Daughters Of The Storm

by Kim Wilkins

  Bluebell pulled herself to her feet, towering over Rose and grasping her upper arms. ‘I told you, Rose. It gives me no joy to say that, but I told you over and over again that no good would come of you fucking that man. If you had only listened to me, Ivy wouldn’t have seen you, and wouldn’t have had something to say to Wengest. Do you understand this? You did this to yourself. You couldn’t control yourself. You put Rowan at risk of losing you.’

  Rose gasped. Half of her wanted to scream at Bluebell. How did she dare to say such cruel things? If Rose’s love for Heath was so destructive, then why did it feel so good and pure? But the other half of her realised with horror Bluebell was right. She had put herself first, she always put herself first. She had expected Bluebell would go to war with Wengest, never thinking deeply about the people who would die. Die and never live again, because she was in love with her husband’s nephew.

  Bluebell released her. ‘I’m sorry that you are sad, Rose. But you have thought of nobody but yourself. I’m not going to rescue you now.’

  Rose doubled over, face in her hands. The nightmare too real to comprehend.

  ‘Accept your lot and make the best of it,’ Bluebell said, opening the door for her to leave. ‘And for fuck’s sake, stay away from Heath. Wengest will kill him if he finds out.’ She gently pushed Rose out of the bedroom. ‘Don’t let your selfish desire doom him as well.’

  Then the door closed and Rose stood on the other side in the empty house, her world in pieces at her feet.

  Bluebell blamed herself.

  She should never have let Heath come with them. Yes, it would have meant letting the truth about her father’s illness spread a little wider, but she should have realised the idiots couldn’t keep their hands off each other. No doubt they would say to each other that love was a mighty force, mightier than armies. But love wasn’t mighty: love was just selfish. And now Bluebell’s plans for Rowan were scattered to the wind.

  She turned over on her other side. Sleep wasn’t coming easily tonight. Rose lay next to her, finally asleep after sniffling and crying quietly for hours. Willow was on the other side of the hearthpit. Yldra had simply lain down next to the king to sleep. Heath was in his usual corner, keeping a respectful distance from them.

  Ha! A respectful distance might have helped.

  It was hard for Bluebell to be furious with Rose, whom she loved, and much easier for her to be furious with Heath. Certainly he was a good soldier, and had fought by her side from time to time. But she had asked him to do only one thing, and he hadn’t managed it. The most important thing. He had defied her absolutely. It might have been for the best if Heath was named as Rose’s lover, then he would be Wengest’s problem.

  But no. It remained important that Wengest believed Rowan was his. It was the only thing protecting the child. One glimmer of auburn in her hair and Wengest would realise the truth.

  Bluebell sat up and glanced across at his sleeping form. No doubt they’d want to be together now Wengest had put Rose aside. Then there would be more bastard babies to deal with. She kicked off her blanket and crossed the room to stand over him. Nudged him with her toe. Firmly.

  He startled awake, blinking back sleep. Looked at her curiously.

  ‘Get up,’ she hissed.

  Heath climbed to his feet. Bluebell gestured he should follow, and she led him outside into the dew-drenched night.

  She took him through the front garden and out under the carved wooden arch, her bare feet growing damp. Then she leaned back on a pillar and he stood in front of her, wordless. He knew what was coming.

  ‘I specifically asked you not to —’

  ‘I know!’ he said, holding up both hands.

  ‘Then why did you?’

  ‘Because Rose specifically asked me otherwise.’

  She studied him in the gloom. His face gave nothing away about what he was thinking, but she knew he was afraid of her. ‘And why should I not put you to the sword, just as Wengest would if he knew?’

  He took a deep shaking breath. ‘Because I have been a loyal and hardworking soldier.’

  ‘That’s true. Mostly. A loyal soldier might have kept his cock in his trousers when told to.’

  ‘Have you never loved, Bluebell?’

  She smiled grimly. ‘You sound like Rose. Yes, I have loved. I love Rose. I love all my sisters. My father, of course. I have friends whom I love dearly. I have even desired. Don’t look so shocked. But my love and my desire have always been subject to my duty. I have great power, great wealth, great fame. These things are not just granted to me, an accident of my birth that I sit around and enjoy without responsibility, as Wengest does. I earn them. I live for my kingdom and I would die for it. Every breath I draw, I draw for my king, for Ælmesse, for the greater good of Thyrsland. If I didn’t, I’d be crippled by my guilt. And I am constantly amazed that nobody else in my family feels that way.’

  He dropped his head. Was he ashamed? He ought to be.

  ‘I would give up my life, Heath, and have my body burned to ashes that travel forever on the cold wind. You and Rose, you wouldn’t even give up each other.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You have to go.’

  ‘Of course. Back to Folcenham? Or would you have me back in Blicstowe?’

  ‘Neither. You have to go into exile.’

  His head snapped up.

  ‘You are no longer my soldier, and under threat of death you are not to return to my kingdom or your uncle’s kingdom.’

  ‘Bluebell —’

  She held up her hand to stop him. ‘No excuses. No pleading. Rose and Rowan’s safety are at stake now. You need to be far, far away from them both, and far away from Wengest lest he has a moment of acumen and realises Rowan isn’t his. This dangerous game is over. You will leave now and you will not look back.’

  He set his chin, and looked like nothing so much as a boy pretending to be brave to impress his father. An owl hooted in the trees, a lonely sound. ‘I will go,’ he said, ‘but not because you threaten me. I’ll go because I love Rose and I would do anything to keep her and our daughter safe.’

  ‘Whatever you want to believe about yourself is fine with me,’ Bluebell grumbled. ‘Go find yourself a wife. Have babies. Have a life. Rose is never going to be yours.’

  She could see her last remark had hurt him, as intended. He seemed about to say something, then thought better of it. ‘Can I go back inside to get my things?’

  ‘And gaze longingly at Rose one last time? No.’

  He nodded, resigned.

  ‘Take any horse you want, apart from Isern. You’ll survive.’

  ‘You don’t owe me a horse. You owe me nothing. I’ll walk.’ He started towards the gate, then turned and said, ‘Bluebell?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Will you tell Rose why I’ve gone?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably.’

  ‘I couldn’t stand her to think I didn’t care for her.’

  Bluebell frowned. ‘Rose is not yours to worry about any more. I can take care of my sister; better than you ever could. You led her into danger and misery.’

  ‘I cared only for her happiness.’

  ‘Well, perhaps spend the next few lonely years thinking really hard about that,’ Bluebell said dismissively, ‘because I’ve never seen her look so unhappy.’

  She watched him go to the stable, then she crept back inside, careful not to wake anyone. Rose was still asleep, oblivious. Bluebell had a sharp pang of sympathy for her sister. No doubt the loss of Heath would hurt her, but she would be better off. Perhaps Bluebell could see if the elders in Thriddastowe would take Rose in Ash’s place at the study halls. Certainly, Rose needed something to do with her time.

  Bluebell crouched next to Rose a moment and stroked her hair gently. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. Then she lay down, and finally slept.

  Twenty-nine

  Ash sat by the hearthpit, scrubbing a dress in a tub full of water and soap. She’d been wearing
it yesterday afternoon, down by the stream, practising her elemental magic. A rock had shifted under her feet and pitched her to the ground. She cut her hand on a sharp stone, and her dress had got soiled with blood and mud. As she scrubbed it, she thought about the three dresses she had brought with her from Thriddastowe, and how they would be her only dresses now for a long time to come. She would no longer be visiting Blicstowe for festivals, getting new clothes from the king’s dressmaker. She had a rust-coloured dress, a plain blue dress, another blue dress with gold piping, and her green cloak. That was it. As for shoes, she would have to keep repairing the ones she owned. Thinking about these things made her eyes feel heavy with sadness. Her old life disappearing behind her, into the hall of memory. A new, strange life with Unweder, with her uncanny power, and with only one pair of shoes.

  ‘You take a long time to wash clothes,’ Unweder observed. He had been agitated this morning, pacing, watching her work, organising and reorganising the jars on his bench.

  ‘Is there something wrong?’ she asked him, for the third time that morning.

  ‘No. I said no before, and I meant it.’

  His body made lies of his words. His lithe arms were drawn close to his ribs, his shoulders hunched.

  ‘It’s not raining.’ Though the dark chill in the air promised something different.

  ‘I don’t care about rain. I don’t want to go out today.’ He paced some more.

  She wrung out her dress and stood. ‘I’m going outside to hang this on a tree. I’ll be back to empty the tub.’

  She made it halfway out the door when Unweder grasped her wrist. ‘Don’t come back for a little while.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I need ... I need the house to myself today.’

  ‘I’m sorry. You only had to say.’ What was she going to do, out of the house all day? Walk in the woods, perhaps. Plot the whereabouts of the different elemental types. ‘I’ll come back for the tub.’

  ‘No, no, never mind. I’ll do that. You go.’

  She was curious, but everything Unweder did made her curious. She had to tell herself to be grateful that she had somewhere to stay and someone to guide her as she learned. He would reveal himself to her eventually, she hoped.

  He closed the door behind her and she walked up the front path to an elm tree with a low branch. She spread her dress on it evenly, glancing at the sky. No sunshine and no wind. She had a feeling she’d be drying it by the fire tonight. With a last glance back at the house, she headed into the woods.

  It was hard to tell without the sun, but Ash guessed it was mid-morning. The chorus of birdsong had died off a few hours ago, and now there were just one or two bird cries, deep and far away. She stepped lightly through the layers of leaf-fall, breathing the green smell of it, running her fingers over the smooth bark of the elm saplings. The clouds parted a little, letting in weak sunlight. She sat on a log and closed her eyes, sending her mind out searching for elementals.

  The woods swarmed with them, but she tried to keep her mind quiet so they wouldn’t notice her, so she could observe them gently. She sensed them in the trees, in the rocks, in the earth, in the cool damp air. For an hour she sat there, feeling them with her thoughts, keeping herself veiled. The Earth Mother’s minions, the spark of the divine in every natural thing. Then she opened her eyes. The sun had gone behind cloud cover again, and a distant rumble told her a storm might be on its way.

  She walked a little further in, wandering in no particular direction. She had a strong inner compass and knew she’d find her way home. Every quarter mile or so she would stop and sit, observing the elemental activity around her for a long time, learning its contours. More elementals in areas of the woods where there were lots of saplings and new growth; fewer elementals where there were dead logs and leaf-fall choking the grass. By midafternoon, when her stomach was growling for more than the currants that she’d picked off their bush, she became aware of a dead zone in the woods. At first it was simply a faint ringing in the part of her mind listening to elementals. But as she drew closer, the ringing gave way to a numbness. It made Ash think about the times she had slept on her arm, and how poking it afterwards gave her a strange feeling of unfamiliarity. This numbness was there in the elemental field, yet ought not be there. As though everything in the area had been put to sleep unnaturally. Curious, she followed her instincts towards it, forgetting about her inner compass, forgetting about the storm gathering beyond the woods. One foot in front of the other, listening with her mind.

  The wind picked up, whipping at the strands of hair that had escaped her plait. The thunder rumbled closer. Rain started to spit.

  And Ash saw where she was. She had found the edge of the dead zone, and it was about a dozen yards from Unweder’s house. She had come around in a circle.

  How had she never noticed before? There were no elementals around Unweder’s house. Or if they were here, they were silent. Silenced. She looked at the sky. The clouds were bruised with holding in the deluge that was about to start. She’d been gone hours: surely Unweder wouldn’t mind if she came back a little early. She could always ask, in any case.

  So as the freezing rain started to pour, she ran around the side of the house and to the front door. Her dress was lying on the grass, strewn with leaves. She would have to get it later. She cracked open the door and said softly, ‘Unweder? I’m sorry, but it’s raining.’

  She moved inside the dim house, closing the door behind her. The hearth was stoked, but Unweder was nowhere in sight.

  ‘Unweder?’ she said again.

  No answer. A scurrying noise above her had her looking up sharply. The flick of a rat’s tail disappearing over the beam.

  Unweder was definitely not here. She sat by the fire and pulled off her shoes, propping them up to dry. Then she unbraided her hair and brushed it by the fire, drying off, warming up. Wondering where Unweder was. Wondering why no elementals lived near him. Wondering ...

  The chest. The one she wasn’t supposed to touch. The padlock was on the floor; the latch was open.

  Promise me you won’t touch that.

  She looked around her, licking her lips.

  Promise me you won’t touch that.

  If she just flipped up the lid, had a quick look ...

  Promise me you won’t touch that.

  But she had never promised, had she? She hadn’t said the actual words, ‘I promise I will never look in the chest.’ And Unweder wasn’t around. And if she was going to stay with him, she needed some answers about what he did. Didn’t she?

  Ash went to the door, looked out. Rain bucketed down. Unweder wasn’t dashing towards the house to escape it. He’d probably found a place to shelter in the woods.

  The chest waited. Her hand on the rim didn’t even look like her own: it looked like the hand of a bolder, less obedient woman.

  She opened the lid. It creaked softly. She glanced around again, then knelt in front of the chest and peered inside.

  Her first instinct was to recoil, because the chest was full of dead animals. But there was no smell of decay, no lines of ants or maggots. The smell was almost pleasant: the warm fur of a favourite pet, slightly damp. She gingerly reached in and pulled out the body of a crow. Its head lolled to one side. Its fine skeleton was light between her fingers, its feathers gleaming and black. The residue of warmth in its body suggested it had just been killed, but she didn’t see how. Nor did she see a mark on it that would indicate how it had been killed. She placed it carefully to one side, then looked again at the tangle of slack paws and soft faces. A rat lay on top, and she pulled it out to look at it. Again, it was warm. Ash glanced up at the roof beam, where she had seen the live rat earlier. Its little face peered over the beam, whiskers twitching, looking at her.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said to it, ‘I hope this wasn’t a friend.’

  She put her hand into the chest with her palm flat. The animals in it were definitely dead, but felt as warm as though they were living. As though the
y were about to draw breath again any second and shudder into life. Badgers and rabbits, swallows and skylarks. What were they for? Did they have something to do with the dead zone around Unweder’s house? Ash replaced the crow and the rat as she had found them and closed the lid, leaving the latch exactly as it had been. She sat back down beside the hearth to listen to the storm clatter overhead, but then began to grow guilty and anxious. If Unweder came back and found her here alone, after specifically telling her to leave for the day ... would he know, somehow, that she had been poking around in his things?

  She climbed to her feet and went to the door again. Rain fell heavily. She wanted to take her moleskin from behind the door, but Unweder had seen her leave without it. So she went out into the soaking rain, so that she could come back later and pretend she had never done anything wrong.

  Three hours later, she decided it was finally safe to come back. The storm had long since cleared, and she’d found a place to sit in weak sunshine to dry off a little. But she was cold and her skin was puckered with wet when she came home.

  Unweder sat on a stool by his bench, pouring a hot mixture into his little jars. ‘Ah, you’re back,’ he said.

  ‘I’m soaked,’ she replied.

  ‘The fire is warm. Take your wet dress off.’

  She did as he said, stripping down to her linen shift and hanging the dress over the back of a chair. She sat by the fire, stretching out her fingers. The warmth was welcome and comforting.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ he said.

  ‘Nothing but currants since breakfast.’

  ‘I’ll cut us some cheese and bread.’

  Ash glanced at the chest. The latch was down. The padlock was closed.

  He took his time cutting up the food, putting it on plates. Then he came to sit by her. They ate in silence a few moments. Ash felt her pulse thudding hard in her throat. She wanted to ask him about the numbness around his house, but was judging a way to say it that wouldn’t give away that she had been snooping.