Daughters Of The Storm

by Kim Wilkins

  This statement made Ash’s stomach roll over with fear. The elemental turned around to move away.

  ‘Wait! Come back,’ she said.

  It did as she said, stood in front of her. She moved closer and, although it flinched, it didn’t run away. Ash raised her hand and reached for its face, found only a freezing pocket of air under her fingers.

  The creature’s face twisted in scorn. ‘I wish you would not touch me. I wish you would let me go.’

  ‘Let you go?’

  ‘You command me.’

  ‘I certainly don’t.’

  ‘You told me to come back.’

  Ash hesitated a moment, then said, ‘And why did you?’

  ‘Your voice is aræd.’

  Ash knew this word from her studies. It was an undermagic word, and it meant inexorable, unswayable and all the other words between. ‘Are you saying ...?’

  ‘Whatever you tell me to do, I must obey.’

  Ash caught her breath. ‘But why?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  She gazed at the creature, her mind too full of her own fears to recognise that it, too, was frightened. Then she shook herself. ‘I am sorry. Go. I set you free.’

  Almost before the sentence was finished, the elemental had dissolved back into the shadows of the wood. With its disappearance came the abrupt cessation of the ringing in her ears. Everything seemed quiet, suddenly. Normal. Her roiling stomach drove her to the edge of the stream to throw up.

  Ash sat on a rock and wiped her mouth with a shaking hand. Always at the outer edge of her thoughts was the knowledge that her Becoming was blighted, and that she was a danger to others. Was this why? What kind of uncanny ability was possessed in her slight body?

  And how long before that unwieldy power began to shake her to pieces?

  It was well past time to leave and Bluebell knew it, but she put off leaving day after day because she feared the moment she left, Father would die. As though her presence, her will, could keep him alive. Cooped up in the farmhouse, she felt unhappy and unsettled. Her sisters were sore with her for ordering them about and their reluctance made her bad-tempered. At the end of the third day, she could bear it no more. She had to get out and kill something.

  Of course, there was nothing to kill, she realised as she stalked through a carpet of daisies. A few badgers maybe, but that would hardly satisfy her. Besides, killing animals was not sport. They were not armed. In the distance, she could see an old scarecrow. She drew her sword and hefted its weight in her right hand, loosened her wrist by flourishing the blade, then began to run at the scarecrow. Moments later, its straw head was lying among the daisies. Still not satisfied, she hacked off its left arm, then its right. She lifted her sword above her head, ready to bring it down and slice the damned scarecrow in two, when she heard a rustle behind her.

  She turned. Rowan stood there, looking at her with frightened eyes.

  Quickly, Bluebell returned the Widowsmith to its sheath. ‘What are you doing out, little chicken?’

  ‘You killed him!’

  Bluebell glanced over her shoulder at the headless scarecrow, bent shafts of straw poking up out of its collar. She turned back to Rowan and shrugged. ‘He was looking at me funny.’

  Rowan’s little mouth turned upside down.

  ‘Why are you crying?’

  ‘He was my friend!’

  Bluebell winced. ‘He was?’

  Rowan nodded. ‘I played with him every day.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Well ...’ She bent to pick up the scarecrow’s head and balanced it back on the body. ‘Now he’s fixed, you see?’

  Rowan didn’t look convinced. Then a stiff gust of wind swept across the fields, making the head fall with a thud to the ground and she started to wail.

  Bluebell crouched in front of her. ‘Please don’t cry. Sh.’ She loved the little girl, but had scant patience for her. Always whinging and crying. Rose was far too soft with her. The child needed a firmer hand. ‘Come on, hush.’

  Rowan threw herself towards Bluebell, her little arms encircling her neck. Bluebell put her right arm around the child and lifted her up. ‘Let’s find your mother.’

  ‘I miss my papa!’ Rowan wailed. ‘Where is Papa?’

  Bluebell tried giving her a comforting squeeze, but perhaps it was too hard as Rowan began to cough. The coughing descended into more sobbing.

  ‘Quiet now, little one,’ Bluebell said, hurrying back towards the house. ‘Rose! Rose!’

  Rose was at the back door already, her arms outstretched. Bluebell handed the child over.

  ‘What happened?’ Rose asked.

  ‘Bluebell killed my scarecrow!’ Rowan blubbered.

  ‘I killed her scarecrow,’ Bluebell said.

  Rose kissed the top of Rowan’s head, stroking her hair.

  ‘I don’t like this place. I want Papa. I want to go home to Papa.’

  Realisation dawned. ‘Was she pretending the scarecrow was Wengest?’ Bluebell asked.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Rose answered, ‘but she’s been down there every day talking to it.’

  Bluebell was torn between guilt and annoyance. And, admittedly, a small thread of amusement. She patted Rowan’s back. ‘Your mama is here now, please stop crying. Warrior queens don’t cry.’

  This made Rowan cry harder. Bluebell had had enough. The endless round of domestic duties, the crying child and, through it all, her father lying silent and still. It was time to tell Ash of her plans. It was time to leave and find Yldra, even if it meant leaving Æthlric behind.

  It was a sodden grey dawn when Wylm arrived back at the millet farm. The farmer’s body was little more than a red-brown smear that had been feasted on by wolves. Wylm entered the house. The hearthpit was cold. Which meant that either the lad wasn’t here, or he didn’t have the ability to light a fire.

  Guilt’s clumsy touch on his ribs again.

  ‘Hello?’ he called softly. ‘Eni?’ He listened into the silence.

  A soft noise from the back corner. Wylm saw a little door. He went to it, touching the knife on his belt gently. ‘Eni?’ he called again.

  He pushed the door open. The boy was curled under a mound of blankets on a mattress on the floor. His face was pale, his dark unseeing eyes rolled uselessly.

  Already, he knew he wasn’t going to kill Eni. That, in fact, he never would have been able to kill Eni. He was going to rescue Eni. It was a difficult thing to admit about himself. He liked to think of himself as the kind of person who could do whatever dark thing needed to be done. Perhaps he was not. The acceptance of this idea immediately released the knots of anxiety in his stomach. He didn’t have to kill Eni. The grey clouds outside no longer seemed oppressive. He felt light.

  ‘Eni,’ he said, making his voice as gentle as he could, ‘my name is Wylm. I am Bluebell’s brother.’

  The boy’s lips moved, but no sound came out. Wylm noticed a slight relaxation of his shoulders at Bluebell’s name.

  ‘You must be hungry.’

  He nodded.

  ‘I am going to take you from here now. There is nothing for you any more. Your father is gone. Do you understand? Papa is gone. I am going to take you with me and find you somewhere warm and safe where you can eat and be cared for.’ Wylm carefully lifted the blankets back. ‘Come on, lad. Show me where the stables are. Let’s be away.’

  ‘Papa.’

  ‘No. No Papa. He is gone.’

  The boy’s face worked as he struggled with this, but he let Wylm pull him to his feet nonetheless. There would be an inn further north, somewhere he could leave the boy, some woman whose womb never quickened who would take him in. Wylm noticed the boy grip his hand tightly, fearfully.

  ‘Let’s find you some wet-weather clothes,’ he said, slipping his hand out of the boy’s grip. ‘It’s miserable out there.’

  It was well past midnight when Ivy saw her chance.

  She had been lying very still, not sleeping, here on the floor next to the hearthpit. Heath, a
few feet away, had been shifting and rearranging himself; not sleeping either. Finally, he rose and went outside, closing the carved wooden door softly behind him. The rest of the room remained still, even little Rowan who was disturbed at the slightest sound. Ivy waited a few moments, then got up and went outside to find him.

  He sat on a bench a few feet from the front door. Elbows on knees, head in hands.

  She approached. The dark was cool on her face and hands. A cricket chirruped and a breeze rippled across the long grass.

  ‘Hello,’ she said.

  He looked up, startled. ‘Ivy?’

  She moved to sit next to him. ‘Move over, make room,’ she said, laughing lightly. Men, she had found, liked women who laughed.

  He shifted along and she sat as close to him as she could, her thigh pressed against his. She imagined she could feel his blood, thundering up and down his veins. So hot and close to hers. ‘You couldn’t sleep,’ she said to him. ‘Is there something on your mind?’

  He looked at her, his mouth drawn into a tight line. ‘You should go back to bed.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about me. I couldn’t sleep either.’ She paused, smiled, dipped her eyelashes. ‘Something on my mind.’

  He was silent. She looked at the sky. Starlight broke through clouds. What a shame most people missed this time of the night. It was beautiful. She wondered what her skin would look like, bare under starlight. No doubt Heath would find it intoxicating. She enjoyed the feel of the warmth of his thigh against hers, but he wasn’t talking.

  ‘Do you want to know what’s on my mind?’ she prompted.

  ‘You have plenty of sisters. Perhaps tell one of them,’ he said gently.

  ‘They aren’t awake.’

  Silence.

  ‘And you’re here now and ... it’s about you.’

  Heath stood. The sudden withdrawal of his warmth made her shiver. ‘Ivy, you ought not speak to me in such a way. Go on inside. Leave me be.’ He turned and took a few steps away.

  Ivy leapt to her feet and caught him at the wrist — a fine, strong wrist — and said, ‘Don’t go. Or if you do go, let me come with you. Let me show you how a woman can please a man.’

  He spluttered on his words, then finally managed to spit: ‘You are barely a woman, Ivy. And I am not the man for you.’

  Barely a woman. Her hot fantasies shrivelled and went cold.

  ‘Please leave me with my thoughts,’ he said, more gently. Then moved off into the dark.

  Ash sat by the hearthpit plaiting Rowan’s hair. The child wriggled and complained, but Ash kept working, hand over hand, making soothing noises as she went. The fire popped softly and moisture dripped outside. Pine-sweet smoke collected against the ceiling. Rose watched Rowan with an amused smile on her lips.

  ‘Is Ash hurting you?’ Rose joked.

  ‘You do it too hard,’ Rowan replied.

  The drizzle fell unremittingly, as it had done all day. They had been stuck inside, on top of each other. Ivy sat by the door, unusually quiet, sewing with Willow. Heath and Sighere had taken to the kitchen to inspect and repair their gear. Every now and then, the wind outside drove the rain harder, and a thin, icy breeze would creep under the door. The dogs slept curled together.

  ‘There,’ Ash said, tying a piece of coloured wool in Rowan’s hair. ‘Now it won’t get so wild.’

  The door to Æthlric’s room opened a crack and Bluebell looked out. ‘Ash,’ she said, ‘I need you.’ Then the door closed.

  Rose raised her eyebrows at Ash. ‘I’m a little tired of her ordering us about.’

  ‘She was born for it,’ Ash replied, giving Rose a gentle touch on the shoulder. ‘I don’t mind.’

  Rose pulled Rowan into her lap and Ash went to Æthlric’s room, closing the door behind her. Bluebell was pacing. Lately, Bluebell was always pacing.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I can’t get him to eat.’

  Ash looked closer, and saw the spilt soup through Æthlric’s beard. She picked up the cloth beside the bed and gently wiped him clean.

  ‘He’s never awake any more,’ Bluebell said. ‘If he doesn’t eat he’ll die.’

  ‘It looks as though you managed to get some food in,’ Ash said, touching her father’s warm forehead. ‘And we get enough water in. He doesn’t need much. He’s only lying here.’

  ‘It’s been a week since we left Blicstowe. My greatest hope, that the elf-shot would dislodge, has not come about,’ Bluebell said. ‘Tomorrow, you and I will leave to find Yldra.’

  Ash’s ribs tightened. ‘Just you and me?’

  ‘Yes. Rose will have to take Rowan back to Folcenham. The child misses her father.’

  Ash battled with her conscience. Yldra had made it clear Ash wasn’t to come close: and yet she couldn’t tell Bluebell that, not yet. Ash was still struggling to accept herself that her fate was so stained.

  ‘You ought to take Sighere.’

  ‘No, I oughtn’t,’ Bluebell said, irritation husky in her voice. ‘I can’t turn up there with armed men. I must go with family. Ivy and Willow are idiots, so it must be you.’

  ‘We have to take Rose,’ Ash blurted, and told herself she did it to protect Bluebell. So she would have somebody on the last dark miles of the journey.

  Bluebell stopped pacing, narrowed her eyes. ‘Why?’

  ‘It can’t just be the two of us. I ... I have a strong sense ...’

  ‘Ash? Your second sight?’

  ‘Yes.’ It wasn’t really a lie.

  Bluebell nodded. ‘All right, we’ll bring Rose. But Rowan must go home. I’ll not have her whingeing for three weeks while we travel. Willow and Ivy can stay here and look after Father. Although they may be all but strangers to him, they are of his flesh and blood.’

  ‘Who will take Rowan home?’

  ‘Sighere.’

  ‘Not Heath?’

  Bluebell raised an eyebrow. ‘Heath will stay here with Æthlric.’

  ‘I only ask because that is what Rose will ask.’

  Bluebell paced again. The wind outside gusted strongly, rattling the roof tiles. ‘I do not make bad decisions, Ash. I make the very best decisions I can, based on what I see in front of me. My father is ill; he is probably dying. The security of Ælmesse is at risk. I have no heir. Rowan is Ælmesse’s future. My best man will go with her. Heath is not my best man, but he is a good man, good enough to protect Ivy and Willow and to know what to do if Æthlric dies.’

  ‘Rowan is Ælmesse’s future?’ But as she said it, Ash knew it. A vision of Rowan, grown to a fine, strong woman, flashed across her mind.

  ‘Rose doesn’t know,’ Bluebell said. ‘The child is too tender, still. She won’t see it.’ She paused a moment, seemed to be choosing her words carefully. ‘I want you to tell Rose she’s coming north with us.’

  Ash’s stomach dropped. She didn’t want to be the bearer of ill-tidings, especially not to Rose, who already had so much weighing on her mind. ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because she is tired of hearing orders from me. I see the contempt in her eyes.’

  ‘You are too hard on her. Love isn’t subject to reason, Bluebell. At least try to understand how difficult it is for her.’

  ‘Love? Rose’s problem isn’t love. It’s desire.’ Bluebell sat on the edge of Father’s bed, her knees spread wide, her elbows resting on them. Her body, which always seemed so alive and vital, seemed even more so next to the wax figure of father. Bluebell always ate up space, blazed like lightning. ‘If she was married to Heath, she’d want Wengest. The only thing she’s in love with is her yearning. She’s always been like that.’

  Ash studied Bluebell across the dim room. ‘She has?’

  ‘Oh, yes, give her one thing, she wants the other. Never happy with what she has. As a child, she would pine for a plaything until she got it, then start immediately pining for a different one. Usually the one I had. I’ll never forget the day she begged Mother to give her my wooden donkey. I loved that thing.’

 
Ash suppressed a smile, unable to imagine Bluebell ever having played with anything other than axes and spears. ‘But toys are trivial things,’ she said. ‘She has married against her heart.’

  Bluebell shrugged. ‘The day she met Wengest she was breathless and wet-eyed, and as flushed as Ivy when she sees a chest hair. She told me she loved him.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Wengest was fit and handsome then. He was a king, she was going to be a queen. She was happy to become his wife. Do you not remember?’

  And now Ash thought of it, she realised it was true. An image came to her memory of Rose, her cheeks glowing, as she stepped into the deep-blue gown Byrta had sewn for the exchange of her marriage vows.

  ‘But as soon as she had him, she lost interest,’ Bluebell continued. ‘The next I heard, she was pregnant to the nephew.’

  Ash felt as though she should defend Rose. ‘I think you misread the situation. I’ve glimpsed her feelings. She really is miserable.’

  ‘If I permitted her to leave Wengest for Heath, she’d be miserable a year later, Ash. Rose can be miserable under any circumstances. She’s very good at it. She has put Thyrsland’s peace at risk. I never forget that.’ Bluebell stood and patted Ash’s shoulder affectionately, but far too hard. ‘You have to tell her she’s coming north. She will take comfort from you. She takes no comfort from me.’ She spread her long arms. ‘I’m not formed for comfort.’

  Ash swallowed the guilt. It was her fault Rose had to come north. ‘Of course I will tell her,’ she said, ‘as gently as I can.’

  Fifteen

  At the first break in the rain, Bluebell took the dogs out to exercise them. It was late afternoon, the fields were damp and the flowers hung their heads under the weight of the water. Thrymm and Thræc barked and bounded after sticks, crushing daffodils with muddy paws. Bluebell’s feet and ankles were damp, but she gulped at the fresh, clean air after long hours cooped up in Æthlric’s room. She could hardly wait to be moving again.

  Thræc returned to Bluebell’s side and pressed against her thigh, ears pricked. Bluebell turned to see Rose had emerged from the house and was approaching, a thunderous look on her face. Thræc had read Rose’s body language and was growling low in her throat.