by Jack
‘I am not afraid of nightfall,’ another man says.
‘And yet you are afraid of Brygen.’
‘The horses are tired. They need to rest.’
‘It will only be two hours more.’
I glance around, searching for Bluebell. Two hours more! I cannot bear the thought. I need to convince Bluebell to let us stop in Brygen. I need a soft bed. There is my sister, slouching out from behind a tree, straightening her riding pants. I hurry over, but the men have spotted her too and are already calling, ‘Brygen or Dunscir, my lord?’
‘Brygen is —’
Bluebell raises a long hand. ‘Dunscir.’
Immediately the arguing ceases. Nobody is willing to disagree with Bluebell.
Except for me. ‘Please, Bluebell. I can’t travel another two hours. I am raw. I must rest.’
She turns to me, brows drawn down. Even I am afraid of her for a moment. ‘Rest? But you have been resting in the carriage.’
‘I cannot make myself comfortable. I am too big.’ I pat my belly for emphasis. I see that the expression on her brow is wavering. ‘Please.’ Her retainers are shifting from foot to foot. Even the horses seem nervous with anticipation.
‘Very well. We will take the road up to Brygen.’
‘But, my lord —’
‘My sister’s comfort is all I care to hear about.’
Silence.
‘Let’s go.’
* * * *
I deduce the reason for their reluctance to stop in Brygen almost immediately. The little village is dotted with empty, sagging buildings, the forest around seems to encroach on the hill upon which it is built, every third tree appears to be blighted with perpetual winter: leafless black branches raised against the whitening sky as the sun sinks somewhere behind clouds. Our inn is draughty and the food has the texture of sawdust. But when I climb into bed — leaving Bluebell downstairs drinking with her hearthband — I think of nothing but the soft lambswool. I drift to sleep within three breaths.
It is much later that I wake. A prickling in my bones. Bluebell is asleep next to me. I have no reason to feel unsafe.
But sleep will not come. A chill creeps under the shutter. My cheek is frozen. I sit up, but can see the shutter is closed tight. I rise, and find myself opening it and peering out into the dark.
The clouds have dissolved and a pale half-moon lights the scene. Down the hill, on the side of the road, a woman kneels next to a pile of dirt. Her figure is traced in shades of midnight and moonlight. She looks dreadfully familiar.
‘Mother,’ I gasp.
But it cannot be mother. Mother has been dead for twelve years.
Bluebell rouses. ‘Rose? Is everything well with you?’
I turn, words falling from my tongue in a tangle. ‘A woman, outside on the road. She looks like mother.’
Bluebell is out of bed faster than an arrow, but as I turn back to the window I can see already that there is no woman. That the road is deserted but for the skulking shadows of bare, sick trees.
A moment of silence passes between us, then Bluebell touches my hair. ‘It was a long journey, Rose. Come back to bed. Rest.’
‘I did see her.’
She closes the shutter firmly. ‘Come back to bed,’ she repeats, tugging my wrist.
I follow her instruction and lie down next to her. I tell myself that Bluebell is right: I am tired. I cannot distinguish between sleeping and waking. And yet my heart stammers and my eyes will not close, even after Bluebell has let go of my hand and turned on her side to sleep. My bones are still prickling. Quietly, careful not to wake my sister, I return to the window.
She is there again, the figure that looks like my mother. And I know that this sending is for me. Not for Bluebell, or she would have seen it too. Despite the depth of the night, the cold of the moonlight, the eerie emptiness of the forest, I dress warmly and leave the room.
The front door of the inn creaks as I open it, and again as I let it fall closed behind me. The figure has not moved; she is hunched over the shape on the ground and I realise now that she is crying. I can hear her harsh sobs over the breeze rattling in the trees.
‘Mother?’ I say, but my voice is a tight, fearful whisper. I steel myself and approach. The shape on the road is a mound; a triangle — symbol of the trimartyrs — glints dully in the weak moonlight. A grave. My mother’s spirit is bent over a grave. My skin shivers.
‘Mother?’ I say, louder now. Closer. She looks up. I stop in front of her.
‘She will never be queen,’ she says.
‘Who? Who is buried here?’ Mortal dread flares in my heart: it is a presentiment of death.
‘Nobody is buried here. Just her crown.’
The flame of fear subsides a little. ‘Whose crown? Bluebell’s? Will she be safe?’ I glance over my shoulder, back to the inn, wondering if Bluebell still sleeps. When I turn back, it is not my mother at the side of the road, but a creature formed of sticks and mud, glaring at me. A mudthrael. I yelp, and back away.
‘Wait!’ it calls in a voice scraped from the bottom of a murky pond. It reaches its uncanny hands towards me, and distaste slithers over my skin. I see a dead branch on the ground, scoop it up and take aim —
But the creature flings up its muddy fingers and something gritty and darkly sparkling enters my eyes. I am instantly dislocated from the cold, wet road in Brygen: there is no mudthrael, there is no stick in my hand, there is no road, nor any trees. I am inexplicably elsewhere.
On a vast plain. A million miles away, there are mountains perhaps, beyond the fiery horizon. Wind buffets me, whipping my hair around my face. I gulp against the shock, pressing my toes hard into my shoes to ground myself. The mudthrael has thrown me under an enchantment, I must try to remember who and where I am.
The earth shudders, and I know that something terrifying is approaching. Sunset colours burn the sky. I am horribly aware of how open and exposed I am out here. ‘Bluebell!’ I call, my throat raw with fear and effort. ‘Bluebell!’
But then I remember, I am not here at all, I am ...
The shaking underfoot intensifies, and my whole body resounds with the movement. A scant ten feet in front of me, a fissure appears in the ground. Paralysing fear turns my limbs to stone. I try to lift my feet, but they are part of the juddering ground. I am caught, heart and bones, in the thundering fear. Inch by crumbling inch the ground disappears in front of me and, from the black depths, a twisting firedrake rises.
Its eyes are bigger than my skull, its golden hide is spiked with bronze. The smell is fish and sulphur, dirt and old blood. It is the three-toed firedrake: the writhing shape on my father’s standard, the symbol of Ælmesse’s power. The drake spreads its jaw and spews curling fire above my head. My heart slams. I struggle against the glue that holds my feet to the ground, feeling the reflected heat of the firedrake’s breath singeing my hair and stripping my cheeks bloody. I throw my arms up and call out in fear.
Silence, stillness, cold.
I open my eyes. The light has bled away. I am still on the plain, but it is late — so late. Past time for sleep, past time for death. My eyes search fearfully for the dragon, but it is now just a blackened skeleton in the distance. The churning sky is visible between its ribs. An icy wind creeps across the ground, tumbling ash over its gaping skull. Movement catches my gaze. A hand extended out of the ground, fingers spread apart. Ghostly white. It beckons slowly.
I move towards it. I have long ago forgotten that I am actually standing on the road in Brygen, under the influence of mudthrael magic. This dream is sharper than truth. The dragon bones are still and cold. Three feet from the tip of its tail, a dark pit of soil has been dug. A woman, buried in it except for her face and hands, glares up at me with icy blue eyes. I know this ritual of partial burial: it is a magic ritual of the underfaith, that shady cult that exists below the common faith and has been all but driven from Thyrsland. Her eyes terrify me; they seem to know my soul better than I know it.
&nbs
p; ‘Who are you?’ I ask.
‘I am your father’s sister.’
‘My father has no sister.’
‘He has a sister, and I am she. You may not know me, but I know you, Rose,’ she says. Her hair is mostly buried, but I can see that it is silvery-brown around her brow. ‘My name is Yldra. You know I am of your family, for I called the three-toed firedrake.’
Shivering cold is eroding me inside. I cannot stay here; it will mean my destruction. And yet, I cannot remember where I am from. ‘How do I get back?’ I ask.
Her mouth moves and no sound comes out. She tries again, and this time it seems as though her voice is far away. Reality glimmers back into my mind. This is a dream.
‘You must kill Wengest as soon as you return from your father’s wedding,’ she says. ‘Or Rowan will never be queen.’
‘Who is Rowan?’
‘Your daughter. Kill him before the child is born.’
‘I am no killer.’
And then it all dissolves, just like one of cook’s sugar mice under hot beer. I am back in Brygen, mid-swing. I cannot stop my arms, the branch crashes into the mudthrael’s sodden body, and the creature cries out and flies backwards, coming to rest in a heap in the middle of the road.
‘Rose?’
It is Bluebell, running towards me, taking the branch from my hand and grasping my wrists. ‘What happened? What are you doing here?’
‘I ...’ I point to the mudthrael, but it is just a pile of twigs and soil. ‘I have been ... somewhere.’
Bluebell looks closely at me. ‘Your eyes are wild and black.’
‘Mudthrael,’ I manage.
She glances around, alarmed. ‘This forest is known for bad magic,’ she says. ‘That’s why my hearthband didn’t want to stop here.’
Bad magic. The kind that everyone is afraid of, the kind that is brewed within the earthen huts of the underfaith. Mudthraels are fashioned and controlled by its devotees, and somebody sent this one to me: disguised it as my mother to tempt me out of my bed and throw visions in my eyes. But who? Bluebell is herding me up the road towards the inn, but I stop her.
‘Bluebell, does our father have a sister?’
‘No.’
‘You are certain?’
‘I am certain. He has no sister. Come, inside.’
I allow her to lead me, but I am awash in confusion. I will sleep no more tonight.
* * * *
My first glimpse of home comes late the following afternoon. I feel bruised all over from the journey, but when I see the hill — the town, my father’s hall, the red and yellow flags fluttering on the gate house — I forget my pain.
The giants once lived here; they raised buildings and monuments made of some dazzling stone, the like of which has never been seen since in Thyrsland. Their buildings have fallen into ruin, and nobody alive knows how to fix them. And so the tall white ruins wait out the centuries, catching the sun to give the name to our town. Blicstowe: the bright place. Laid out in front of the ruins are the thatched roofs of the town itself. I know each building and its inhabitants well: the weavers, bronzesmiths, carpenters, bone workers, their wives, their muddy-faced children, the mad war-widows and the sane, bakers, potters, fishermen, lenders, counsellors of the common faith, the faithless, the homeless, the adolescent boys who dream of bearing swords alongside my sister. The roads are lined with wooden planks so that traffic may move even in muddy weather, and move it does. Carts, horses, pigs, chickens, and everywhere people. My father’s people.
The town has been decorated for the wedding. Russet ribbons are wound around pillars and flutter from gable finishings, but it is too early in the year for white daisies. Our retinue thunders over the echoing bridge, up the hard-packed dirt road between the lines of oaks, and finally past the gatehouse and down to the stables. Bluebell helps me out of the cart and I stretch my legs gratefully. I glance up at the ruins: they are stained with sunset colours. My father’s hall — a hulking, wood-shingled building — is stark black against the giants’ stone. And there he is, standing between two of the pillars that he carved himself, smiling at me.
‘Father!’ I call, and he strides lithely towards me, catching me gently in his arms. His long yellow hair is streaked with grey, and age has made his blue eyes pale and his strong hands knotted. But he is still tall and handsome; he is still the first man I ever loved.
‘My Rose,’ he says, standing back and admiring my belly. ‘It is wonderful to have you home, but doubly wonderful that you are here for such an occasion.’ He turns to Bluebell. ‘You spoke with Wengest?’
‘Yes, Father. They will be ready to march.’
A slight frown crosses his brow, but then he dismisses it. ‘Come inside, both of you,’ he says, leading me by the arm. ‘Gudrun is waiting to meet you, Rose. Ash arrived yesterday, and Ivy and Willow have been here a fortnight.’ He talks a little too fast, and I realise that he is nervous. My father — the man who sometimes comes home from battle with other men’s blood embedded under his fingernails — nervous. I am caught between good-hearted amusement and pity.
We round the front of the hall, and here on the massive beams that support the doors are two carved firedrakes. My vision in Brygen returns to me. I pause to run my hand over the creature’s back while Father lifts the beam and pushes the doors open. I have gone over the vision many times on the long journey today, turning the images and words over and over the way the tide turns over seaweed. Whether or not my daughter is one day queen is still an abstract thought; at the moment, she is just a bundle of squirming limbs in my belly. I will not kill Wengest, and that is the most important thing. I do not know if I have the ability to kill any man; perhaps we all do when tested. But I know that I cannot kill my husband. I like him, he is a good man. And should my crime be discovered, that would plunge his kingdom into war with my father’s. So I have not spent another thought on that possibility. Instead, I have pondered on why his death now would ensure my daughter’s ascension to the throne, on what could happen between now and milk-month. Of course, the handful of anxious ants in my stomach tells me that somehow Heath and I will be discovered. Other possibilities have not occurred to me and so, despite the fact that I need to ask my sister Ash about the vision, I am terrified to speak to her. Her second sight is too alert. My secrets may be uncovered.
‘What is it?’ Father asks, turning and seeing that I haven’t followed him inside.
I smile as though nothing is wrong. ‘I have missed home, that’s all,’ I say.
He takes my hand. ‘Home has missed you. Come. Supper is about to be served.’
I hurry after Father. Bluebell stalks, sulking, four steps behind us. I am wholly prepared, on her behalf, to dislike Gudrun. We cross the vast hall, where Father’s hearthband is loosely gathered, lying on benches, stoking the fire, talking softly, enjoying supper. A number of them call out to Bluebell and she breaks off to talk to them. Father drops my hand and opens the door to his state room — really just a small room with a table for private meals — and ushers me through.
The room is cosy, crowded with firelight and faces. Tapestries plundered from battle adorn the walls; some are shot with golden thread or are bordered with the fur of exotic animals. Along the wall beams are lined other treasures: cups and armbands of gold, pots and statues, ceremonial swords. The firelight is caught on the gleaming surfaces. The long carved table is laid out with baskets of fresh-baked bread, wooden bowls of pickled vegetables and strips of dried fish. I am suddenly ravenous. Around the table, on wooden benches, sit my sisters. Ash is at the far end, smiling at me. I smile in return, but move no closer. Instead, I sit between Ivy and Willow, the twelve-year-old twins. Ivy, with her magpie eyes, is pointing at my belly with a spoon, making some rude joke. Willow is shushing her. Ash is asking me how I endured the journey. But all I can pay attention to is this woman who is not one of us, Father’s new wife. Gudrun of Tweoning.
She is nothing like I had imagined. I imagined somebody, I suppose, l
ike my mother. Noble, dark-haired, eyes that betrayed steel in the spine, light in the brain. But Gudrun is softly pretty, with pale brown hair, round cheeks and bovine eyes, a gentle smile that she has turned on me.
She leans across the table and places a soft, white hand on mine. ‘Hello, Rose. It is truly a joy to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.’
How on earth can Bluebell object to this woman?
‘This is my son, Wylm.’ Gudrun leans back and puts an arm around the middle of the boy who sits next to her. He is on the verge of manhood; his limbs seem to be growing before my eyes, straining at clothes that were probably comfortably sized just a week ago. His dark hair is lank and his hazel eyes are sullen. He manages a grudging smile, his knuckles half-hiding his mouth.
‘It is a pleasure for me, too,’ I say. ‘I am very happy for my father especially.’ As I say it, I realise I mean it. Twelve years without my mother. He must have been so lonely, and if this woman with her soft edges and white hands can provide him the company he needs, then I cannot join Bluebell in her dislike of the situation. All things change. I touch my belly. I know that all things change.