Daughters Of The Storm

by Kim Wilkins

  ‘Easy, girl,’ Bluebell said, dropping her hand to rub the dog’s ears. ‘She won’t hurt me.’

  Rose stopped a few feet away, eyes blazing. ‘I don’t want to go to Bradsey.’

  ‘Ash has foreseen —’

  ‘Let me finish. I don’t want to go, but I recognise I must. I hate to leave Rowan, but I know I have to. But ... could you not send her home with somebody she knows and loves?’

  ‘She doesn’t love Heath. You do. She hardly knows Heath.’

  ‘I know you want to keep them apart, but you are not thinking of a small child’s happiness.’ Here, Rose’s bottom lip began to tremble and Bluebell’s exasperation spilled out as a noisy sigh.

  Rose continued in spite of it. ‘She is only three. She can’t travel with Sighere. She’s afraid of him.’

  ‘She oughtn’t be. Sighere is my best and most skilled thane. She would be safer only with me.’

  ‘She doesn’t understand that. She would rather be with somebody familiar.’

  Bluebell took a deep breath and swallowed her impatience. ‘Four days at most, then she will be home with her papa. If she can’t endure four days of discomfort —’

  ‘She is a little child! Have some pity!’ Rose shouted. Her face was flushed.

  Thræc growled again. Bluebell patted her side. ‘Off. Go on.’

  The dog padded away warily and sat among the daffodils a few feet away, watching.

  ‘I’ll send Ivy with them, then,’ Bluebell conceded. Ivy wasn’t much use here anyway.

  ‘Ivy? She prefers Willow.’

  ‘Willow will stay here. I can trust her with Father.’

  Rose balled her hands into fists. ‘Why is nothing negotiable with you, sister?’

  ‘Have you forgotten we are kings?’ Bluebell snapped. ‘I haven’t. This isn’t a small family matter to be sniped about at the supper table. Has becoming a mother turned your brain? Do you not feel the weight of the many lives beyond your bower?’

  ‘You know nothing of being a mother. You know nothing of the love or the terror.’

  Bluebell held up her hand to silence Rose. ‘You anger me.’

  ‘Need I be afraid of your anger?’

  Bluebell fell silent.

  ‘Oh, so here is Bluebell’s famous silent treatment? Am I to quiver?’

  Bluebell blinked back at her.

  ‘You cold bitch,’ Rose said, pushing past her and stalking off towards the stream.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Away from you,’ she called over her shoulder.

  Bluebell watched her go. The dogs ran up, tails thumping. Bluebell knelt to scratch their ears. ‘Never mind,’ she told them. ‘She’ll do as I say.’

  Rose climbed up across the rocks and sat at the edge of the stream. She pulled her knees against her chest and rested her head. She breathed deeply as the angry thump of her heart slowed. Bluebell would have her way, of that there was no doubt. Rose remembered a time when she was nine — Bluebell must have been eleven — when they squabbled over the last apple in the bowl, the last of the season. A year between apples was a long time for a child, and Rose had got to it first. Bluebell had tackled her and sat on top of her, threatening to spit on her face if Rose didn’t hand the apple over. It had always been so with Bluebell: she had the ability to make her will manifest in the world. And not just by strength, which she had in large measure, but by sheer doglike persistence. Rose sat for a long time, while the sun fell low and the birds, one by one, ceased their song. She breathed the smell of the muddy water’s edge and the sweet waxy flowers as the sky cooled. She knew she should be getting back. Rowan adored Ash, but would soon start asking where her mama was. It had been nearly an hour since she left. When she heard movement behind her, her skin prickled and she realised she was a long way from the safety of the farmhouse. It was dark and she was alone.

  Rose swung around and climbed to her feet, peering into the dark.

  It was Heath, dusk in his hair. Her heart caught, stuttered back to life.

  ‘I thought I might find you here,’ he said.

  ‘Where is Bluebell?’

  ‘She’s with her father, trying to get him to eat. I overheard her telling Ash you’d fought with her then run off.’

  She folded her arms across her chest. ‘Have you come to take me back?’

  ‘It grows dark,’ he said, patiently. ‘You are alone.’

  ‘You’re here,’ she said. Yes, he was. Here alone with her. And she knew exactly what to do to get back at Bluebell.

  He held out his hand. ‘Come on.’

  She gave him her fingers and climbed down, then stopped, tugging on his hand.

  He turned to look at her. He already knew. His eyes were black with desire.

  ‘Now,’ she said, ‘for there may never be another chance.’

  ‘If Bluebell finds out ...’

  She leaned into him, her breath mingling with his. ‘She won’t find out.’

  Heath smiled, then leaned back and laughed. ‘I don’t care if she kills me. Come.’ He led her further upstream, deeper into the trees. Night was nearly upon them, and she stumbled over tree roots in the dark. He steadied her and they crossed the stream at a narrow point and moved into the wood on the other side. A small clearing opened out before them.

  Heath stopped and turned to face her, brought her hands to his mouth and kissed her across the knuckles. Deep and low inside her, desire fluttered. The moment felt hot and present compared to the lonely and substanceless imaginings she had comforted herself with for three years. Her knees shook.

  He stepped back, untied his belt and pulled his tunic over his head, then caught her against him. She ran her fingers over his warm shoulders, down into the light golden hair across his chest, tracing the outline of his tattoo. Being so close to his body — his real body, not the imagined one — made her feel intensely vulnerable. Mortal. Lightly, with his fingertips, he lifted her chin and kissed her, his hot mouth claiming hers gently yet insistently, his tongue sliding between her lips.

  Remember to breathe.

  He released her and reached for the sash on her dress. It dropped to the forest floor with a thump: keys and scissors and comb and mirror lost among the leaves. Twilight fell away, almost as if in an instant, and night was left in its wake. As he slipped her dress over her head, a shiver traversed her body. Branches creaked, leaves shushed, forest creatures rattled in the undergrowth. She loosened her shift and let it slide over her breasts, hips and knees to pool on the ground. She bent to remove her stockings and shoes. Heath was scrambling out of his own clothes, then he spread them on the ground to lie on. She stood still and silent, her skin prickling sweetly, watching his strong pale body bent over. He pulled her down beside him.

  ‘You are so soft,’ he said, losing his lips in the hollows along her collarbone. She lay back and beheld the velvet night. Her desire seemed at once to be of the sky, a divine thrumming beyond the knowledge of words; and of the earth, an impulse as base and uncomplicated as animals feel. His mouth moved to her breast and she swallowed a groan. Then remembered they were far away from everyone, in the woods, and let her desire have its full voice. The bruising suction of his mouth on her nipple, the curtain of his golden hair falling over his face. Her spine arched, her hands ran over his ribs. He rolled her over so she lay on top of him, his mouth returning to hers. She propped herself on her hands, her knees falling either side of him, brushing her breasts across his lips, the searing wetness between her legs drawing down on top of him. Her breathing was so shallow that she began to feel dizzy. Dimly, she remembered Bluebell’s warnings. No, and no, and no. But as Heath slid himself inside her, all she could think was, yes, and yes, and yes. One bright moment, for who knew how long before they could steal another?

  The angels were silent, but Willow knew what Maava would want her to do. Alone with Father, while he lay silent and still, she could almost see the heathen demons pulsing under his skin: at his throat, in his temples and wrists. She
had to make this place, this dim room, a place where the angels would come and work their might, bringing her father’s soul to Maava.

  She pulled her knife from her belt. The tip of the blade caught a flash of firelight. She held open her palm and cut the fleshy part lightly, so that blood bubbled out. I do not fear this pain. The pain magnifies your name, Maava. You whose mercy is bright and whose might is fearsome, glory be to you. Willow returned her knife to its scabbard and pressed her palm so the blood flowed more freely.

  The door swung in. Bluebell stood there. Willow hurriedly plunged her hand into her skirt and between her knees, hiding the wound.

  ‘Bluebell? Is all well?’

  ‘Your sister is an idiot,’ Bluebell muttered, and Willow didn’t know which sister she meant, but didn’t ask for clarification. It could have been any of them.

  Bluebell went to Father, leaned over and stroked his hair. ‘He looks less pale today, don’t you think?’

  Willow’s palm stung. She pressed it between her knees. Father looked as pale as he ever had, but she knew better than to point that out to Bluebell. ‘You may be right.’

  Bluebell turned. The low sun through the window made her a silhouette, a big black shape, all arms and elbows. ‘We are moving on. Only you and Heath will stay with Father.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Perfect. It was easier to worship Maava without her sisters around.

  ‘I feel I can trust you.’

  ‘You absolutely can.’

  Bluebell leaned forwards, patted her head fondly, as though Willow was one of her dogs. ‘Good lass.’

  Then she was gone, the door closed again. Willow pulled out her hand. A hot red smear across her palm. She squeezed again, enjoying the pain. Remembering the martyred Liava’s pain. Pain was good. Pain proved she loved Maava.

  Willow carefully dipped her index finger in the blood and went to her father. She painted a triangle on the dark wood above his head. Barely visible unless one was looking for it, as Willow would be in the coming days. Then behind the door. Then under the mattress. Then the windowsill. Tiny blood paintings of the trimartyr symbol, undetectable to human eyes, but clear signs to angels. Finally, she leaned down and painted a triangle from the dip in her father’s top lip, to the fullest part of his bottom lip. His mouth was left red, too obvious. So she leaned down and kissed him firmly, tasting her own blood. When she stood, the red stain had been absorbed into his skin.

  He sighed, fidgeted, started his incoherent muttering. Willow’s heart lifted. Had it worked already? Were the heathen spirits leaving his body? She glanced at her palm. It was bleeding heavily. She wrapped her hand tightly in her skirt and pressed down, heat and pain and deliverance shivering through her veins and lighting up her heart.

  By the time Ivy realised she was probably in danger, she was already lost.

  It hadn’t been dark when she’d left the farmhouse, just bordering dusk. She’d wanted to give Heath a good lead before following him. After all, her goal was for him to come upon her by accident in a flower field. She would look proud and beautiful in her yellow gown with the embroidered cuffs — a woman, not a girl — and he would be forced to admit he was wrong to speak to her as he had. But he had not headed into the fields, rather towards the stream. She didn’t know that her embroidered cuffs would go particularly well with mud and rocks, but she gave him a headstart and then made her way across.

  But Heath wasn’t there. She’d stood for a minute, listening. Thought, perhaps, there were footfalls in the oak wood. Hesitated: perhaps it would be better to turn back to the farmhouse and wait for another opportunity to see him alone.

  Then she’d moved off into the woods. And then, night had fallen. And now, her yellow dress was barely visible in the dark.

  It wasn’t like Ivy to panic though. She simply had to find her way back the way she came — if only she could be sure which way that was. She comforted herself with a fantasy Heath would find her and have to rescue her. Perhaps she would fake a limp. Yes. Then he’d have to put his arm around her waist and help her home. Once he realised how curvaceous her body was, he wouldn’t think her a girl. She wasn’t a skinny, flat-chested thing like Bluebell and Ash and Willow.

  She was comforting herself with these thoughts, trying to find her way through shadowy undergrowth, when she heard voices. A woman’s voice, calling out. It travelled to her on the breeze, then faded. But at least she knew somebody was out here in the forest. Perhaps it was one of her sisters, looking for her. She was about to call out in return, when she reminded herself she didn’t know for sure if it was somebody she knew and could trust. So she warily set off in the direction of the voice, careful to keep her footsteps light, just in case.

  Nearby, an owl hooted, startling her. She shivered, and she realised her heart was speeding. What if she’d imagined the voice? What if she was going to be stuck out here for the night, with the hooting owls and the wolves and ... bandits, and whatever else was dark and evil and lurked in cold woods at night. Would Bluebell come for her if she didn’t return home? The thought filled her with dread and relief at the same time. Bluebell would be cruel, but Ivy had no doubt she could fight off bandits with one hand and wolves with the other.

  The voice again. Closer. And, unmistakably, the voice of a woman being pleasured. Ivy frowned. Not one of her sisters, then. Unless ...

  The thought made her burn. Burn. She hadn’t seen Bluebell all afternoon. Heath had gone out. And now, the sound of pleasure in the wood. Surely not. Bluebell could not possibly be a sexual being. Surely her orifices were riveted shut.

  Ivy was determined to find out if her suspicions were right. She picked her way carefully through the trees. Now she could hear a second voice, a man’s voice. She knew it was Heath’s voice and jealousy spiked her stomach. She had hoped to hear those sounds he was making, yes, but not in these circumstances.

  Her heart hardened. They sounded like a couple of animals, grunting in a ditch. Then she got a clear sight of them through the trees.

  Not Bluebell. Rose. Rose, queen of Netelchester. Wengest’s wife. Her white body arched under starlight, with Wengest’s nephew between her legs, his hands over her breasts. Ivy crept as close as she dared, but they were both lost to pleasure and heard and saw nothing.

  Ivy slumped to the ground and gently and purposely knocked her head on a tree trunk. Why on earth did Heath prefer Rose? Rose was married. Rose had a child. That made her, surely, the least attractive woman in the party. She fought back tears. It wasn’t fair. She had nobody and Rose had two men: a king for a husband and his nephew for a lover. Not fair. Not fair. Ivy was stuck in the woods alone, feeling like a fool. A little girl. Her only chance of finding her way home was waiting for them to finish and following them at distance, and so she sat and waited while their breathing grew more ragged and they gasped, one by one, with the release of desire. She was sickened by jealousy, and appalled — no, fascinated — by her sister’s dangerous infidelity.

  Ash’s stomach was hollow the morning they left. This would be the last time she would be together with the whole family. Once she had led Bluebell to Yldra, it would be time for her take herself into exile. Away from light and laughter. And yet, she couldn’t tell anyone of her sorrow, so it was locked inside her, eating her away.

  Bluebell looked much more positive as she mounted Isern. Her long fair hair was clean and brushed loose. Ivy, who had been told an hour before that she was accompanying Rowan and Sighere to Netelchester, was red-eyed and sulking. They would ride in the other direction: back to the south, then across to Folcenham. The dogs barked happily, keen to be moving. Rose was fussing around Rowan, tightening the ties on her dress and pulling up her stockings.

  ‘If you are cold, you tell Ivy.’

  ‘Mama, I want to come with you.’

  ‘Papa wants to see you, darling.’

  ‘You come to Papa with me!’

  Rose gave Bluebell a cold glance. ‘I can’t. But I will be home in a few weeks. It’s only ten days
north, then ten days back. Then straight home to you, my precious.’ She kissed the little girl’s nose.

  The cold that shimmered over Ash’s skin then was intense. She was seized by the sudden conviction Rose would not see Rowan for a very long time. Not weeks. Not months. Years. Ash caught her breath, but the feeling skidded away from her before she could pin it down. She intensified her focus on Rowan, and foresaw only happiness and safety, running in the garden outside her bowerhouse. Puzzled, she took up the reins of her horse.

  Mist lay close to the ground, and the sky was leaden. The dark woods on the other side of the flower farm waited. They would head north, into the oldest parts of Thyrsland. Wild lands where ancient trees and fallen slabs of hewn rock marked the way; where undermagicians spun their spells; where elementals moved about on the plains, unafraid of the approach of men.

  Bluebell looked to the sky. ‘The weather will hold,’ she said.

  ‘Keep my baby warm,’ Rose said to Ivy, handing Rowan up to her.

  Rowan wriggled and shrieked.

  ‘Go, make it quick,’ Bluebell said to Sighere.

  Rose stood with tears on her cheeks, as Ivy and Sighere galloped off towards the road.

  ‘The sooner we get moving, the better,’ Bluebell said to Rose. Perhaps it was an offer of comfort.

  Rose mounted her horse without a word.

  Bluebell smiled tightly at Ash. ‘I leave here with hope. I trust I will return the same. Can you see anything, Ash?’

  ‘Not a thing,’ Ash said, relieved. ‘Just the trees and the sky and the road.’

  They moved off, north-west. Towards the undermagicians.

  Sixteen

  Wylm hadn’t spent time around children since he had been a child himself, so he was wary and impatient with Eni. Nor was Eni a normal child: he was a bundle of instincts with hands and feet, feet that kicked wildly to be let off the horse the moment he needed to piss, for example. The horse itself was a superb, broad-chested warhorse, no doubt a gift to the farmer from Bluebell. It eased the journey; Wylm’s feet didn’t ache at the end of the day.