We Are Blood and Thunder

by Kesia Lupo

  She scowled, swept her cane and dispatched another corpse – took another step towards the top. But they had surrounded her now, and they were closing in.

  ‘Get away from me!’ she screamed. She had created the spell. She was the necromancer. They should submit to her command. ‘I command you to stop!’

  But they did not. She drew on the last of her reserves as bony hands closed around both arms – the cold, redundant metal and the warm flesh. She screamed again. Her cane flashed a brilliant, intense purple.

  For a moment, the hands disappeared.

  And she fell on to the stairs, her metal arm clanging on the stone. She tried to crawl, but she had used up every last scrap of her energy. Figures blocked out the light ahead. There was nothing left of her, nothing but the beat of her heart, demanding: live, live, live.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Spinning the Cloud

  Lena bowed over Emris’s corpse, her forehead resting against his forehead. She was crying. The light had started to flicker out, the chamber lit by a dying torch and a single oil lamp discarded on the ground. Winton’s lamp. Winton, who lay prone at Emris’s side. Lena sat up, sobbing, and felt Winton’s wrist. To her surprise, it was warm, a pulse thrumming, despite the blood running down his face.

  But what did it matter? The dead were closing in on them, long shadows following in their wake. If Winton wasn’t dead now, he would be soon enough.

  ‘Please … please come back, Emris, please,’ she whispered over and over, blindly reaching for the magic in her heart, trying to understand what it required. But she was fumbling, and although bright electric sparks danced between her hands, nothing happened.

  Something touched her hair, an Ancestor shuffling right up close. The stench of death filled her mouth, and panic flooded her.

  ‘Stop!’ she shouted. ‘Stop, stop, stop!’

  And … weirdly … they stopped. The Ancestors surrounded her like an audience waiting for a show to start – the one next to her was reaching down, empty eye sockets fixed on her face. She shut her eyes. She felt suddenly how they were tethered to her, tethered to the spell – how a hundred thousand threads pulled them like a company of marionettes. Her eyes flicked open. The butterfly fluttered around her head excitedly, as if it understood and agreed.

  ‘Step back from me,’ she commanded, shutting her eyes again and sending the thought along the strings.

  And the Ancestors shuffled a few steps backwards.

  She who spins the cloud weaves the storm.

  Threads, spinning, weaving. In all her years as a cryptling, helping to cut open and stitch Ancestors back together, she knew a little about that. She rested her hand over Emris’s body, trying to find the threads of him … and there … there they were. Unlike the threads of the Ancestors – grey and dusty and weak as spiderwebs – his felt strong, a shining string of silver wisping away into the ceiling … She tugged, trying to catch it in a needle of her own power, but she couldn’t keep hold of it. The effort of sensing it, of controlling it, was like trying to stitch an eyelid while wearing mittens.

  Her eyes fell upon the mask Constance had discarded on the floor and she had a stroke of inspiration. Constance had clearly found it helpful – perhaps she would too. She stood up and moved cautiously through the standing Ancestors to pick it up. When she slipped it on, the room changed abruptly. She could see magic. The spiderweb threads connecting the Ancestors to the storm spell in her heart shimmered softly. The remnants of the spell Constance had used to bind her to the central plinth glowed a soft, fading purple. And the ghost of Emris’s magic was here too – grey smears like moonlight scattered across the floor where she had forced the cloud from his grasp.

  She choked back a sob at the sight of him – because there was no magic in his body now that he was dead.

  Focus.

  She knelt at his side once more and started to weave the thread of his life back into his body. Sparks flew from her fingers as she held them over his chest, tugging the thread down, down, down …

  He returned to himself with a gasp so loud it was almost a scream. He opened his eyes.

  ‘Constance?’ Fear was written over his face.

  She pulled off the mask, and his expression changed, caught somewhere between love and regret.

  ‘What have you done?’ he whispered.

  And she kissed him on the lips to shut him up. She didn’t want to hear what he had to say.

  EPILOGUE

  One week later

  Lena stood on the summit of the east tower, gazing out at the winter horizon. The rising moon was an eerie pinkish-red in the light of the dying sun. In the sky’s furthest deepness, stars sputtered to life like tiny candles. She shut her eyes. Opened them again. Somehow the new world remained – no howling hounds, no Justice, no thunder except for the beat in her own heart, no cloud but her own breath in the freezing air.

  Emris stood at her side, his huntsman’s cloak shifting in the icy breeze. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘That must be the last of them – at least for today.’

  She turned her eyes to the courtyard far below, where Emris pointed. The cryptlings were arriving through the castle’s gates, carrying bulky packs on their shoulders, home from their day’s work at the city walls. Lena noticed a few cowls pushed back, timid faces turned towards the sunset – but far more of the cryptlings were hooded, heads bowed, hiding. She tried not to feel impatient. Duke Winton had lifted many of the restrictions on cryptlings, but the people themselves would take time to change.

  One memory returned to her again and again – a memory like a joyful song she couldn’t wipe from her mind. She thought of it now: the moment she, Emris and Winton had stepped out from the crypts into a moonlight so bright it had cast shadows, to find the people calm and wondering, and the world washed new in silver. She held on to that feeling, blinked, and returned her attention to the present.

  One by one, the cryptlings lowered their burdens on to the ground while someone opened the trapdoors to the warren of tunnels beneath the castle. The bundles of cloth contained the skeletons of those executed under the Justice’s tyranny, finally finding a home in the sacred crypts. The evening was so quiet, she swore she could hear the bones rattle as they were set down on the cobblestones. Vigo was there somewhere. If she shut her eyes, she could almost sense him standing at her side, watching along with her. How would he feel about the person she had become?

  He would be proud. He always told me I was strong. He always knew that I was important. Now I know it too.

  ‘So many dead, Emris,’ she said quietly, raising her hand to touch her forehead, lips and heart as the remains were borne down into the shadows.

  A moment’s silence. She didn’t realise he’d been watching her until he said, ‘What does that mean? That gesture?’

  She wondered for a moment what he was talking about – then smiled. She’d done it subconsciously; perhaps it was because she’d been thinking of Vigo. ‘It’s like a promise. It says to the Ancestors: You will be alive in our memories’ – she touched her head – ‘in our prayers’ – she touched her lips – ‘and in our hearts.’ She rested her fingers lightly against her chest. Then she shook her head, letting her hand drop to her side. ‘I suppose I’ll have to get out of the habit one day.’

  She turned towards him to share a smile, only to find a flash of discomfort passing across his face. He clutched at the crenellations with one hand, raised the other to his chest. She stepped closer and held his hand tightly. Ever since she’d brought him back, he’d suffered from small fits of weakness and pain.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she said as the attack passed, his features relaxing.

  ‘I’m fine. But I’ll be glad to leave this place. After all this death, I feel like I need to learn to live again.’

  He was right. The last week had been dedicated to the dead: the bones of innocents executed under the Justice’s orders, the Ancestors who had moved, restless, from their graves – and of course the newly dead: the hun
dreds who had died in the battle for the castle, noblemen and commoners, servants and guards of every livery. The bodies had been scattered in all corners of the castle. Even Constance’s apartments in the south tower had not been spared. A man in a physician’s brown coat, one of his hands covered by the twin of the Justice’s gauntlet device, had been found dead at the foot of a bed. His body had lain twisted on the floor, blood pooling under his nose and strange burn marks streaking down his face. Lena had known instinctively that the lightning with which she had fought and defeated the Justice had been the death of him too. Another man, a nobleman dressed in silks, had been found stone cold on the bed, a victim of internal injuries.

  ‘Do you think you will get better?’ Lena asked.

  He squeezed her hand tenderly. ‘It’s thanks to you that I am alive,’ he said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. ‘What’s a little pain every now and then!’

  The sun was sinking further, and the deeper chill of the night was curling around them. She turned towards the west tower, one final body laid out on its summit, surrounded by sputtering torches sending bright sparks into the evening.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ Emris asked, noticing where she was looking.

  ‘I’m sure.’

  In the evening light, from the distance of the east tower, Constance looked serene – a sleeping woman with long fair hair spilling over the wooden platform on which she had been raised, hands folded on her stomach. But Lena had found her body at the top of the steps to the great hall, covered in old corpses and ravaged by cuts, bruises and vicious gashes – as if the Ancestors really had tried to wreak their revenge on the woman who had broken their eternal sleep. Lena had cleaned Constance herself, dabbing her wounds, helping the other cryptlings dress the Lady Protector in fresh silks from her chest. We don’t judge the dead, Vigo had always told her. We simply serve them.

  ‘I still don’t understand. Constance tried to kill you for the spell,’ Emris said, frowning, his voice tight with the hurt and anger that always touched his voice now when he spoke of the woman he had once loved. ‘And then she abandoned us both to the dead when she might have helped you bring me back. Why do you pay her body so much respect? Why do you feel you owe her anything?’

  Lena didn’t know at first. She tried to focus, grasping for the right words. ‘It’s like … it’s like we’re sisters, of a sort. I’m bound to her, whether I like it or not. Without her, I would not be me. It doesn’t matter what she did. Whom she loved. Whom she betrayed.’ She tilted her face towards his, reached up and traced his three scars with the tips of her fingers. His eyes softened. ‘There is still so much I don’t know about you,’ she said. ‘And now I’ll have time to find out. I just need to do this one thing. To finish her story – and to start mine.’

  He kissed her gently. ‘All right. I’ll see you at the feast.’ He glanced at the sky. ‘You don’t have long before people start to gather.’

  As Emris descended, Lena gazed down at the empty courtyard, the windows lit up in the towers and the wings, the doors of the great hall flung open and yellow light spilling from inside. Duke Winton had ordered an enormous funeral feast – in remembrance and celebration of the lives lost during the dark years. The storm years. The whole castle was holding its breath, waiting to sigh. Waiting to breathe again.

  Night had nearly fallen by the time she saw Emris cross the courtyard and disappear into a doorway, heading for his room, the sun a thin red line on the horizon. Lena gazed across the distance to the body of her enemy, the body of her sister.

  I’ll give you what you always wanted.

  Lena raised her arms and tugged upon the magic inside her heart. The storm responded like a horse left too long in the stables, straining to race across the sky – bolting from her in a motion which pushed her backwards against the wall. The rush of it was heady, intoxicating – wonderful. Black clouds rushed from her mouth, spun from her fingers. She felt the cold burn of lightning beneath her lungs, the wild rumble in her blood, the joyous freedom of commanding a power so great it could swallow mountains. The clouds poured into the clear evening sky over Constance’s body, weaving around her, spinning tight and enveloping the body in a coiled embrace. The storm cloud was like a hive, a buzzing, contained thing encasing the top of the tower.

  Thunder crashed, lightning flickered as the storm intensified, a jet of ice-blue electricity streaking down on to the dry wood of the funeral pyre. A spark took light. Great winds toppled the flaming torches, feeding the fire. Lena breathed deeply and smelt smoke. She felt the urge to fill the sky with clouds …

  Think of all we could achieve … all we could master …

  She shook her head sharply.

  Enough.

  As Lena drew the storm cloud back into herself, gasping, she caught a glimpse of Constance’s body encased in flames, as if in a tomb of light.

  The opposite of the dark tombs honeycombing the mountain.

  And then her hair caught fire, and her dress, and Lena could see no more of Constance in the blinding brightness.

  The storm had returned to Lena’s heart. The sky was clear and calm again, the stars brightening. The glow of the funeral pyre felt suddenly peaceful, like a beacon in the night, promising haven.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Years ago, the beginning of a story popped into my mind: it was an image of a girl who was marked, running for her life through swirling clouds … But as yet, I didn’t know why. There are so many people who have helped me find out in their own ways.

  To Mum and Dad, thank you endlessly for all your love and support over the years – you’re the best parents anyone could hope for. And Jeff, thank you for weathering all the storms of married life with a writer, for cooking my dinners and always knowing how to make me smile.

  To Natasha Pulley, my very own bestselling author on call and official Font of Writing Knowledge. I would be lost without you! And to Catherine and Tim, my earliest readers – thank you. You’re crazy and wonderful and I love you for it.

  Thank you, too, to everyone in my writing group. You are invaluable sources of advice, inspiration, fun and Prosecco. Jess Rigby, Jess Rule, Katherine, Maddy, Natasha – you’re all so talented. I’m truly lucky to benefit from your intuition and encouragement!

  I am fortunate to have a day job that I love as much as writing. The Chicken House team have been so supportive, but a big shout-out to Laura for reading an entire early version of the manuscript. Thank you, Rachel L. and Barry, you’re the best of bosses. Esther, Jazz, Lucy and Sarah: you’ve all shared every step of the journey with me – this book truly feels like a team effort!

  An extra special thank you to the two people who together made this dream a reality: my agent, Veronique Baxter, and my editor, Zöe Griffiths. Veronique, I can’t thank you enough for your persistence, patience and general loveliness – you found my story a perfect home. Zöe – with your ever-cheerful and insightful guidance I’ve written a story I am truly proud of and had the chance to tell it to the world.

  There are so many people that contribute to creating a book and making it a success, and I’d like to thank everyone who’s been involved at Bloomsbury. To my copy-editor, Helen, and my proofreader, Anna, I’m so grateful for your eagle-eyed attention to detail. And, Fliss, you managed the process so smoothly – I really appreciate it. Bea, my publicist, thank you for introducing my story to the world – and, Jet, thank you for designing my gorgeous cover and picking the uber-talented Miranda Meeks to draw it. I don’t have space to mention everyone who worked on this book by name, but thank you all – I am honoured to have such an amazing team behind me!

  Last but far from least – thank you, Reader, and I hope we cross paths in the forest again …

  Q&A WITH THE AUTHOR

  1.We Are Blood and Thunder is your first novel. Did you always know you wanted to write? How did you begin?

  I’ve always loved reading, and during my childhood I devoured virtually every novel in my path. But most of al
l I LOVED fantasy. When I was around ten years old, I read the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy twice through in one summer holiday! I think reading is the very best way to start writing. During my early teens I started to play around with poems and short stories – they felt manageable, finishable. They were also very, very bad … but I enjoyed the process! I think I realised soon afterwards that it was the stories I longed to write the most – long and complex ones, set in worlds different from ours, like the things I loved to read. I was around fifteen when I started my very first fantasy novel (which remains unfinished, somewhere on an old laptop hard drive). I wrote two more novels before the first draft of We Are Blood and Thunder.

  2.What brought you to writing fantasy? How did such a fascinating world come alive to you?

  I think fantasy is a really special genre – and I know I’m biased! As a reader, I find that a fantasy world – however dark in itself – is the ultimate escape from our world and its darknesses. When I started creating Valorian, it was an escape for me too. I loved sitting on the tube during my commute and thinking through all the rules, laws and systems that powered this strange continent of my creation. I drew maps and diagrams and list after list. I was completely obsessed with it – when I felt stressed out or tired, it was the place I would go in my head. But while providing a place to escape, fantasy also holds up a mirror to our world and shows it in a different way. That’s inevitable, because as a writer you are influenced by all the real things around you … and I hope, like most fantasies, We Are Blood and Thunder has something to say about our world too.

  3.How important do you think it is to have strong female leads in fantasy books?

  It wasn’t too long ago that female characters (outside of a supporting cast) were really hard to find in fantasy. The Lord of the Rings is one of my favourite series, but even as a ten-year-old I distinctly remember thinking ‘where are all the girls’? When you don’t see yourself in the books you’re reading, starring in fictional worlds, it’s hard to feel empowered in the real world – and that’s why it’s important not just to represent powerful female characters, but also to reflect the diversity we see in the world as a whole. Nowadays I find it extremely heartening to see so many female fantasy leads, particularly in YA – things are definitely moving in the right direction!