by Kim Wilkins
Ash touched her hand. ‘Do not pin all your hopes on me.’
‘I have no choice but to pin my hopes wherever they will stick,’ Bluebell said. ‘I lost my hall, my city. I must not lose my entire kingdom.’
Ash answered slowly, clearly aware that what she said next may antagonise. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself.’
‘Who else should I blame, Ash?’ Bluebell snapped.
‘Rathcruick? Willow? Gytha? All of them fallible, some of them wilfully so. Why must you be the only one who cannot misjudge or mistake? You may be a king, Bluebell, but you are only human.’
Ash’s continuing reassurances, in the face of Bluebell’s failure, made her feel shame so deep that it almost winded her. ‘Do not love me so much, Ash,’ she said softly. ‘I do not deserve it.’
‘Of course you do,’ Ash said dismissively. She gestured to Hyld. ‘You are still the person your dog thinks you are.’
This made Bluebell smile. ‘Ah, Hyld. You don’t mind that everything’s gone to shit, do you?’
Hyld’s ears pricked up on hearing her name. Bluebell’s smile faltered. ‘I wonder if Thrymm is still alive.’ She didn’t think about Snowy. It was easier.
‘You will have to live with uncertainty a little longer,’ Ash said. ‘I will travel tomorrow at first light on a swift mount. Pray to the Horse God for good winds for the crossing, and perhaps I will be back in a little over a week, as powerful as I once was.’
Bluebell allowed herself a tiny release of the knotted muscles in her back. ‘A week is not so long; we could waste that much time in dithering,’ she said. ‘I will send two thanes with you to keep you safe.’
Bluebell’s conversation with Ash soothed her enough to sleep, at least for a little while. Back in the warm little room, with Hyld draped across the foot of the bed, she curled on her side and darkness descended. As she drifted off, the idea of there being something to remember about the Brenci Isles occurred to her again, but then was washed away by sleep.
She woke in grey dawn. She must have dreamed of Snowy, because a spear of grief had jolted her out of sleep. She screwed her eyes tightly shut and told herself that she wasn’t to grieve until she was sure he was dead. For now, he was simply not with her. Often, he was not with her. To distract herself, she turned to the Brenci Isles in her mind again, digging at the soft space around the memory. It had been an old friend of the family who had told her about it. What was his name? Gilbray? Yes, that was it. He had visited when she was twelve, in the months after her mother’s death. Apparently he had known her grandfather. He came from the far south west of Ælmesse, and was a famed explorer and an incorrigible teller of tall tales. He had been to the Brenci Isles, and had seen something there that terrified him. Or so he said.
Sitting by the fire, with her long legs folded up under her, Bluebell let the memory flow into her. Gilbray calling her ‘knobbly knees’ and Bluebell being mortally offended by this. Teasing her with riddles and jokes all the time …
Yes, he’d told her a riddle about the Brenci Isles. What he’d seen there. What is taller than the trees and stronger than the stones, has weapons in its fists and fury in its bones?
She knew the answer. A giant. Gilbray had told her there were giants on Brenci.
But of course giants no longer existed.
Taller than the trees.
Somebody had built those ruins behind Blicstowe, but that was hundreds of years ago.
Stronger than the stones.
Once, though, she had thought all dragons had disappeared from Thyrsland, and Ash had shown her that wasn’t true. It was Ash, with her magic blood, who was being drawn to the west. By a feeling, but also by a map. A map with a crown on it. Bluebell was a king.
Weapons in its fists.
She had no idea how big giants were, but what if they could step over fortifications? Shake her enemies loose from their watchtowers? Grind them under mighty heels?
Fury in its bones.
Gilbray had been terrified of the giants. It was one of the only stories he refused to retell, his old face drawing hollow under his sparse whiskers. If they were real …
Bluebell’s heart lit with hope, and days of tension and confusion left her body. She knew what to do now. This was no ordinary situation and called for no ordinary solution.
She would take Ash to the islands herself, and bring the giants back with her.
The clouds had lifted and the distant sun on her shoulder cheered Ash a little as she watched her sister from the upstairs window of the alderman’s house. Bluebell had climbed up on top of the thunderstone at the centre of the village square, and called for anyone who wanted to hear to come inside. Ash knew her plans, of course. She had debated them with her and Sighere for an hour that morning. Sighere would have forbade them going if he could, but Ash felt the rightness in Bluebell’s decision. If Ash was being called, then there was something there for them. Why not giants?
Though, a feather of doubt tapped upon her ribs. If Ash was wrong, then she would take Bluebell away for weeks from where she needed to be the most.
People were still shuffling into the city square, and Ash squeezed Sighere’s hand. He kept his eyes determinedly forward, knowing that people would be watching and judging him.
‘My people,’ Bluebell began, and a hush settled over the crowd. ‘I desire only to defend this kingdom, mighty Ælmesse.’
Her eyes turned up and caught Ash’s. Ash saw no trace of fear in her eyes, even though Bluebell had confessed to being riven with doubt. She was tall and magnificent, with her flowing pale hair newly washed and her mail shone to dazzling.
‘We have endured a heavy wound. Many of those we love are in the hard grasp of the grave. My spirit darkens when I contemplate the loss of my beloved Blicstowe. All the revels in the hall have ceased. All the seats at the feast are empty. Hateful trimartyrs occupy our homes, our places, our streets and alleyways. And they threaten that they will burn these homes, and places, and streets and alleyways to nothing if we dare approach with a vengeful army.’
A baby cried. Dark mutters from random places in the crowd.
‘We feel crushed and desolate,’ she said. ‘But we are not our feelings. We are our deeds. So we do not sit and wait and cry. I should be ashamed to sit and wait and cry.’ She lifted her shield. ‘Death to the trimartyrs! We give to them as tribute our spear points and our sword edges!’
A cheer went up, and Ash felt her eyes pricking with tears.
‘I am going out into the world today, to bring back with me an ally. When I return, we will assemble the mightiest army ever known in the history of Thyrsland. An army of men and magic, that can break their heads and choke their fires, and every last one of you will tell your grandchildren that you were there. You were there the day that Bluebell took back Blicstowe and the streets ran with trimartyr blood.’
Another cheer, this time started by the soldiers who were crammed between the buildings.
‘Ælmesse is safe for now, but we must move swiftly. I leave today for the west. Sighere will command the army in my absence.’ Here she indicated the window with her outstretched hand, and the eyes of the crowd were turned in Ash’s direction. She felt small, exposed.
‘Keep your faith until I return. The Horse God has always loved me well. I have let you down once, I will not do so again.’ She raised her shield again and shouted, ‘Ælmesse!’
‘Ælmesse!’ the crowd returned, and then broke into shouting and cheers. Ash watched as Bluebell climbed down, and was pressed on all sides by her loving audience.
Ash moved away from the window, and leaned on a carved pillar. Sighere joined her, touched her cheek softly.
‘I will miss you,’ he said.
‘The world sits on my chest,’ she said. ‘I am terrified.’
‘Bluebell will protect you.’
‘I know that. I’m not terrified of injury or death. I’m terrified that whatever happens on Brenci will be too big for us both.’
‘Nothi
ng may happen.’
‘Yes, and that would be too much for Bluebell to bear.’ She tried a smile. ‘I have to find her some giants.’
Sighere shook his head. ‘I hope you do, but in the meantime, I will advance Bluebell’s plans with Wengest and Renward, and keep Ælmesse safe.’
‘And keep Sighere safe?’ she said, pressing herself against him.
‘Always,’ he said, his voice rumbling in his chest. ‘I have too much to live for now.’
Fifteen
Rose couldn’t say that she was mistreated in any way. The servants who brought their rich meals were polite, sometimes even chatty. One of them, an elderly woman with jet hair shot through with white, fell quickly in love with Linden, brought him extra treats and wanted to cuddle him every time she saw him. The guards that accompanied them at a few yards’ distance as they walked around the gardens in the cool afternoons were always friendly: one rushed in to pick Linden up when he tripped over a rock, set him gently on his feet and moved back into his place. On the two occasions she’d tried to escape – the first a desperate but simple run-for-it near the bottom gate of the garden, the second a slip-out-the-door-the-servant-had-left-open, doomed to failure as it was the middle of the day – the guards were firm but kind as they returned them to their hut: ‘Sorry, my lady. King Tolan requires you here.’
When she asked, or demanded, or cried, or cajoled to get them to summon Tolan to speak with him, they simply said, ‘The king will be along as soon as he can.’
So Rose began to sew. She had the shirt made within the first week, its hems and pleats neatly finished with fine, small stitches. There was enough time on her hands that she didn’t need to rush. In the second week she started the embroidery, and this would take many hours and had to be perfect. She had to get it exactly right.
Still, Tolan didn’t come. At first Rose thought she would go mad from the uncertainty, but she reassured herself that Tolan was too smart to cause her or Linden physical harm. Tolan was a strategist. She had no doubt he was using the time to find out everything that could be known about her, so he could use her in some ploy to make Bluebell or Wengest or maybe even Heath and the tribes do his will.
The black-haired woman, Olgrid, brought them breakfast one morning – porridge with honeycomb – and fussed over Linden while Rose ate. She watched as Linden showed the serving woman his maps and she cooed and told him what a very clever lad he was. Linden did not smile, but Rose could tell he was proud by the way he held his neck very straight.
‘You must be proud, my lady,’ the serving woman said. ‘He doesn’t say much but he remembers everything. This map of the garden is perfectly accurate.’
Rose put aside her bowl and came over. He leaned over it before she could see it, which she had learned was his way of saying it wasn’t for her to view.
‘Oh, show your mama. She’ll be so proud.’
‘He knows how proud I am of him. He doesn’t need to draw maps for me to be proud of him.’ Rose touched Linden’s dark curls, pleased to share the love of her remarkable boy with somebody else. ‘This map must be for you.’
‘Well, then,’ the serving woman said, her chest puffing up, sure that she’d won Linden’s heart as much as he’d won hers. ‘I feel very special to have a map drawn for me.’
Linden handed Olgrid the map and pointed at a place on it. Rose watched as comprehension dawned on her face.
‘Oh. Is that a picture of … why that design is precisely the one on the key to my linen chest.’ She turned to Rose. ‘I’ve been looking for it for days.’
‘You’ll find it exactly where he’s drawn it on the map.’ Rose sighed, wishing that Linden could keep his talent hidden. Because he was small and silent, people would always override his will with theirs.
‘Really?’
Rose nodded. ‘Go on. See if it’s there. I can brush the rugs this morning.’
‘Thank you, my lady.’ Olgrid curtseyed and hurried off, giving Linden’s face one last affectionate squeeze.
‘You like her?’ Rose asked Linden, once they were alone.
He looked up with a slight tilt of his head, one corner of his mouth turned up in a smile. That was a yes.
‘Then I like her too,’ Rose said. She turned to the hearth, the bundle of wood Olgrid had brought in, and sat on the floor to get the fire started. When the flames had caught beyond the kindling, she turned and her heart stopped.
Linden stood by their bed, his little hand bunching on the shirt she was embroidering. He had a puzzled look on his face.
‘Linden, don’t touch that!’ she called, scrambling to her feet and nearly tripping over her own ankle. She was across the room in a half-moment, snatching the shirt from him and turning his hand over to inspect it. His skin was clear and white. But if he had been naïve enough to try the shirt on …
It was her own stupid fault. She had the shirt hung over the stool next to the bed. Linden had never shown interest in her sewing, so she’d not even considered he might pick it up. ‘We mustn’t touch this, you understand? It’s a special present for somebody.’
He gave a little nod of understanding and wandered off back to the table to finish his porridge. She wondered about that expression on his face as he touched the shirt. Curiosity? Or something else?
She carefully folded it away and hid it under her pillow, where he wouldn’t see it and be tempted to pick it up again.
The following morning dawned more miserable than the rainy night before. They started another day in captivity, and hours grew long and formless, and Rose was anxious to keep the boredom at bay. She dressed and got Linden dressed. The day was chilly so she pulled one of the wooden chairs over by the fire to keep embroidering. Needle through cloth, drawing the thread. Over and over, in the patterns so well known to every noble woman. A sense of purpose kept her from falling into frustrated despair. Once again, here she was with no control over her life. Linden sat on the bed, adding to a map she was not allowed to see, a look of unshakeable focus on his brow.
Then, mid-morning, the door opened without warning and King Tolan stood there.
Rose put aside her sewing and climbed to her feet. Mustering all the dignity her royal upbringing had given her, she said, ‘Why are you keeping us prisoners? I insist that you let us go.’
Tolan didn’t answer her question. He closed the door behind him and pulled out a chair, then sat on it with his elbows on his knees and his chin resting on his clasped hands. He nodded towards Linden and said, ‘Your son is most beloved of Olgrid. She used to be my children’s nurse, you know.’ He gazed up at Rose, who returned his gaze defiantly.
‘Hey there, lad,’ Tolan said, addressing Linden, who did not look up. ‘Did you know that all of Tweoning is riddled with caves and tunnels? My sisters and I used to play among them, but they always wanted to pretty up the chambers with tapestries and so on. A game of toy horses is so much more authentic in the dirt.’ Now he stood and slowly walked over to where Linden sat, drawing.
Rose did not like the way he hung over her son. It made her skin prickle. His pale eyes were sharply focussed. He placed his big hand on Linden’s maps. Linden sat very still while Tolan shuffled through them.
‘Look at me, boy,’ he said.
Rose, fearful for her son’s safety, said, ‘Linden, look at King Tolan please.’
Linden lifted his head, but would not meet Tolan’s eyes.
‘Would you draw me a map?’ Tolan asked.
Only then did something shift in Linden’s gaze. Rose saw it. Almost as though some understanding had passed across his mind.
Tolan turned to Rose. ‘Olgrid says his maps help people find things.’
‘That was nonsense, I –’
‘Rose, stop.’ He spread his hands. ‘How long does it usually take for him to draw one of these maps?’
Rose answered grudgingly, ‘Sometimes an hour. Sometimes a day. Sometimes he can pore over them for weeks, obsessing over the details.’
‘Well, you w
eren’t going anywhere.’
‘I beg your pardon, my lord. We must be allowed to be on our way. If my sister –’
‘I didn’t want to be the one to say it, Rose, but your sister is nobody.’
‘She is the queen of Ælmesse,’ Rose protested.
‘She is the queen of a field in Ælmesse by all accounts, though how long she will hold that is not to be known.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Blicstowe has fallen to the Crow King.’
Anger flared in her chest. ‘What a ridiculous thing to say. Do you expect me to believe it?’
‘And from there, raiders will no doubt ravage all of the towns of Ælmesse until they surrender, and then they will take Bradsey, because Renward is a weak king who cannot hold the tribes together, and then the entire west of Thyrsland will belong to the ice-men. Bluebell will be able to do nothing because even though she has seven hundred soldiers, the raiders will make it their business to be seven hundred places at once. I would be unsurprised if the Crow King forced the Ælmessean home guard to fight on his behalf by threatening to butcher their children. Such is the way of the raiders.’
Rose shook her head through the whole speech, wild with frustration. ‘You cannot make me stay by telling me lies, Tolan.’
‘You don’t have to believe it. I suppose it makes no difference to you. One of your other sisters is queen of Ælmesse now, and at least she is a trimartyr. There will be no place for the old gods any more. It will be a different world and I’ll need a strong alliance with Wengest.’ Here he paused and let the words sink in. ‘Though I imagine if conversion is on the raiders’ minds, we will be safe and Lyteldyke will be next to fall.’
While Rose refused to believe any of the made-up nonsense about Bluebell losing Blicstowe, his words about Wengest were clearly meant to goad her. ‘And does Wengest know I am here?’
Alertness flickered onto Linden’s face at mention of that name.
‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘Though he was here two days ago on his way to Ælmesse.’
