
King Wengest of Netelchester stepped out from between the trees. His dark beard was streaked silver, but he was still the man she had once known, her handsome and imposing husband. A shout of fear caught in Rose’s throat, but before she could release it, Linden came to a stop in front of Wengest and reached up to take his hand.
He had found his father.
Twenty-seven
If Willow had her way, she would never leave the chapel. The flashes, the sense that Maava was close, had grown more and more intense. All else faded away in her mind. She no longer yearned after angel voices; she no longer cared that she was in Blicstowe having ousted her heathen sister. Maava was coming, and she bent all her will towards dragging Him across the divide between her world and His. Sometimes with the power of her mind, sometimes with the power of her blood. Other times, with the blood of those who refused to take Maava as their saviour. She had grown very attached to the old bowerhouse, the scarred ground, the faint metallic smell of blood in the air.
But Hakon had other ideas about how she should spend her time.
‘You haven’t shown your face among the soldiers, among the citizens, for over a week,’ he complained. ‘Stop praying for a few hours and tend to your people.’
It was a splendid day, the kind Maava sent to remind His followers that He was magnificent. She was humming in her head as she approached the city square in her grey dress and with her hair tugged back severely under her scarf. She noticed a woman at the edge of the square, talking to a guard frantically. The guard, who could not speak the woman’s language, spread his hands and shook his head. Willow sized the woman up. She wore layers of bright colours and two strings of amber beads. She clearly came from one of the wealthier families.
Willow approached and the woman shrank back.
‘What is it?’ Willow asked her, in her own language.
‘My son is sick,’ the woman said, clearly terrified of Willow. ‘The healer who usually sees him has been taken to help in the infirmary today. But my son needs him. All the other healers are …’
The woman didn’t finish, but Willow knew what she meant. She had rounded up the healers and imprisoned them. So many of them were steeped too deeply in heathen magic. The only ones she had left, she had forced into work in the infirmary.
‘Your clothes are too bright,’ Willow told the woman. ‘Do not think you can rival Maava’s magnificence with them.’
‘I do not seek to,’ the woman said quickly. ‘I seek to celebrate His glory. Please, Queen Willow. My boy is fifteen and he has had fits all his life, and –’
Willow cut her off with a gesture. ‘Your clothes are too bright,’ she said again. Then, remembering that Maava had great mercy, she exercised great mercy herself. ‘I will go to the infirmary myself and find him and send him. What is your name?’
‘Briga. Thank you, my queen. Thank you.’
‘But first, remove those bright clothes.’
‘Remove …’
Willow snapped her fingers. ‘Here, take them all off.’ She reached for the front of the woman’s dress and began to unpin it. ‘We will burn all these, and you will wear something more fitting for a trimartyr pilgrim.’
‘My queen, I cannot go naked about the town.’ Her dress fell and pooled at her ankles, leaving a bright blue undershirt.
‘Take it off,’ Willow said. ‘And hand me those beads.’
A loose crowd of soldiers had gathered to watch and jeer, and Willow hated them for being so base. Her goal was not to shame the woman but teach her a lesson about Maava’s love. Still, she did not stop them as they hooted wildly when the woman lifted her shirt off, and handed it to Willow. She stood naked except for her shoes in the town square, and the cold air had made gooseflesh of her skin.
‘Will you send the healer now?’ the woman asked, through her tears, hands crossed over her body in a futile attempt to cover herself.
‘Don’t be so weak,’ Willow said. ‘Save your tears. Go home and wait.’ Willow waved dismissively and then handed the clothes and beads to the nearest guard. ‘Set fire to these right here. I expect to see a pile of ashes when I return.’
Willow turned away from them and made her way to the infirmary, which was located in the old barracks. She pushed open the door, letting light in. Eyes turned to her. The maimed who had no homes to go to, the ones who were still in the protracted process of dying, the ones who had fought off infection for weeks but were now finally succumbing to it. A skinny old dog slunk towards her, tail low and wagging.
Willow looked down as the dog sat at her feet. ‘What do you want?’ Then recognition stirred; this looked like one of Bluebell’s dogs.
‘Where did this dog come from?’ she demanded of Thorkel, the retired general who had retrained as the Crow King’s physician.
‘A stray, my qu
een,’ he said, leaving the bedside he was attending and pulling the dog away. ‘She’s very friendly and cheers up the injured.’
Willow narrowed her eyes. All war dogs looked the same to her; bred in the south, big and brown with heads like blocks. She lifted her eyes and looked around. ‘Is the heathen healer here?’
Thorkel called across the room to a fellow who stood as still as a stone, clearly terrified.
Willow switched to the Thyrslander language and called to him, ‘Briga’s son is having fits again. Go to her and make sure you attend to your trimartyr prayers.’ She held up a finger. ‘No more heathen nonsense.’
‘Yes, my queen,’ the healer said, and untied his apron. He slunk around her as though she were a spider.
Willow advanced into the room, and the dog padded off to curl up at the feet of a man rolling bandages by the fire.
Thorkel came to Willow’s side. ‘I had not expected to see you,’ he said.
‘Why would you?’ People always said such stupid things. If their minds were turned to Maava, they might make better conversation. She knelt at the side of a man with only one arm. ‘What happened?’
‘His arm was injured so badly we had to remove it,’ Thorkel explained. ‘He’s been battling an infection ever since.’
‘Have you prayed?’ she asked the injured man.
He nodded vigorously.
‘Not hard enough,’ she said, and bowed her head and turned her thoughts to Maava.
This one? she asked Him. Does he deserve to live? He has served my husband’s army, which took Blicstowe from my wretched family.
Maava’s voice did not bloom in her ears. Willow stood, a little sadly, and said, ‘I’m sorry. I tried. But I think you’re going to die.’
The man looked stricken and Thorkel clearly had an opinion that he wasn’t expressing, because his mouth turned down. He was wise enough to shut up though, and continued to lead her around the room. At length, they returned to the man that the dog had clearly chosen as her favourite.