Daughters Of The Storm

by Kim Wilkins

  She squeezed his hand gently. ‘We have met,’ Ivy said. ‘At your wedding. I’m Rose’s sister, Ivy.’

  He dropped her hand, blinked and considered her more carefully. ‘Ivy? Could it be? Why, last time I saw you, you were a little girl.’ He spread his palms and smiled. ‘Now you are a woman.’

  Ivy beamed. ‘As to your other question, Rose and Bluebell and Ash have gone further north, into Bradsey, to look for a cure for my father’s illness. They expect a journey of three weeks.’

  Wengest’s brow drew down in irritation. ‘Three weeks? And without consulting me?’ Then he remembered himself and the smile returned. ‘Forgive me, but I haven’t been quite the same without my wife and daughter here. Women are a welcome weight on a man’s thoughts, so they don’t fly everywhere.’

  Ivy wasn’t sure what he meant, but smiled anyway. ‘Rowan missed you very much,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you, little one?’

  Rowan, who clung to Wengest’s leg, nodded silently.

  Wengest glanced down at his daughter. ‘Three weeks, eh? What am I to do with the child until then?’

  Ivy hesitated a moment, then ventured: ‘I could stay.’

  He brightened. ‘Would you? Rowan has a nurse, but she needs someone to love and I am very busy. You could have Rose’s bower, and we would treat you as a princess of Ælmesse deserves to be treated. You needn’t do anything but keep the child company during the day.’

  Ivy needed no time to consider. ‘Of course. I would love that.’

  Wengest bent to hug Rowan. ‘Who wouldn’t want to spend more time with this little darling? What do you say, Rowan? Shall we let Ivy stay a little while until Mama gets back?’

  ‘I want Mama,’ Rowan said uncertainly.

  ‘Ah, but when you were with Mama, all you spoke of was being with Papa,’ Ivy said.

  ‘Is that right?’ Wengest asked.

  ‘Bluebell killded you.’

  Wengest’s eyebrows shot up and Ivy had to laugh. ‘Bluebell beheaded a scarecrow. We didn’t know Rowan was pretending it was you.’

  He smiled, but Ivy could tell it was forced. ‘Well. Here I am. Alive and well.’ He ruffled her hair. ‘Rowan, you show Ivy where you and Mama sleep. I’ll send someone to bring you a hot bath and some food.’ He nodded, then turned his attention to Sighere and the stable hands.

  Rowan took Ivy’s hand. ‘Come on,’ she said, pulling hard.

  Ivy followed her, glancing over her shoulders one last time to admire Wengest’s beautiful clothes.

  Travelling had exhausted Ivy. She slept deeply, heavy and soft, far beneath dreams: the kind of sleep one only achieves after hard labour or good works. Then a thin cry needled through the layers.

  Ivy struggled to open her eyes, didn’t recognise where she was, couldn’t place the cry. Then it came again. She was in Rose’s bower in Folcenham and Rowan was having a nightmare next to her.

  ‘Sh,’ Ivy said, rolling over and stroking her hair, ‘it’s just a bad dream.’ She closed one eye as though it could help her hold onto sleep.

  Rowan woke, looked at Ivy and said, ‘Where’s Mama?’

  ‘Mama will be back soon. I’m here with you now.’

  Rowan’s mouth turned upside down. Her bottom lip pushed further and further out, and then she took a deep breath and began to sob.

  ‘Sh,’ Ivy said again, and moved to pick her up.

  Rowan shrieked and flung her hand away, kicking her legs. Her foot caught Ivy under the ribs, knocking the wind out of her.

  ‘You little brat!’ Ivy spat.

  ‘I want Mama!’ Rowan screamed.

  Ivy leapt out of bed, fingers itching to smack her chubby white thigh. ‘There’s no need to kick me.’

  But Rowan was incoherent with tears and shrieks.

  Ivy wasn’t sure what to do. She wanted to go back to sleep, but Rowan was winding herself up tighter and tighter. Ivy went to the shutter and opened it a little way. Perhaps if Wengest heard, he might come to settle her down. That was probably what Rowan wanted: one of her parents. She barely knew Ivy.

  Ivy waited. Nobody came. She went to the door and opened it. The chill of midnight skulked in, making her hug her shift tight around her body. She took a half-step out onto the dewy grass, peering towards Wengest’s bower. She was sure she saw a finger of light under the shutter. Rowan’s sobbing intensified as the cold reached her. Surely Wengest would hear. And if he heard, he would surely come.

  Then the door to his bower opened and Ivy shrank back inside. She didn’t want it to be obvious she’d tried to wake him. She heard a voice. A soft female voice. Curious, she leaned out again.

  A woman was leaving Wengest’s bower, her face turned away from Ivy. She said something inaudible, then turned and hurried back towards the town. Ivy recognised her as the serving woman who had brought her meal that evening.

  Ivy realised her mouth was agape and shut it, withdrawing inside. She closed the door and pressed her back against it. Wengest was tupping the serving girl. Rose was being tupped by Heath. And neither of them knew about the other. Why, Ivy knew more about them than they knew about themselves.

  Rowan was still crying. Ivy sighed and went to her. ‘Please. Will you stop? It’s very late and I’m tired.’

  ‘No!’ she shrieked.

  The door opened and Ivy turned to see Rowan’s nurse standing there.

  ‘You heard?’ Ivy said.

  ‘Half of Netelchester heard.’ She came over and forcibly flipped Rowan on her front. ‘Here, this always works if you can get her to lie still.’

  Rowan wriggled violently, but one firm touch of Nurse’s hands on her shoulders and she started to relax.

  ‘Hush, hush,’ Nurse said, rubbing circles on her back.

  The crying continued but was, at least, muffled by the blankets.

  ‘I thought Wengest might come if he heard,’ Ivy said.

  ‘The king? He doesn’t attend to children.’

  ‘Too busy attending to somebody else.’

  Nurse didn’t meet her eye. ‘He’s a man. Men must find their pleasure or they bend out of shape.’

  A violent stab of unpleasant feeling landed in Ivy’s guts. She considered it carefully, and realised it was jealousy. Wengest, the king of Netelchester, with his gold rings and his fine dyed clothes, was being enjoyed by a servant.

  Nurse lowered her voice. ‘Don’t tell your sister. It will only make her sad.’

  ‘But surely she should know if he loves another —’

  ‘Love? Love has nothing to do with it. Do you think the king of Netelchester would love somebody as low as her? A highborn man such as him could only love a woman of equal birth.’

  And Ivy thought: I am of equal birth.

  ‘Forget what you have seen,’ Nurse said. ‘I won’t speak of it again.’

  ‘Nor will I,’ said Ivy. But she could think about it as much as she liked.

  Nineteen

  Ash woke with heavy limbs, as though every blood pathway in her body ran with sludgy sand. The sun had not yet risen, but the sky grew pale above her. Bluebell stirred, but Rose was still and quiet. She lay a little while, gazing up at the rocky overhang that served as their roof. Lichen patterns and a stale smell of old earth. Her senses tingled. Ash sat up and looked back towards the woods.

  Someone had been following them since they’d left Sceotley the previous morning. At least, she hoped it was someone and not something. She would be foolish to think her display of magical power down by the river would go unnoticed. Such an act didn’t have to be seen to be known: magic’s wake stretched a long way. Ash pulled her eyebrows down, trying to focus, to get a fix on what was behind them. No success. She rose.

  Bluebell called after her sleepily. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Ash said.

  ‘I feel as though I haven’t slept at all,’ Bluebell said, yawning vastly.

  ‘Same. I’m going to walk a while to wake up my blood.’ Ash climbed around the rocky slope and up onto the
hard, flat granite, so she was standing directly above Bluebell. Now she tried again. Who is following us?

  A flash on the edge of her mind. The figure, slight and limber, of a man. Then nothing. No, not nothing: a distinct feeling of being pushed away ... gently, but firmly. Whoever it was, he didn’t want Ash to know. He was cloaking himself in magic.

  ‘Who are you?’ Ash said, under her breath. It wasn’t an iceman. Ash had no sense of cruelty or ill-intent, and they always travelled in groups. This man was alone and very interested in them. Or, at least, very interested in her.

  She took a deep breath and turned in a slow circle, scanning around her. Over the tops of trees, birds were black shapes against the sky. The world was waking up. The path arrowed back into the woods and that’s where they would head today. She turned and moved to climb down, then froze as she noticed.

  ‘Oh!’ she said, her heart-rate picking up.

  Last night, when they’d emerged from the woods into this clearing, Bluebell had wondered aloud why the trees had been cleared. Now, from up here, Ash could see they had been cleared in a circle about a mile across. And within that circle were seven concentric circles, their circumferences marked out by carefully arranged small stones, which were pale grey against the dewy grass. Right in the centre, at the highest point, was this large slab of flat rock she stood on.

  She dropped to her knees and hung her head over the edge.

  ‘Bluebell,’ she said, ‘we need to get away from here.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We are sleeping in the middle of a field of magic. I think I’m standing on an altar stone.’

  Bluebell sat up. ‘What do you mean by a field of magic?’

  ‘Somebody has cleared this area and used it for magic.’ Ash glanced down at the rock beneath her knees. Were they faint, rainwashed stains of blood? ‘And we slept right below its hub.’ She thought about her heavy limbs. ‘Are you more tired than usual?’

  Bluebell’s eyes grew flinty. ‘Yes.’

  ‘We need to get away from here. We’ll become infected with someone else’s magic.’

  Ash climbed to her feet and hurried back down the slope. Rose was hard to wake; even the dogs and horses were sluggish. Somehow they managed to get packed and moving, out of the magic circle and towards the path into the woods.

  ‘Is it not a long way south for undermagicians?’ Rose asked as they moved out of the light and into the shadow of the trees.

  ‘Not for an exiled undermagician,’ Bluebell remarked, glancing around. ‘Why is it, Ash, that the thought of a band of raiders coming for me while I’m without my hearthband does not unnerve me, but the knowledge I slept beneath an altar of under-magic does?’

  ‘Don’t worry, it unnerves me too,’ Ash said. ‘Let’s move away as fast as we can.’

  Bluebell did not like to doubt her decisions once they had been made. But as they moved further into the dark woods, she wondered why she had brought her sisters on this journey instead of her hearthband. Certainly a fully armed retinue might have frightened Yldra and, of course, she hadn’t been able to predict the future: that raiders were on the move with the goal of assassinating her; that her sister would be forced to conjure up magic that left Ash looking like a ghost; that Rose would have an accident that had left an angry, oozing gash across her head. Bluebell had never questioned her ability to protect her sisters before they left the flower farm. Now she was not so certain.

  The road was narrow, a rut between trees. They had passed two milestones, covered in thick, sharp ivy, their carvings eaten by time and weather. Serpentine roots lined either side of the road and Bluebell had the impression they moved if they were not looked upon directly. The green of the woods was a damp green, a sick, dark green, crowding the horses and filling Bluebell’s nostrils with a smell of age and moisture. Most of the trees were yews, ancient and contorted, tangled branches bending low over themselves. Against this dark backdrop, it was easy to spot the little piles of white and grey pebbles, like signposts at regular intervals along the side of the path. For some reason the sight of them, so carefully placed by a human hand on the bracken, gave her a cold feeling in her stomach. She didn’t like what she couldn’t see.

  ‘What are those stones for?’ she asked.

  ‘They are the same stones that marked the circle where we slept last night,’ Rose said.

  ‘We are in somebody’s territory,’ Ash said. ‘If we move straight ahead and swiftly, we will be safe.’

  So they moved in a single line, straight ahead and swiftly, even though the dogs were jumpy and the horses uncertain. The trees crowded out the morning light, chilling her. The horses’ hooves kicked up a mist of dirt from the road. Bluebell had a distinct sensation something was out of place, unnatural, but she had no second sight like Ash so she struggled to divine the cause.

  Of course. There were no sounds in the woods. No birds, no animal feet. Just the rustle of the leaves and the occasional sound of a branch falling, deep in the dark woods.

  ‘No birds,’ she said.

  ‘Keep moving,’ Ash replied from behind her.

  Bluebell glanced over her shoulder. Ash was pale. Rose behind her wore a wary expression. There was no other way north, unless they took a four-day detour out through Lyteldyke.

  The road deepened so the tree roots were now level with Bluebell’s thigh. The knotwork roots created an embankment on either side of them, the branches a ceiling. They were deep in a holloway and even Isern was tense, his ears pricked, his head bobbing. He felt, no doubt, as she did: that they were trapped between inescapable organic walls. She muttered words of encouragement to him, but kept her eyes forward, her back tensed against the uncanny quiet of the woods.

  An hour passed. Two. The landscape didn’t change.

  Then Ash gasped.

  Bluebell, already tense, experienced the sound as a spike of hot blood to her heart. She pulled Isern up and turned in her saddle. ‘What is it?’

  Ash’s voice was thick. ‘Raiders. I can sense them. Companions to the ones you saw off outside Sceotley. They are looking for their friends.’

  ‘And they are on this road?’

  ‘Heading straight for us. And they are mounted.’

  ‘We can barely turn the horses around in here,’ Rose said.

  Bluebell quickly ran through the possibilities in her head. Let the raiders chase them back to Sceotley? They would lose another two days. Stand and fight? She didn’t know if she could rely on Ash’s powers to control the elements, and she wanted to protect her sisters.

  She gazed into the yew wood. Nobody would find them in there.

  ‘No, Bluebell, not in there,’ Rose pleaded.

  ‘How far away are they, Ash?’ Bluebell asked.

  ‘I’m ... now I’m not so sure ... I ...’

  Already, Bluebell thought she could hear the hooves. She dismounted, untied her pack. ‘Into the woods,’ she said. ‘Leave the horses.’

  ‘Wait, Bluebell,’ Ash said.

  ‘Leave them,’ she said again. ‘The raiders won’t know they’re ours.’

  Ash and Rose followed her lead. Bluebell stayed on the road and helped them to clamber up the embankment and into the woods. Then she turned to the dogs. ‘Go on,’ she said, indicating with her hand they were to scramble up ahead of her.

  Thrymm put back her ears and whimpered. Thræc sat down and growled.

  Hooves.

  She glanced towards Ash and Rose. Nowhere in sight. She frowned. They had disappeared quickly. She turned back to the dogs. She could pick them up and throw them in, or she could leave them with the horses.

  Bluebell pushed her palm forwards, north up the road. ‘All right. All of you, keep moving.’

  The dogs rounded up the horses and drove them up the road. Bluebell vaulted up the embankment and then crouched low, moving off into the woods. Where were her sisters? She seemed to be making so much noise, but couldn’t hear them anywhere. Ahead, she could see the remains of a yew tree. The last remai
ning curve of its trunk indicated it had once stood ten feet wide. But now it had collapsed in on itself in its ancientness, and resembled a spider reared defensively: bent brown branches ready to strike. Were her sisters hiding behind the trunk? She didn’t dare call them. She kept low and moved away from the road, around the curve of the trunk. A deadfall, as tall as a man, awaited her. Still no sign of Ash and Rose. But here, a small pile of white and grey pebbles. Gooseflesh rose across the backs of her arms. Hidden from the road now, she stood tall and scanned around her. A breeze lifted her hair, tickling her face. The woods were so quiet. Not a sound other than the sound of leaves moving in the wind; the thud of her heart. Her hand went to her sword.

  She had the feeling she was going to have to kill something.

  Bluebell turned slowly in a circle. Off to the north-west, another huge, crumbling tree. In its trunk, a fissure wide enough to step through. Sword drawn, she moved towards it.

  Closer and closer, hoping to see a flash of Ash’s green cloak or Rose’s red dress before she had to go In There.

  The smell of mould. The smell of dirt. The smell of ancient water.

  And another little pile of stones: these ones were kicked over, as though someone hadn’t seen them. Perhaps one of her sisters, in the rush to hide.

  Bluebell ducked her head, and squeezed through. Inside the tree it was dank, but light came in through the crack and through another opening directly across from her. Ash and Rose weren’t here. She moved through the empty trunk and out the other side.

  ‘Bluebell!’ It was Ash, rushing towards her, hands outstretched, almost as though she were trying to push her back into the tree.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘We’re trapped,’ Rose said.

  Bluebell hadn’t seen her. She turned.

  Rose stood at the foot of a tall mud wall, perhaps twenty feet high, that stretched off in both directions. ‘No way out.’

  ‘What the ...?’

  ‘Can you go back through?’ Ash asked.