Daughters Of The Storm

by Kim Wilkins

  Then he said, casually, ‘I know you went into my chest.’

  Ash’s head snapped up, her mouth opening to deny it. But she couldn’t deny it. It was true. So instead she said, ‘How do you know?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m not in the mood to tell you.’

  That’s when she realised he was angry at her. The pupil in his good eye was shrunk to a pinpoint.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

  He waved away her apologies. ‘It’s good to know I can’t trust you. I won’t be polite about locking things from now on.’

  Ash squirmed with the shame. She wished for nothing less than to disappear. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said again, quieter. But he didn’t respond.

  The hearth wasn’t yet cold when an angel’s shout woke Willow. The figures of her sisters lay around her. Bluebell snored softly. Rose’s hip was a silhouetted hillock on the other side of the fire.

  What is it, my angels?

  But they gave her no words, just shouts and yelps and growling sentences of ominous babble. She closed her eyes, chasing sleep, but then she felt that tickling again, down low inside her. She hadn’t done what they said. She hadn’t taken Wylm inside her and made the child that would one day rule Thyrsland. Was it any wonder they would torment her sleep?

  She had tried, boldly holding him and stroking his back.

  Don’t be a baby, Willow. She had seen Ivy do it. Not once had she stroked William Dartwood’s back to get him interested. She flipped over, screwing her eyes tightly shut. A frightened virgin. That’s what she was.

  Maava, one god, only god ... What was it she needed so desperately to ask him? She was afraid even to put the thought into words, lest the cruel laughter start again. But there was only silence, and she ventured again to reach for her lord in her mind. I am falling in love with Wylm, she said in her mind. If this is wrong in any way, give me a sign.

  She tensed against the sign coming. Two owls hooting in the dark perhaps, or a shooting star overhead. But no sign came. She waited, and still it didn’t come.

  Be bold. Be bold for Maava. Quietly, she turned over, folded back her blanket. Climbed to her feet and was out the door in silent seconds.

  She found her way to him in the dark. He and Eni were both sleeping. Their fire was still burning, and she could see Eni in the dark, on his back, his face in repose giving no sign that he was blind or simple. Just a beautiful, skinny boy.

  Willow knelt next to Wylm, her hands in her lap. She gazed down at his face by firelight. By Maava’s light, he was gorgeous. She focussed her mind as she had done that other time. Wake up.

  His brow furrowed in his sleep, then his eyes fluttered. Brief fear chased by recognition.

  ‘Willow?’ he said, in a croaking voice.

  She put her finger to her lips, remembering the performance she had seen Ivy give. She took his hand and placed it on her breast. Only she didn’t have breasts like Ivy’s, and the movement seemed awkward.

  Wylm allowed her to rest his hand there. Then she felt his fingers flex as he closed his hand over the curve. His eyes seemed very dark. In one quick movement, he rose on his elbow and pulled her down next to him, and his arm was locked around her waist. Her back was pressed up against his chest.

  And she realised a swelling chorus of voices was bearing down on her. The heat of his body was the only thing holding her together, because as the angel voices rushed through her, gushing up between her legs and through her stomach and then pouring out her eyes and ears, her body began to shake. Shake as though her joints might disconnect one from the other and her limbs might spin off into the dark and she might never find herself again and so she stayed in her body and burned, while Wylm’s hand moved up her leg and gathered her skirts and Wylm’s fingers gently stroked the underside curve of her buttock and Wylm’s fingers probed her gently and found her slick and wet and Wylm’s other hand grasped her breasts through her dress and Wylm’s lips were on her neck and Wylm’s body pressed against hers so she could feel the hard heat of his erection and the foreign yet welcome thrill of him as he entered her body and moved so that she rolled her eyes back and her head and the angels and the voices and the exploding white hot spangles of Maava’s love snagging on her flesh and in her throat and the slow darkness bleeding into the edges of everything ...

  ‘Willow?’

  Ears ringing.

  ‘Willow?’ It was Wylm. She was lying on her back, he was bent over her, gently rubbing her face.

  She opened her eyes.

  ‘You blacked out,’ he said. ‘You frightened me.’

  She beheld his beauty in the dark. He was half-undressed, his hair a mess, a glorious gorgeous mess. She reached for it, tangling her fingers. ‘I’m well again now,’ she said, realisation hard upon her. What had she done? But under the panic was a sense of certainty. Maava had led her here.

  Maava had led her here, Maava had put the feelings of longing into her body, and that meant she and Wylm were meant to be joined that way. It was Maava’s will and she would serve him by bearing and raising the child as a true soldier in Maava’s righteous army.

  ‘Willow, we really shouldn’t have —’

  ‘It’s all right, Wylm. We won’t do it again.’ She had his seed now. All was well.

  ‘I’m sorry. I ... haven’t felt the touch of a woman for ...’

  ‘You need not be sorry.’ She smiled at him. ‘But I must go back to my bed beside the hearth.’

  He nodded. She felt his eyes on her as she left. Willow pressed her hands over her stomach. Ah, she could feel it already. The spark of life, and she the mother of a trimartyr king.

  The road north-east out of Folcenham had been wide and well-travelled, but the eastern route to Sæcaster, where Guthmer had his hall, was narrow, rutted and crowded in by twisted trees. Ivy knew the trees were bars and she was entering a cage: she was a pretty bird for Guthmer to admire, feed, and show off to others, but one, nonetheless, who was always captive. The conviction persisted, even after the trees scattered and cleared, and she and her retinue — two of Wengest’s warriors, although not his best — came out across the wildflower moors that led to the sea. Sæcaster was an important military town, a shorefort built on a tall clifftop, guarding this easily accessible eastern port from raiders. Guthmer commanded a small army of his own and the town was heavily fortified. Even from this distance she could see the great, high walls obscuring from view everything that was inside: the town and hall and bower that would constitute her new life. Her breath sat flat in her lungs.

  They crossed the bridge that had been lowered over the deep ditch surrounding the town, then under the gate and into the crowded town square. Everywhere the smell of fish and seaweed. Ivy felt as though she were choking on it.

  The town seemed small and dark and damp, compared to the bright warmth of Blicstowe, or the wide lanes of Folcenham, or the summery freshness of Fengyrd. She tried to cheer herself by remembering that she would soon be a duchess, the most important woman in Sæcaster. All of these plain-faced people at the market would soon recognise her and have to smile at her, have to acknowledge and respect who she was. For now, she kept her head down as the horses sidestepped people and carried them around to Guthmer’s stables.

  She dismounted and stood at the entrance to the stable gazing out at her new home. Guthmer’s hall was small, and the bowerhouses around it few. How much luckier had Rose been in marriage, just because she was older. In fact, Bluebell, as the first daughter, ought to have been married to Wengest, but of course nobody thought that a good idea. And if they could change the rules for Rose, then why not for Ivy? She would have been a much better queen of Netelchester.

  A tall woman with long, grey-streaked hair was hurrying towards them, and Ivy presumed this was their welcome. She stood up straight and squared her shoulders.

  ‘Princess Ivy of Ælmesse,’ the woman said, and Ivy noticed she did not smile. ‘I am Elgith and Guthmer has sent me to show you to your bower.’

  ‘
Thank you,’ she said, glancing behind her at her retinue, who were conversing with the stable hands. Even though she didn’t know them or like them, she felt the twinge of leaving them behind. That was it: her last link back to her old life. She felt it stretch and snap as she walked from the stables to the bowerhouses with Elgith.

  ‘Where is Guthmer?’ Ivy asked.

  ‘In the hall. He’ll see you afterwards.’

  Ivy didn’t like the way Elgith spoke to her, as though Ivy were lower than her in the scheme of things. She didn’t like the way the woman didn’t smile, either, nor offer her any kind of welcome befitting a princess of the most powerful kingdom in Thyrsland. She would make it her first piece of business to tell Guthmer and have the woman put out of service.

  Then the door to the bower swung open, and Ivy gasped. Where the outside had been dark and spotted with lichen, the inside was clean and lime-washed, with smooth wooden floorboards and a thick red rug. The walls were hung with gleaming objects: gold-hilted swords, golden trays and cups, everything bejewelled in garnet and amber, richly coloured tapestries and elaborate silverwork candlesticks and lanterns. A large, oak dresser was swamped under several bolts of cloth — blue and gold-shot, and deep red and amber.

  ‘These are for you,’ Elgith said grudgingly. ‘I am a seamstress by trade, though now I am in Guthmer’s service. This afternoon I will measure you and make you some new dresses. Guthmer says you like dresses.’

  ‘I do. And shoes.’

  ‘I can take you to the shoemaker tomorrow.’

  Ivy had opened the door of the dresser, and found inside a box full of new things: a bone comb decorated with garnet, a bronze mirror, gold brooches joined with a long string of coloured glass beads, a necklace of jet and amber.

  ‘These things are all for you. A welcome present from Guthmer,’ Elgith said, flatly.

  Ivy was already unpinning her dress and repinning it with the new brooches. ‘They’re beautiful.’ Then she turned and saw the bed. Low and wide, covered with thick blankets and sheepskins. Her heart fell. This was where she would be sleeping with Guthmer. Giving up her body to Guthmer. She tried not to shudder. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. She glanced back at the bolts of cloth.

  ‘Come,’ Elgith said, ‘Guthmer is waiting for you.’

  They left the bower behind and crossed the small distance to the hall. The sea breeze was gusting hard now, setting the flags on the gables fluttering madly. Then they were inside again, in the dim firelit hall. Three servants were setting up the tables under Guthmer’s direction. When he heard the door close behind them, he looked up and smiled.

  Ivy tried. She really tried not to see the age in his face. But even in the low light, she saw the grey hair, the deep lines, the jowls. As he reached his hand for hers, she almost recoiled at the knotty veins in his hands. She’d thought him younger than her father, but perhaps she was wrong. Ivy took a deep breath and forced her fingers into his. He pulled them to his lips and kissed them. She applied a smile.

  ‘Guthmer,’ she said, with a short nod.

  ‘Ivy, I am so delighted to have you here. We are setting up a grand feast tonight, in honour of your arrival.’

  A little warmth bloomed under her ribs. ‘A grand feast? In my honour?’

  ‘Yes. You will bring sunshine and beauty and youth to Sæcaster.’ His eyes turned to Elgith, and something like regret clouded them. ‘You may go,’ he said.

  ‘As you wish, my lord,’ Elgith replied.

  ‘Yes, you may go,’ Ivy said, and waited for a ‘my lady’ from Elgith, but none was forthcoming. Instead, Elgith pulled away and let herself out of the hall.

  Ivy turned to Guthmer with a raised eyebrow, expecting him to notice Elgith’s slight. Echoes in the hall, wind battering the shutters, salty air sliding in through the cracks ... but no response from Guthmer. He merely looked at her quizzically.

  Finally, Ivy said, ‘She’s been very rude to me. You ought to put her out of service.’

  To her surprise, Guthmer waved away her comment. ‘You’ll want her around. She’s a fine seamstress and she will be a good friend to you.’

  ‘I hardly think —’

  ‘Ivy,’ he said, in a voice more forceful than she had expected. ‘Elgith has been a faithful companion to me for many years. I am not putting her out of service.’

  And Ivy knew that, of course, Elgith had been sharing his bed. No wonder she hated Ivy.

  ‘It matters little if Elgith didn’t welcome you warmly enough,’ he said, the tenderness returning to his voice. ‘Tonight the whole town will welcome you. May I hold you, my dear?’

  She hesitated, not sure for a moment what he meant. Then she said, ‘Of course,’ and opened her arms and closed her eyes. Best to get it over with.

  He gathered her against him. He smelled of stale sweat and seaweed. His fingers stroked her hair gently, then fell to her back and moved slowly around to the sides of her breasts. She could feel the stiffening of his cock through his tunic and her body tensed.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he murmured, ‘I know you are new to the world of love. I will be gentle with you.’

  A sob rose in her throat. The cage snapped shut.

  Thirty

  The four walls of the bedroom grew closer together every hour. Bluebell stood, paced, leaned, while Yldra sat very still, her hands flat on the blanket over Æthlric’s chest, wordless. It was the third day. Æthlric lay as though dead, just as he had before Bluebell had left to find Yldra. Outside, the sun shone brightly. Bees and butterflies dazzled in the air. Inside the dim room, the air was humid and stale.

  ‘Can you tell me anything?’ Bluebell asked.

  Yldra smiled serenely. ‘You should get out. You aren’t any use to me. In fact, your pacing is very distracting.’

  Bluebell planted her feet firmly on the floor, arms folded. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘That dog of yours will need exercising.’

  ‘I’ll send Willow out with her.’

  Yldra raised an eyebrow. ‘She’s an odd one.’

  ‘Willow? She’s just young.’

  ‘No, there’s something closed off about her. Something cold and hard beneath the warm skin.’

  Bluebell considered this description. It did seem to fit.

  Yldra resumed her silent work and Bluebell watched her for a while. She had expected instant results, one way or another, from Yldra. A declaration that Æthlric couldn’t be cured, or an immediate improvement. Not this endless ... nothing. Bluebell didn’t like the barb of doubt in her heart. Yldra had no love for Æthlric. What if she was making it worse? Leading them on? What if she had made the elf-shot in the first place?

  So she stayed close when she could, and continued to live in doubt and fear. Only when Æthlric’s eyes were open and seeing again would Bluebell release her breath.

  ‘You’re pacing again,’ Yldra said.

  Bluebell realised she was right. She leaned against the windowsill. The shutter was open a few inches, letting in a warm beam of sunlight on Bluebell’s back. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’ll tell you something,’ Yldra said. ‘This elf-shot was not administered by an undermagician.’

  Bluebell stood straight, ready to pace again, then checked herself. ‘No? How can you tell?’

  ‘It’s been rather poorly done. It’s undermagic, yes, but bought undermagic. Probably from a traveller or a pedlar. I’m almost certain that the person who did this to your father didn’t mean to.’

  Bluebell’s gut clenched. ‘What do you mean? This was an accident?’ The idea that there would be nobody to eat steel over this caused her physical pain. She needed to spill enough blood to wash the nightmare of the past long weeks away.

  ‘No, not really an accident. But I don’t think it was an actual assassination attempt. I think it was a little curse that has had unexpectedly large consequences.’

  ‘Who did it?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. But I will soon. As the magic leaves him, I will know
everything.’

  ‘So ... even if he dies ...’

  ‘You have revenge on your mind, I take it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Yldra said nothing.

  ‘You will tell me when you know?’

  ‘You are ruled by the Horse God. I expect I will tell you, and I expect we might both regret it. But you should consider your actions carefully.’

  Bluebell shrugged. She’d had weeks to consider her actions. Her father was the king; somebody had tried to kill him. There was nothing else to be done but avenge him. Blood could only be paid in blood.

  Yldra returned to her silent vigil. Bluebell turned to put her hands on the windowsill, leaning her head on the shutter. ‘Fuck,’ she sighed, closing her eyes. A rustle in the gorse bush below the window made her eyes fly open. She pushed the shutter aside and peered out, only to see Willow disappearing hurriedly around the corner of the house.

  ‘Hey!’ Bluebell called. When Willow didn’t return, she strode out of the room and flung open the front door of the farmhouse. ‘Willow!’ she called again, rounding the corner of the house and finding Willow sitting there, hands in her lap, her back against the wall of the house. Her lips were moving silently.

  Bluebell approached, and Willow looked up defiantly. Dandelion seeds flew past on the wind, one of them tangling itself in Willow’s hair.

  ‘What?’ Willow said.

  ‘Were you hanging around the window of Father’s bedroom?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to know what’s happening with him.’

  ‘You only have to ask. I keep nothing from anybody.’

  ‘I want to be near him while he’s sick.’

  ‘You’re welcome to come in while Yldra works.’

  ‘I don’t like Yldra. She’s ...’

  ‘She’s your aunt. She’s family.’

  Willow nodded. Bluebell looked down and realised Willow was holding a silver triangle on a chain between her fingers. Rage boiled up inside her.

  ‘What’s that?’ she demanded.