Fly with the Arrow: A Bluebeard Inspired Fantasy (Bluebeard's Secret Book 1)

by Sarah K. L. Wilson

  “Maybe that’s because they like staying alive,” I said wryly.

  “You can’t live at all with such a lack of imagination,” Grosbeak said. “That’s just surviving.”

  “I don’t think you’re in a position to scorn those who want to survive,” I said coldly.

  “Well, I might be dead,” Grosbeak said, “but I still am more alive than they’ll ever be.”

  And as horrifying as he sounded, I thought he might be right.

  “Let me tell you a tale,” Bluebeard whispered in my ear as he set a stitch. I was grateful for the whisper for it distracted me from the pull and tug of his needle. “It’s a tale of star-crossed loves. Two warring clans lived side by side.”

  As he spoke, I could almost see a vision of the tale he was telling me in my mind. Focusing on it eased the pain once again and I found myself sinking into the story.

  “They hated each other with the hate you must feel for those who keep accusing you of things you never did and then killing your relatives for it.”

  That was understandable. I hated the Wittenbrand and they’d only killed one man, who I had met that same day. He wasn’t even family.

  “Then one day, a Cavr’l was working on a stone wall between their lands when a Hy’lil set on him, and their fight was harsh and swift until the hood of the Hy’lil fell free and her bright red hair shook out long and brilliant. And the Cavr’l’s eyes widened and he let go of her cloak and she scampered away.”

  I felt his needle drawing through my skin and I tried not to whimper at the added pain.

  “But the next time their two clans tangled, when she rose from ambush with them to smash the heads of the Cavr’l, the head she was meant to smash had raven black hair and the eyes of the stranger who had let her go, so she did not slay him but pretended to miss her mark.”

  His gentle hands were drawing my skin together as he worked but despite his gentleness, I could not help the tears that swelled in my eyes and brimmed over onto his poetry.

  “The winter grew cold and harsh, and she went out hunting and found nothing. Her belly was empty, and her hands froze to the bone, and she dared not go home to look at her family and their empty eyes and empty bellies unless her hands were full. So, she collapsed against the wall and lay down in the snow to die there, and who should happen to be on the other side but the Cavr’l with the dark eyes? He had with him a brace of hares. One, he gave to her, and their eyes met, and an understanding was made.”

  I leaned into his words and the rich cedar and clove scent that surrounded him and I tried to think of nothing else.

  “And from that time on, when the two were out hunting, they would meet at the wall and share what they had, and also share warmth that turned to kisses, and kisses that turned to true love.”

  True love was something I would never have. So why did the mere thought of it melt my heart the way the Cavr’l’s had melted his enemy’s?

  “But in the spring, when the snow melted and the clans turned to warring again, their families discovered them one night, wrapped in his cloak, and perched on the wall and though the lovers tried to explain, they were ripped from each other’s arms and cursed.”

  I felt him tie a knot, tugging at my skin in a way that made me bite my own lip.

  “And from that day on, the Hy’lil was woman all day long and a red fox at night, and the Cavr’l was man all day long and a dark raven in the day, and never may they speak to one another or find solace in feverish kisses. Except for that one moment at the edge of dusk and dawn when they are both human for the blink of an eye, and sometimes when they meet there, the clouds turn pink for blushing at the passion of their kisses.”

  He tugged another knot and I bit back a cry.

  “Stay still now,” he said, stroking my head again, and then a smell of camphor filled the room – pungent and intense.

  I winced as he spread cold ointment over my wounds and then again as he pressed something soft against them.

  “You’ll need to sit up so I can wind the bandages around you.” He was so close as he whispered to me that his lips almost grazed my ear.

  I sat up with great care, my stitches smarting and the pain a dull constant like the ache in my heart from where my family and home used to be. Like the betrayal in my memory when I saw all those dead women encased in magic. Just like that.

  I managed to get myself upright, clutching the front of my nightdress to me. It was tattered and ruined. His hands reached around me and under the dress, grazing the bare skin at the bottom of my rib cage as he ran the bandage around me and wrapped it around my back and then again, and again. It was such an intimate gesture for two strangers. Two strangers who were married to each other. I found it hard to reconcile this Bluebeard with the gentle touch, who never once tried to put his hands in intimate places while he worked, with the one who had so easily lopped Grosbeak’s head off and stolen my first kiss from me.

  “I think something backless,” he said when he was finished with the bandage.

  I found him at the side of the desk, rummaging in the bottom drawer. He pulled out a dress made of some soft, rippling material that caught the light and somehow softened it to cling to every curve beneath. It was a soft grey-blue, and trimmed in fox fur at the cuffs and the edge of the high collar. Thick black embroidered scrollwork covered the bodice and fell to spider legs across the full skirt. The back of the bodice was open in a wide keyhole that would have shown most of my back had it not been wound with bandages.

  From beside it, Bluebeard pulled out a pair of soft leather boots with very sturdy soles and strong laces. They were so different from the dress that my eyes widened. These were practical boots for living and working in, and while they were finer than those I usually wore, they were just as sensible. I could run or gather firewood in these without worrying about turning an ankle.

  “There are underthings in the drawer,” Bluebeard said, looking over his shoulder casually at me. “One of my other wives had a whole batch ordered right before her last day.”

  Those words tore away all the softness and intimacy, shredding it like wet paper. I should never forget I was his sixteenth wife. I should never forget that none of this was real.

  He reached over to me and popped something into my open mouth. In surprise, I bit down and tasted mint.

  “I’ll leave you to dress,” he said, snatching a knit hat from the coat tree and jamming it over Grosbeak’s head right down to his nose. “No peeking.”

  He paused in the doorway and then turned back to me. “When dawn comes, I will need your answer, wife. Will you work with me or no? Think hard on what you will say.”

  Then he strode through the door and I watched him prowl down the long, dark hall like a cat going out for the night. I half expected to hear him yowl when he reached the other end, but when all that met my ear was silence, I chewed my soft, gooey mint candy with my eyes as wide as saucers.

  Chapter Seventeen

  After a moment, I came to my senses. Who knew when he would return? I should dress before then. I scrambled painfully down from the table and put on the odd clothing that had been left for me. It was a long, agonizing affair. Every movement tugged and pulled at my stitched skin and my tears flowed freely as I carefully shrugged on the ridiculous dress.

  Twice, I had to hold onto the desk to catch my breath and clear my head. Would I work with Bluebeard? Did I dare say no? Did I even want to? Here, so far from the mortal world, spying for my king seemed ridiculous. What would I say? That the houses had wings and the fires spoke and if he found a man to pull an arrow from a stone it would fulfill their prophecy?

  I laughed hoarsely at myself for even thinking of it.

  The dress was far too fancy for everyday wear and I missed my practical woolen shifts and embroidered overdresses. This one would be cold – especially in the back, despite the fur trimming the keyhole. If I hadn’t been in a torn nightdress, I would never have worn it at all. But while I did indeed find a blue silk sl
ip – fortunately, it had a very low back and was trimmed in lace so that if a little peeked into the keyhole of my dress it would not look out of place – there were no other dresses.

  I frowned as I put on the slip purchased by another woman. It worried me that it fit me perfectly. But it was impractical to be fussy when it was my only option and utterly superstitious to think that its dead owner would resent me for wearing it. Or for marrying her husband, for that matter. When I was done, I marched over to Grosbeak, and delicately pulled the hat from his eyes.

  “Bluebeard may know why you were trying to kill me, but I do not,” I said to him. I needed an ally here. One I could be sure wouldn’t run out on me. “And if you don’t tell me right this instant, I will throw you into the hungry fire.”

  There. That should get me some answers for once. I needed to be smart about this. I wasn’t used to fires that belched or bodiless heads, but I could still find ways to be sensible in a nonsensical world.

  “Bluebeard? Is that what you call the Arrow?” His snicker was nasty. “Oh, he’ll like that. I guarantee he will.”

  “Fire or confession,” I insisted.

  “You won’t do it, a big-eyed wisp of a thing like you with tumbling dark waves of hair – oh, you’re a pretty one, and you can hold your tongue, but you’re mortal, and all mortals are but a blossom that lasts a day and then is gone. You’ve no value at all. You’re just a stone in a game of merels. Something to sacrifice. Something to use. The Arrow will use you for your days. I planned to use you to delay him.”

  “Delay him?” I asked in a deadly voice.

  “I’ll say no more.”

  I lifted his head by the hair and held it as far from my body as I could. It was heavier than I’d expected and lifting it pulled at the stitches in my back so that tears brimmed in my eyes again.

  I took three wavering steps toward the fire before he hissed.

  “I’ll talk.” The words came out in a rush. “I’ll tell you why.”

  I finished walking to the fire and set his head on the hearth. His eyes were wild. “Not here. It’s too hot here. Don’t you know that corpses burn?”

  “You’re not a corpse yet,” I said in a cool tone. “But you could be.”

  “Yes, yes, I understand.” He looked resentful. “It’s about the Great Game of Crowns, the Turning of Ages. They play it every five hundred years and it’s due to be played again. Tomorrow. If the Arrow does not arrive in time, he does not get a seat at the table. If he does not come with magic, he will surely lose the game. So, I tried to kill you because it would force his hand. He would either have to play without magic – for he draws that from you – or he would have to go and find a seventeenth bride and marrying takes time. The mortals like it done right. Either way, he’s out and he can’t win and ruin things for the rest of us.”

  He was right, I realized, suppressing the cold fear that washed over me. I was only a tool. A thing. Or at least, that’s what I was to them. But imagine if you were trying to use a tool and it came to life? What if the axe started to chop at you or the blade twisted in your hand? I might be a tool to them, but I was a living tool. I would find my way to chop.

  Besides, Bluebeard had asked me if I was on his side, and would he do that if he only saw me as a thing? Unless maybe it was a way to keep his things orderly and malleable. I frowned as I thought.

  “And was this plan your own?” I asked, keeping all that out of my cold voice.

  “Of course not. I worked for the Sword. Your husband will know that by now. It’s no secret that they are rivals.”

  So, Bluebeard had powerful enemies. Which meant I did now, too.

  “And now you work for me,” I said.

  “I certainly do not.”

  I lifted his head by the hair again and moved it closer to the flames. The fire murmured something that sounded a bit like begging.

  “Not the fire, not the fire!” Grosbeak pled.

  I pulled him back.

  “I know perfectly well that terror only gains you obedience while the fearful thing is there,” I said calmly, marching him back to the bookcase and setting him down there. He was still steaming.

  I walked over to a small alcove where someone had thoughtfully placed a bowl and pitcher. They were both encrusted with round, red gems. Uncut rubies, I thought. I ignored the king’s ransom I was using as a tool and washed my hands thoroughly. Dead things were disgusting.

  “What is it that you may still want, dead as you are?”

  His face took on a thoughtful expression. “Revenge on your husband.”

  “Besides that.” Hurting my husband would not help me at all.

  “There is nothing besides that,” he declared boldly.

  “Very well, then I will find some other ally.”

  I moved back to the desk, examining the papers there. Anything to keep me distracted from the grip of the pain in my back.

  “Perhaps ...” Grosbeak let the word hang in the air, but I didn’t take the bait.

  I kept shuffling papers and reading them as I went. My husband was very fond of stories. Not a single paper here was nonfiction. They were all tales or poems, songs, or stories. How interesting. What sort of a man did that make him inside his mind? He was both murderer and poet, brigand and storyteller.

  “It’s possible that I also want revenge on the Sword for putting me in this position,” Grosbeak admitted eventually.

  I turned to him and smiled.

  “Your smile is crooked,” he said. “And your face too narrow. And your nose is too thin.”

  “And you’re a bit on the short side these days,” I shot back.

  He snorted.

  “I will give you revenge on the Sword if you work for me. Be my ally. Be my helper.”

  “Why do you want that?” he asked suspiciously.

  “I am new to this world and I can’t ask my husband questions in the night or receive his answers in the day. You can help with that.”

  He pursed his lips, seeming to consider my words.

  “You will never get revenge for me on the Sword,” he said eventually. “It is impossible.”

  “Nothing is impossible if you approach it with systematic logic and careful observation,” I said as I flipped through my husband’s papers.

  “You must get it for me before the Game of Crowns is finished,” he said. “Or our bargain is void and I will spill your secrets to all who listen.”

  “Done,” I agreed.

  “What is done?”

  I turned to look at Bluebeard. He was leaning against the doorway, one shoulder propping him up as he examined his nails. He wore a midnight blue jacket thick with bronze frogging across the breast and narrow, tailored blue trousers with bronze scrollwork running up the outsides of the legs. The jacket was hanging open and under it, he wore a white shirt trimmed in red fox fur that he’d left open and a tailored vest embroidered with arrows of many styles. Again, he’d only buttoned it partway, as if to show he didn’t care. Most of his chest was left exposed so that his many crisscrossing scars were bare to the world on the surface of his pale skin.

  I looked him up and down and raised an eyebrow at his smirk.

  “Yes,” he said, “I’m a fine specimen of a Wittenbrand. Now, what deal has she struck with you, Grosbeak?”

  Oddly, he had the tiniest cut on his cheekbone under his left eye and a thread of blood ran down his cheek. His leaning had turned into something that looked more menacing.

  “Only that I am to be her creature,” Grossbeak said bitterly.

  “In exchange for?” Bluebeard asked, stalking forward and rubbing his beard with one hand. It was so short now that it was nothing more than stubble, and yet he had not shaved it completely. I wondered why. Maybe there was something wrong with his skin underneath.

  “She said something about revenge,” Grosbeak muttered. “And she needs some way to carry me. She doesn’t seem keen on holding me by the hair.”

  Bluebeard barked a laugh as if this was
a great joke and disappeared down the hall. When he returned, he had a lantern pole and a length of sky-blue ribbon. The lantern pole was the length of my leg with a decorative counterweight in the shape of a raven taking flight behind the handle, and a large lantern hanging from a chain on the other end. Bluebeard flung it onto the desk and began working to remove the lantern.

  “I like this idea, wife. Perhaps Grosbeak can be of practical use to you. He knows this world enough to avoid the worst pitfalls. And if you fail her, you speaking pumpkin, you gourd of words, I’ll feed you to the fire myself.”

  “Thank you,” said the fire.

  Bluebeard left the lantern on the desk and stalked over to Grosbeak, studying him as if deciding how to affix him to the end of the chain. It had a hook to hold the lantern. He gave a one-shoulder shrug and then began to dig the hook into Grosbeak’s scalp.

  Grosbeak grunted in pain.

  I looked hurriedly away and tried to catch my breath. I was a practical girl. I was used to dealing with things as they were and not trying to imagine what they could be. Imagining, dreaming – that only made it harder to focus on what was in front of you. But all of this was pushing me to the very edge.

  “Oh,” Bluebeard said offhandedly. “There’s a book in the top drawer of the desk. Would you fetch that?”

  I was glad for a practical task. I opened the top drawer and found a book bound in blue leather. Everything was blue for these people. I was starting to long for red or yellow or any other color at all. By the time I’d turned back to my husband, he had Grosbeak fitted on the end of the pole and a ribbon tied to the tip where the chain hung down.

  “There. That’s delightful.” He looked very satisfied with himself before he turned to me with a fierce glint in his eye. “The book is for you. You should keep it in the room the key opens.”

  At those words, a stab of fear shot through me. He could make me do a lot of things. He could dress me and bring me to homes carried on grouse wings. He could force my silence all night and be silent all the day long, but he could not make me go back to that place. I would not look his other wives in the eyes again or feel the horror of watching an hourglass measure my days.