by Kim Wilkins
Maava, help me. I am succumbing to sin. The tickle grew to a violent ache under her fingers. Please, Maava, I don’t want to be like my sister. Make this feeling go away.
Oh, the feelings that shuddered through her then. Her breath sucked back into her throat and her legs flipped around like the tail of a fish drowning in air. Then stillness. And guilt.
What was wrong with her? What is wrong with me? Silent angels.
She rose, cracked the door to the main room open. Heath and Rose slept by the dying light of the hearth. She crossed the room on silent feet and went outside. On the dewy grass she sat, pulled out her knife and inched up her skirt to reveal her white thigh, luminous in the moonlight. Here. She would cut here. And the blood that flowed would tell the angels she was sorry.
‘Heathens fornicate, trimartyrs spawn dynasties.’
The voice came to her just as she pierced her own flesh. Her heart slammed, she cut further, longing for the voice to continue.
‘Maava made the love act pleasurable so children might be born.’
Children? Willow remembered the number of times Ivy had gone to the village witch for abortifacients after her dalliances.
She pushed the knife against her flesh once again. Tell me more. Tell me everything I need to know, angels, for the love of the great Maava. I will do whatever you ask. She scored three lines on her thigh, but the angels had stopped talking. She breathed deep, letting the warm blood drizzle down her leg and set her mind to the angel’s words.
Heathens fornicate. Yes. Rose, Heath, her twin. Bluebell, if Eni’s father was to be believed. Trimartyrs spawn dynasties.
Her blood, Wylm’s blood. Trimartyr blood of the royal family. Were it to be mixed, a trimartyr child might be born. One who would unite Thyrsland under the holy triangle.
She sighed, closed her eyes with deep contentment. This was why the desires of her body were so insistent. Maava wanted her to lie with Wylm. Their entwined destinies demanded it. Now she understood her purpose in this world. Not to bear arms like Bluebell, but to bear a child. A miraculous child. Many people wandered the trimartyr path for decades before understanding their part in Maava’s great plan, but here she was, just on the threshold of womanhood, and she already knew what she must do.
How good fortune had smiled on her.
Twenty-eight
Bluebell was relieved to cross the border into Ælmesse: the lawless realm of the undermagicians was behind her, and she had returned to a place where things were as they seemed. She endured the long days pacing with very little sleep, and the strange swift night-time travel, knowing they were drawing close to the end of their journey. At the other end, a possible cure for her father waited. Sleep waited.
They took the road around Stonemantel and down towards the flower farm on the sixth night of travel, while clouds covered the moon and the air was still and smelling of damp earth. Bluebell’s ribs expanded; the darkness of the last few weeks began to lift. She didn’t entertain the thought that Yldra couldn’t cure Æthlric: Yldra was able to enchant herself so she could walk, make the dog and horses speed like hares, and reverse the sand magician’s spell. An elf-shot would be easy for her to remove.
They unsaddled their horses in the dark stable and the animals, now released from the enchantment, collapsed into sleeping heaps. Yldra herself began her walk from the stable with a smooth gait, but was limping again by the time they reached the front door. Inside, the air was warm and smoky. Sleeping bodies. Rose had returned already, and lay encircled in Heath’s arms. Idiots. The urge to lie down among them and close her eyes for blissful hours was so strong that Bluebell had to shake herself. She hadn’t come on this journey to let her father languish another moment under his enchantment.
‘Father is through there,’ she whispered to Yldra.
But already their arrival had woken Rose, who sat up sleepily and said softly, ‘Bluebell?’
Bluebell ignored her, opening the door to the king’s bower and leading Yldra in. Willow was asleep on the floor, but scurried out with one stern look from Bluebell. A few moments later, Rose was there with them.
‘Bluebell, I need to talk. Wengest has —’
Exhaustion made Bluebell sharp. She held up a hand. ‘Not now. Father first. Then sleep, then your problems with Wengest tomorrow. I see you’re taking comfort where you shouldn’t already.’
Rose was about to bite back, but then she stopped and looked closely at Bluebell’s face. ‘You look utterly exhausted.’
‘I have survived on an hour or two of sleep a day for nearly a week,’ Bluebell said. She thought about introducing Rose to Yldra, but the older woman was absorbed in her examination of Æthlric.
Rose turned her eyes to Yldra, and Bluebell gestured that she shouldn’t interrupt. ‘Go,’ she said. ‘We’ll talk later.’
Yldra wrinkled her nose as though she’d smelled something bad. ‘I’ll need complete quiet.’
Rose withdrew reluctantly and Bluebell stood back as Yldra sat on the edge of Æthlric’s bed.
‘He’s very grey,’ she said. ‘Too many cares, I imagine. Being a king.’ She gave Bluebell a grim smile.
‘Can you feel the magic?’ Bluebell asked.
‘Oh, yes. It’s not even very strong. If it had been stronger it might have killed him. But I should be able to remove this easily.’
Bluebell’s knees buckled. ‘Oh, thank fuck.’
‘How long do you say he’s been like this?’
‘Nearly five weeks.’
‘Then it will take time.’
‘How much time? Weeks? Months?’
‘Days. And when he wakes, he will have no recollection of time having passed. It will be as though he had just put his head down to sleep, closed his eyes, and opened them again.’
‘He’ll be confused then.’
‘Momentarily. But he will wake with all his faculties.’
Bluebell couldn’t control her smile.
‘Hopefully,’ Yldra concluded.
‘Hopefully?’ The dark edge returned.
‘There’s always the chance that the magic leaving will simply kill him. I don’t know. Some undermagicians leave a barb inside the elf-shot, so that its removal is fatal. It depends on whether the person who gave it to him wanted him dead.’
Bluebell’s gut tightened. ‘And will you be able to tell us who elf-shot him?’
‘As the magic leaves his body, it will reveal its secrets. Don’t worry.’
Bluebell turned this over in her mind. If the elf-shot killed him then Ælmesse would lose its king. But he was no king in this state.
‘So, you want me to go ahead?’ Yldra asked.
‘Yes,’ Bluebell said grimly, ‘whatever the cost.’
Yldra’s gaze held Bluebell’s for a few moments. Bluebell was not good at reading people’s subtle cues, but she thought she could see admiration in Yldra’s eyes.
‘I’ll get started then. I’ll be here with him for the whole process. Go about your lives.’
Bluebell left the room, stumbling into Rose who was waiting. Willow was nowhere in sight, but Heath was preparing food in the kitchen.
‘Bluebell ...’ Rose started.
‘No, Rose. No. Not you now. Sleep now.’
Rose’s eyes grew glassy with tears. Bluebell might have softened under any other circumstances, but weariness had stripped her softness away. She rolled out her blanket by the fire, lay down and, while the household tiptoed around her, slept.
Griðbani. Wylm held the sword upright, eyeing the runic inscriptions coolly in the dawn light. The randrman had told him each rune had powerful magic, and that when the time for combat with Bluebell was near, they would glow. He squeezed the hilt, sharp pain seizing his hand. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself through the pain, squeezed harder.
It was no use, he couldn’t do it. Even beyond the pain there was a physical obstruction. The sword simply wouldn’t sit in his hand properly.
He sheathed the sword and rewrapped the wou
nd, glancing around to find Eni with his eyes. The boy grew confident as he learned the landscape of the woods, and was off in the distance crouched on the ground, marvelling over something he had found with his fingers.
A thump of footsteps drew Wylm’s attention. He turned, tensed as ever. It was Willow and she was running. He was growing used to her strange, unpredictable behaviour. Her veering from being completely engaged in their conversation to being off in some distant place in her head, her strange grey eyes almost without pupils. He was used to her constant tic of drawing triangles on her chest with her fingers, of saying Maava’s name as though she were clearing her throat with it lest he choke her. But in all this time he had never once seen her run.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, as she drew closer.
‘She’s back,’ Willow gasped. ‘Bluebell is back.’
Wylm’s stomach turned to water. His ears rang, and he had to sit down lest he fall down.
Immediately, he hated himself for such weakness. What kind of man was he, to collapse like a pisspants child at the mention of his stepsister’s name?
Willow crouched in front of him. ‘Are you well? You look pale. Has your fever returned?’
‘When? When did she get back?’
‘Just now. She woke me. She came in with an old woman I don’t know. Looks heathen, covered in charms, mud in her hair.’
An undermagician. Bluebell had gone to fetch herself an undermagician to heal Æthlric. All would soon be undone, and here he was unable to hold the magical trollblade destined to kill her. It’s too soon. Too soon. Destiny rushed upon him while his breath was still flat in his lungs. He barely noticed that Willow had pulled him against her shoulder and was stroking his hair.
‘Don’t be afraid of her,’ Willow said.
‘I’m not afraid,’ he said, through a mouthful of her straight brown hair. What was she doing? Up until this point, she had become skittish at anything close to physical contact between them. A good trimartyr virgin. ‘Does Bluebell think the old woman can cure her father?’
‘I don’t know what Bluebell thinks.’
‘Perhaps her spells won’t work.’
‘It’s in the hands of Maava now.’ And off she went into her strange, silent whispers, as though she had left this clearing and the woods behind.
He let himself be held. Willow had bent so easily to his will, her brain so malleable from years of trimartyr worship. He’d remembered a few prayers and proverbs, and she had fallen over herself to side with him, to provide him food and medicine and take the boy from time to time so he could rest or scheme or practise swordplay with his mutilated hand. He had never viewed her as anything more than an object to be placed where he needed her most, but her hands had moved down his back now and he caught a smell of her sweet skin and a glimpse down her dress to the upper curve of a slight breast. How like Bluebell she was with her hard surfaces and athletic limbs. But how unlike Bluebell, too. Vulnerable and innocent and not of this world. Something stirred in his loins, but he was smart enough not to mistake it for emotion; it had simply been a long time since a woman had touched him.
Gently, he pushed her away. She seemed disappointed. ‘Willow,’ he said, ‘I need you to keep a very close eye on Bluebell. You need to tell me if your father awakes. The moment it happens.’
She nodded solemnly. ‘Of course.’
‘And be careful when coming to give us food. Don’t let her see you or follow you. She’s sharp. Sharper than you can imagine.’
‘I know my sister well enough.’
‘Nobody does. You can think her the sharpest and the strongest person in the world and still you’d be underestimating her. She is a monster. Never forget it.’
Already her thoughts had wandered, he could see it by the way her pupils shrank.
‘Go, then,’ he said. ‘Be my eyes and ears.’
‘Do you not want my comfort?’
The question startled him. ‘I ... the greatest comfort you can give me is to assure me I am safe from Bluebell until my wound has healed.’
She nodded once, then left. He watched her go, then turned once again to his sword. No matter what pain, no matter that he opened the wound again, he must master this weapon. And soon.
Not now, Rose, not now. How many times had Bluebell said that to Rose since her arrival? Rose understood her sister was tired: the dark shadows under her eyes were proof of that. But then she woke and took her dog out and refused company: ‘I’m too tired to think straight. Ask me about it tomorrow.’
Rose knew she should wait. Time would not affect the outcome, and she needed to approach Bluebell in a good mood. She even considered waiting until their father was recovered, but the urgency pressed itself too hard upon her heart.
Bluebell spent the rest of the day in the king’s room with Yldra, whom Rose had not yet spoken with. Bluebell kept everyone away. Frustration upon frustration as the whole day passed and Rose was no closer to resolving the anxious misery in her heart.
There was the consolation of Heath, of course. They left the house separately, discreetly, and met in the woods to spend hours together touching, stroking, kissing, making love. Yes, they talked too, but there was only one topic of conversation. How much she missed Rowan and couldn’t believe this had happened to her. How sorry he was that she was in pain.
On Monday morning, Rose stood in the kitchen grinding grain for bread. Willow had carefully unpicked the stitches in Rose’s forehead then said she was going out to collect herbs for a salve. Heath had gone to tend the horses. Rose had grown frightened of solitude: being alone with her thoughts was a form of torture. As she worked, she became aware from the prickling of the hairs on the back of her neck that someone had entered the room. She turned to see Yldra standing there, watching her. Rose’s skin went cold. She had once seen Yldra in a dream, and now she stood here in the flesh. Small, pale, and with a very focussed gaze. She seemed a thing of the night, out of place in the morning light.
‘Good morning,’ Rose said, trying a smile.
‘I told you to kill Wengest,’ Yldra said, with no returning smile.
Rose’s mouth strained at the corners. ‘Yes, you did. Four years ago.’
‘Perhaps you should have listened.’ Then she limped off, opened the kitchen door, and left.
Rose held her breath, but she didn’t return.
That meant Bluebell was alone with Father.
Rose carefully placed the heavy quern-stone on the wooden bench, wiped her hands on her apron, and went to the bedroom.
Bluebell sat next to the bed, her arms stretched out in front of her, hands clasped, and her face on the bed. Was she sleeping?
‘Bluebell?’
Bluebell looked up, blinking. Yes, she had been dozing. But she looked less tired than the day before.
‘Not now, Rose,’ Bluebell said.
‘Yes, now. Now. Yldra isn’t here. You’ve had a proper night’s sleep. Now. It’s urgent. It’s a disaster.’
Bluebell’s face softened. She reached out to touch the angry line on Rose’s forehead. ‘It’s healed then.’
‘Yes, thanks to my sisters.’
Bluebell nodded. ‘Go on, what do you need to say to me?’
Rose held her breath, couldn’t speak for a moment. Until Bluebell knew and decided what she would do, hope was still alive that Rose would get Rowan back. Slowly, carefully, she said, ‘Wengest has discovered that I have not been faithful.’
Bluebell sat upright. ‘He has?’
‘Ivy told him.’
‘How did Ivy know?’
‘She ... she saw us. Before we left to head north. But Wengest doesn’t know it was Heath. And he still thinks Rowan is his.’
Bluebell’s mouth tightened. ‘Do you see what you have done?’
But Rose wasn’t in the mood for listening to lectures. The next part came out in a rush. ‘He’s taken Rowan away and he won’t tell me where she is. He can’t do that. He can’t separate a mother and her child. I don’t kn
ow if she is well, I don’t know if she misses me. It’s not fair. And he says to tell you that peace will hold between Netelchester and Ælmesse only if I never see her again.’
Bluebell frowned. ‘So peace will hold?’
Rose’s heart thudded. Already, she knew how this discussion would end. ‘He says so. Yes.’
‘Then you can’t see Rowan.’
‘But she’s my baby,’ Rose sobbed.
Bluebell sighed, spread her hands apart. ‘I am sympathetic. Of course. But I have to balance the desires of your heart against the lives that will be lost if we go to war with Netelchester again.’
‘It’s not a desire of my heart. It’s a need.’
‘Same outcome.’
‘I’ll die! I’ll die if I can’t see her! Wengest is terrified of you. He’s terrified of Ælmesse. You could make him do whatever you want.’
‘But Rowan will be alive and well. Wengest adores her. She has a nurse that she knows and loves.’
‘She’ll miss me.’
‘She’ll ...’ Bluebell stopped herself.
‘Go on, say it,’ Rose said, anger clouding her vision. ‘She’ll forget me. That’s what you were going to say.’
‘No, I was going to say she’ll adapt,’ Bluebell said. ‘She’s very young.’
Rose’s body felt light and grainy, as though she were becoming as transparent as she would be in Rowan’s mind. A thing half-remembered. The pain in her heart was more intense than it ever had been, and she thought it might kill her. Bluebell wanted her to let Rowan go.
‘Maybe, in a few years, Wengest will have cooled down,’ Bluebell said. ‘You’re right. He is afraid of us, and when the edge has worn off his anger we can ask him again about you seeing your daughter.’
‘Years? Years? Do you realise what you’re saying to me?’ Her voice sounded hysterical, and it frightened her. She had lost control of everything. The threads of meaning were unravelling and slipping from her fingers.