Daughters Of The Storm

by Kim Wilkins

  So Bluebell kept going. Past midnight, when the silver-grey landscape was so deserted it seemed as though she and Yldra were the only two people left in the world; through the hours when the grass grew slippery with dew and the night wind settled and sank. By the time the sky began to lighten, Bluebell’s eyes were flaky with sleep, and the wheels in her mind had slowed to a grinding pace.

  ‘We can stop here,’ Yldra said. ‘Have a little rest while I dig the pit.’

  Bluebell dismounted. They were in a quiet valley dotted with grey rocks and a few broken saplings. The sun slanted down on them, illuminating Yldra’s grey hairs.

  Bluebell spread out her blanket and fell gratefully into sleep, only to be woken up prematurely by Yldra. She opened her eyes. The sun was up, so perhaps it had been two hours, but she felt as though she had only blinked.

  ‘Already?’ she said.

  ‘I have to get into the ground while the sun’s first light is on it.’ Yldra’s face grew serious. ‘You will stay awake, won’t you? I can’t defend myself.’

  ‘Of course.’ She climbed to her feet, shaking herself awake. ‘You do what you have to do.’

  While Yldra buried herself, Bluebell went to her pack and pulled out her byrnie and her helm. She armed herself and sat on a rock near Yldra, who had already become smooth and quiet.

  She watched birds fly over. She watched the wind move in sunlit patterns across the long grass. She heard a stream in the distance and grew thirsty. She found her water-bottle and drank deeply. Wondered if it would be safe to leave Yldra for a few minutes to refill it; decided it wasn’t. She went through Yldra’s pack, instead, and drank some of her water. She looked through the objects in Yldra’s pack, and couldn’t make sense of most of them. A rabbit’s paw, a piece of round glass, a string of amber beads with dried blood smeared across them in a pattern, a dozen tiny cotton bags filled with dry herbs, a strip of parchment that smelled odd and familiar at the same time and twigs and stones that looked as if they couldn’t have been deliberately kept.

  Bluebell returned to her rock. Yldra was motionless. Birds, wind, stream. Nothing had changed. Her eyes grew heavy, so she stood and began to pace. Isern and Yldra’s horse were sleeping, Thrymm was sleeping, Yldra was sleeping. Only Bluebell was awake, pacing and pacing, waiting for the day to end.

  Bluebell was eager for night to fall. But of course, with night came more travel, and no rest. She let Isern carry her, following in Yldra’s supernatural train, but couldn’t sleep for fear she would fall off. Besides, Yldra sounded a cautionary note before they began to move.

  ‘The next two days take us through dangerous territory.’

  ‘Raiders?’

  ‘Undermagicians.’

  ‘You’re an undermagician.’

  ‘We are nearing the sea. The west coast of Thyrsland is a wild place, and those most interested in wild magic have gathered here. We are passing through a cluster of spider webs; we are surrounded on all sides, so there is no point in trying to go unnoticed. They will sense us.’

  ‘I have little defence against magic, Yldra. My sword appears to mean nothing to them.’

  ‘Between your sword and my magic, we can survive. Perhaps they will leave us alone. Come. To the sea.’

  They turned to the west. The headwind was strong, gusting through Bluebell’s hair and shaking the branches on the bent trees that lined the gravel road down towards the ocean. The prevailing winds in Thyrsland came from the west, from the Great Ocean that raged for thousands of miles uninterrupted by land. In winter, the wind sometimes swept right across the country, bringing freezing rain all the way to the calmer seas of the east coast. In summer, the wind came laden with balmy warmth from unseen southern lands. Tonight it was brisk, rank with seaweed, jumping down her throat when she opened her mouth to yawn. From time to time, a brief shower of rain passed over them, leaving its clean cold odour in its wake.

  Around the middle of the night, Bluebell spotted a dark figure standing very still ahead of them.

  ‘Ignore anyone you see!’ Yldra called back to her, her voice made weightless by the wind.

  They galloped towards the figure — a small child — and he raised his arm as they drew close. ‘Hey now! Stop! Stop!’

  Bluebell leaned forwards in her saddle.

  ‘I am dying! You must help me!’ he called.

  ‘It’s a trap,’ Yldra shouted to her.

  ‘Hey now! Hey now!’

  They were drawing level with him and Bluebell risked a look to her right to see him more closely. She could make out no facial features, only a smooth grey surface. Her skin crawled.

  ‘Hey now!’ he called again, and the voice came not from him directly, but from around him. Then, as they galloped past, his face lit up brilliant white, flashing once like lightning. He fell to the ground, and was revealed to be only a creation of sticks and cloth. The flash stayed on Bluebell’s eyes as they moved on.

  They saw two more thraels on the road, lures for the unwary who would slow to stop and talk and be drawn into dangerous magic. Bluebell kept her eyes on the road, ignoring their questions or their pleading. Eventually they came down and around the cliff path and the ocean came into view. Wild and green-black in the moonlight. Far, far out to sea, she thought she could see a tiny light, tossed this way and that, but when she looked upon it directly it was gone.

  The roar of the waves on the shore was deafening as they travelled south down the cliff path. Bluebell hung tight to Isern’s reins, longing for the night to be over so she could sleep, knowing it would not be enough to purge the weariness from her limbs.

  As dawn light began to stain the sky, Bluebell found herself galloping down a steep road where the cliffs melted into a wide, grey beach. The smell was thick, rancid. Black seaweed formed long mounds, rotting fish tangled inside it. The bones of some large sea creature — bleached ribs and a skull caved-in and unrecognisable — lay half-buried in sand. A great stone arch rose out of the cold currents, and the blue-black waves sucked and swirled through it loudly. Yldra had slowed and Bluebell reined Isern in next to her.

  ‘Is it time to rest?’ she asked.

  Yldra nodded. ‘I think I’ll use the sand.’

  Bluebell’s gut clenched. It wouldn’t take long for Yldra to dig a hole in the sand. ‘I need at least two hours’ sleep,’ she said.

  Yldra fixed her in her piercing gaze. ‘The cycle must not be broken or slowed.’

  ‘But if you were digging in hard ground, I’d have two hours. Are you trying to punish me deliberately?’

  Yldra pointed to the ground. ‘Lie down. Sleep.’

  Bluebell slept. For what seemed like a minute. Then Yldra was waking her again. ‘Come, I have to get into the ground. Wake, wake, Bluebell. And beware of undermagicians.’

  ‘What should I do if one comes to speak to me?’

  ‘Don’t answer them. Say nothing.’ Yldra was pulling sand over her legs and lying down. ‘And don’t let them touch me. They’ll try to steal my magic, and then you’ll be stuck in the middle of nowhere with a lame woman who has no way to heal your father.’

  Bluebell fed and watered the horses, who then drooped their heads to sleep. For a while Thrymm was awake too, but she gradually nodded off in Bluebell’s lap. Gusts of wind picked up fine sand and blasted her face and hands. Her lips were dry and salty. The waves gathered and released, over and over. A flock of seabirds arrowed through the stone arch.

  Bluebell watched them, mesmerised, alone at the grey edge of the world.

  The slide into grainy sleep and out again was probably only momentary, but when she opened her eyes, she found herself looking at two bare feet in the sand in front of her. She jerked her head up, her eyes lighting on a tall, plump man with a wild black beard and two small black eyes.

  She jumped to her feet, hand at her hip. Thrymm was up with a growl. Sleep fell away, but everything seemed too bright, the ocean’s lonely roar too loud.

  ‘Who are you?’ he said, in a gruff voice.
He wore a necklace of sea-shells and bones that clattered softly when he moved. His ragged filthy clothes smelled like stale sweat and piss. A large pink-white blister sat on his bottom lip and his teeth were brown.

  Don’t answer them. Say nothing. Instead, she drew her sword and gestured that he should leave.

  He lifted his head and sniffed the wind. ‘You smell like horse magic.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ she said, frustrated he wasn’t afraid of her.

  He ignored her and turned towards Yldra, hand outstretched. Bluebell leapt in front of him and brought her sword down sharply, stopping short of his wrist. He looked at her, the wind picking up a long strand of his black hair. Then he sniffed again, and his eyes went to her ribs.

  Bluebell’s skin prickled.

  He edged back towards Yldra. Bluebell drew her mouth down hard. If he was determined to die, then there was little she could do to stop him. She lunged, running him through his heart, and he crashed to the ground. Sand stuck to his blood, congealing into gory clumps.

  He raised his hand, almost as though he was reaching out for Bluebell’s help. She took a step back, too late. He pointed his finger and poked the air hard and Bluebell’s side roared with pain. Then he collapsed to the ground and the pain eased to a dull, throbbing ache.

  She tore off her byrnie and pulled up her tunic. There was no longer whole, white flesh over the wound the Horse God had healed. Rather, there was a long red mark. Bluebell poked it gingerly and then winced with the sharp pain. She ran her hand over it. Still smooth. Not open or bleeding as it had been that night. Gingerly, she smoothed her tunic over it again and shrugged into her byrnie.

  The body in front of her couldn’t stay here. She bent and grasped the undermagician’s wrists, and dragged him down to the sea. Her side throbbed lightly. She waded in up to her thighs. The water was cold and the sand shifted under her feet. His blood smoked into the water, and she gave him a heave so the tide would catch him and carry him out to sea. She watched for a few moments, gulls screeching above her, the grey sky heavy and the sea licking her knees. He drifted out, resembling nothing more than a tangle of black seaweed.

  Bluebell returned to the beach, kicked over the bloody scuff the undermagician’s body had made, and sat down to wait for Yldra, her wound a dim, warm, inescapable ache at the edge of her consciousness.

  Twenty-six

  The tall pillars of the entrance gate to Folcenham made Rose’s heart lurch. Beyond those gates was her answer to what had happened to Rowan. But she didn’t know whether that answer would be a happy one or an alarming one. A late afternoon rainstorm was blowing in; the wind lifted her hair off her neck and promised her only cold. She spurred her horse forwards, deaf to the greetings the gatehouse guards called to her, deaf to the considerate questions of the stable hands, hearing only her own pulse hammering in her ears.

  She walked up to the bower — her bower, the one she shared with Rowan — and pushed open the door. Her eyes were prepared to see Rowan and Nurse, playing on the floor with Rowan’s wooden dolls. But her ears already told her Rowan wasn’t here. It was too quiet.

  The door swung in on a tidy room. Ivy sat in a chair by the bed, working on an embroidery ring. Ivy looked up, then scrambled to her feet, dropping the embroidery ring. Her face was pale, and Rose feared the worst.

  ‘Where is Rowan?’ she said. Her words sounded as though they were coming from outside her. Everything in the room seemed too bright, as though it had gathered a halo of nightmarish light. She pushed her toes hard into her shoes, desperate to feel grounded.

  Ivy put both her hands up, palms out. ‘She’s well. She’s unharmed.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Rose blinked fast. ‘Then how do you know she’s well and unharmed?’

  ‘Because Wengest took her.’

  Ivy’s answer deepened the darkness that had been growing around Rose’s heart since she first noticed Rowan missing. Even when she had been worrying, she had believed somewhere in her body that everything would be well. But that belief had been misguided. ‘He took her?’

  Ivy nodded.

  ‘And they are coming back?’ Vain hope.

  Ivy shook her head. ‘Wengest is back. Rowan is ... not coming back to Folcenham.’

  A hollow emptiness opened up in her stomach, sucking the breath out of her. ‘Then I shall go to Wengest and demand he takes me to her.’ She hurried to the door on tingling feet.

  ‘Wait! Rose!’ Ivy caught her sleeve.

  Rose considered her sister’s face in the soft afternoon light. She looked like a child, afraid of someone. Then Rose realised: Ivy was afraid of her. ‘What is it?’ she asked, suspicion foiling her attempts to sound gentle.

  Ivy licked her lips. ‘Wengest knows.’

  ‘Knows what?’

  ‘About ...’ She averted her eyes. ‘That you have a lover.’

  Rose’s stomach turned inside out. She grasped Ivy’s hands to stop herself from falling. ‘How could he ... how did he ...?’

  ‘He doesn’t know it’s Heath. He only knows you have a lover. Had a lover.’

  ‘But how could he know? How could he ...?’

  ‘I saw you with Heath. In the woods.’

  Rose brought her attention back to Ivy’s face, dropping her hands. ‘Ivy. No.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

  Rose’s body was falling apart. The worst had happened. The very worst. ‘No, no! Do you not know I’m a peace offering between Wengest’s kingdom and Father’s? You have put everything at risk.’

  Ivy stood back, her face growing impassive. ‘No, Rose. You took a lover. You have put everything at risk.’

  Fury coiled in Rose’s guts. She drew back and slapped Ivy hard across the mouth. Ivy staggered back, her hand over her face, blood trickling between her fingers.

  ‘You bitch,’ Ivy spat.

  ‘I don’t have time for you now. I have to go find Wengest. I’ll let Bluebell deal with you.’

  Ivy’s pupils shrank to pinpoints. Rose slammed the door of the bower behind her, took a moment to catch her breath, to slow her thundering heart. Her fingers tingled hotly from slapping Ivy.

  She looked up towards the hall. Wengest. How dark would he be? How long did he intend to keep Rowan apart from her? She screwed her eyes tight, and took four panting breaths. Then headed up the hill. She was not so afraid of Wengest that she wouldn’t fight him to get her daughter back.

  Rain spattered over her as she walked the last few feet to the hall. She pushed open the tall, carved doors, letting in the late afternoon light. A spitted deer was roasting over the fire, and the hall was filled with smoke and the smell of cooking. Two servants were setting up the tables for the evening meal and Wengest stood in a dark corner talking quietly to a man she recognised as his cousin, Guthmer. Her heart hammered on her ribs.

  ‘Wengest?’ she said, much more slowly than she had intended.

  His head snapped up. At the sight of her, his mouth set itself in a small, hard line. He said something quietly to Guthmer, who nodded and moved away, walking past Rose with a smug expression on his lips.

  ‘Out, all of you out!’ Wengest called to the servants, who heard the threat in his voice and dropped the table they were moving into place. They scurried from the hall.

  Then the door swung shut and it was just Wengest, Rose, and the roasting deer. The black fury on Wengest’s brow had her wishing to swap places with the deer.

  He strode towards her, dressed beautifully in blue and gold, with silver pins across his chest. In the firelight, he was handsome and stern and noble. Her husband. This man she barely knew. Never had she seen him look more like a king, with the power to bend anyone to his will. His dark glamour unhinged her knees.

  ‘Where is Rowan?’ she asked, breathless.

  ‘I have taken Rowan and her nurse away from Folcenham, and I will not be telling you where they are yet. I love the child dearly and will see no harm come to her, but —
’

  ‘She’ll be missing me.’

  ‘I expect she’ll be used to being away from you.’

  ‘No, she’s used to being with me.’

  ‘It seems to me you are often keen to be rid of her.’

  ‘That’s untrue.’ Was it untrue? She thought about the unrelenting nature of motherhood, how she had longed to be alone with Heath, how she had travelled north from Stonemantel without Rowan as Bluebell had asked, with little protest.

  Wengest held up his hands. ‘I won’t bicker.’

  Rose swallowed hard. ‘So when are you going to tell me where she is?’

  He smiled bitterly. ‘When you tell me who your lover is.’

  ‘I have no lover.’

  ‘Ivy thinks otherwise.’

  ‘Ivy is a little fool.’

  ‘She said she saw you with another man. Fucking.’

  Rose had never heard him speak so directly of sex. For some reason it frightened her; a sign that reason had no more use to him, that passionate rage had replaced it.

  Wengest paced a few moments, then planted himself firmly in front of her, his voice returning to a normal pitch. ‘This is very simple. I am enraged that there walks a man in this land who has known my wife so intimately. I can’t live with it. It fills me with a wrath so dark I cannot see its centre. If you name this man, you can have Rowan back.’

  Rose scrambled for answers. ‘I have no lover,’ she said, but it sounded hollow even to her ears.

  ‘Do you understand, Rose?’ Wengest said, enunciating each word clearly. ‘You must choose. Your child, or your lover.’

  ‘It was nobody. Somebody. I don’t even remember his name. It was just the one occasion.’ Her words stumbled over each other.

  He shook his head slowly. ‘I am no fool, Rosie,’ he said. ‘You are not the kind of woman to take a random stable hand to bed. Who is it?’

  A voice in her head was shouting at her, Tell him! Just tell him! Get your baby back! But fear held her tongue. Her throat was so dry she could barely ask her next question. ‘What are you going to do to him if I tell you?’