by Kim Wilkins
Ash extricated herself. ‘I have to pay the man who brought me upriver. Do you have any coins?’
Bluebell turned out her left pocket, and showered silver coins on the table. Ash scooped a few up and returned to the cart driver, paying him and giving him some for the donkey trader. Then she hurried back inside.
Bluebell sat in the same place, watching the door for Ash. There was an expression on Bluebell’s face that Ash hadn’t seen before; a vulnerability that gutted her. Ash had to stop for a second and take a breath. Everything else had to wait. For this moment, she had to be here for Bluebell and her father. She slid into the seat across from her sister.
‘How is Father?’ she said.
‘He’s ...’ Bluebell glanced away. ‘You’ll have to go and see for yourself.’
‘He’s very ill?’
Bluebell nodded, and pushed the cup of ale across the table to Ash. ‘Here, you have it. I’ve drunk seven already. I’ll be pissing like a horse tonight. You look tired and you smell terrible.’
Ash took a grateful sip, considering her sister in the late afternoon light through the shutter. ‘Bluebell,’ she said, ‘why aren’t you with him?’
Bluebell’s voice was low. ‘I can hardly look at him, Ash.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he is so changed. And because ... I know if he dies ... life will be so different. And I’m afraid.’
Ash nearly choked on her ale. ‘Afraid? Really?’ she managed.
Bluebell’s pale eyes turned icy for a moment, giving Ash a glimpse into the thrilling terror her sister was capable of inspiring. But then Bluebell laughed. ‘I’m talking with ale on my tongue,’ she said. ‘Don’t listen to me.’ She pointed upwards. ‘I’ve got Wylm under guard up there. Gudrun’s physician locked up in the pit near the latrine. And Gudrun is under Dunstan’s watch in the king’s bower.’
Ash took a moment to understand what she meant. ‘Why?’ she asked.
‘Because I think father is elf-shot. And I don’t know who to trust.’
‘What does Byrta think?’
‘Byrta thinks he is only sick. That he is dying and I am a sad fool.’
Ash’s heart stirred with pity. If anyone would refuse to accept a parent’s death, it would be Bluebell. One of Ash’s earliest memories was of her mother’s death, and of Bluebell raging about the family compound hacking at trees and swearing at the moon.
‘Perhaps he is only sick,’ Ash said.
Bluebell’s eyes locked with Ash’s; her voice grew urgent. ‘That’s why you need to go to Father and you need to reach out with your second mind the way you do. Then I will know for sure.’
Ash shivered. She didn’t want to use her sight for anything. If she could, she would dam up that river forever.
‘Ash? Can you do it?’
Contend with each moment as it comes, she told herself. ‘I can try,’ Ash said, ‘but you must come with me.’
Bluebell’s face hardened. ‘Very well.’ She climbed to her feet, pulling on her cloak and pinning it at her right shoulder. ‘Come.’
Ash quickly downed the rest of the ale, then hurried to catch Bluebell. They walked briskly through town, Ash trying hard to keep up with Bluebell’s enormous stride. The late sunlight pressed on her tired eyes and the aftershocks of the dream still flashed across her mind every time she blinked. She wanted to tell Bluebell about it, she wanted her big sister’s comfort, but Bluebell was not herself. She was drunk and grieving and angry, and had a head full of mad thoughts. Too preoccupied with her own pain even to hear Ash speak.
As they approached the bowerhouse, Ash’s pulse quickened. She tended to ill people all the time, but none, so far, had been beloved. Bluebell pushed open the door roughly. In the shaft of light that entered the room, Ash saw Gudrun sitting by her father’s bed and Father lying deathly still upon it.
Dunstan sat on a stool by the door. He stood and blocked their path, dropping his voice low to say to Bluebell, ‘Where have you been?’
‘Dodging my responsibilities,’ she replied shortly, ‘and don’t think to give me a fucking lesson about it.’
Dunstan glared, but backed away huffing. Bluebell marched up to Gudrun and hauled her to her feet. ‘Go on, out. Ash and I need to do something.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Dunstan, take her out. I’ve no time for arguing.’
Ash couldn’t bear to see the fear and misery in Gudrun’s face. ‘Bluebell, stop.’ She gently pulled Gudrun to her side. ‘This is your father’s wife. She is grieving.’ Ash rubbed Gudrun’s arm affectionately. ‘All will be well,’ she said to her stepmother. ‘The shock is always the hardest, but it is usually brief. Bluebell will be calm again in a day or so.’
‘Let me go,’ Gudrun said. Ash didn’t need to read her mind to know what she was thinking, it was written in her expression. Mistrust had grown deep roots. It was too late for kindness.
‘Go for a walk, take in the afternoon air,’ Ash said to Gudrun. ‘Dunstan, wait outside. Don’t follow her. She’s not a prisoner.’
Bluebell glowered drunkenly, but said nothing. When Dunstan and Gudrun had left she said to Ash, ‘I don’t trust her.’
‘She hates you.’
Bluebell shrugged, turned to Father. ‘Go on, Ash. Tell me what’s wrong with him.’
Ash sat on the mattress and invited Bluebell to do the same. She took her sister’s rough, calloused hands in her own. ‘Bluebell, I will do this for you, but only on one condition. You must get hold of yourself.’
Bluebell dropped her head; her long hair hid her face. ‘I drank too much. That’s all.’
‘Father would want you to be clear-headed.’
‘I know,’ she whispered.
‘If I tell you this is simply illness, you must accept it. You must apologise to Gudrun and Wylm and Osred, and you must make preparations to be our new king.’
Bluebell lifted her head, set her chin. ‘I will,’ she said.
Ash dropped Bluebell’s hands and turned to Father. He was sleeping. Deeply, in some subterranean cavern a long way from the world. She smoothed his hair off his brow, bare of the usual gold circlet he wore. Not a king now, just a man. Ash tried to relax her body. Inviting in the sight made her stomach twinge with apprehension. She leaned forwards, pressing her cheek against his chest. Closed her eyes.
His heart beat. Slow. Steady.
Her body trembled, the strange whispering began, grew and grew to a roar. Images flashed, one after another; ached and burned along her limbs. She knew in an instant, but waited until the sight had subsided. Ash swallowed hard, opened her eyes. The moment spun out, her heart thudded. She stood at a very dark doorway: once she told Bluebell what she knew, only bad things could follow.
‘What? What is it?’ asked Bluebell as Ash sat up.
‘I’m sorry, Bluebell, but there is no doubt,’ Ash said. ‘He is elf-shot.’
Eight
Wylm woke and wondered where he was. Morning light through the shutter, sweet malty steam through the floorboards. That’s right: the alehouse. And his head was throbbing from too much to drink and too much ... He looked down. A tousled-haired woman slept beside him, on her belly, her blonde hair spread out around her. He stretched his brain, but couldn’t remember a single distinguishing feature of her face. She’d brought him his dinner, that much he remembered, then returned at his invitation. The stepson of the king never had any difficulties finding a woman to share his bed. The difficulty was in ridding himself of them the next morning.
Slowly, pieces of his previous day came back. Being detained, sitting here in the room above the alehouse with anger coiling tighter and tighter ...
A brisk knock at the door. The woman stirred. He flung a blanket over her.
‘Come,’ he said.
The door opened. Bluebell. She had cleaned herself up since he last saw her. Her hair was washed and brushed loose, she wore fresh clothes and a newly oiled mail byrnie over her tunic, and a red sash with
a three-toed dragon coiling across it: the king’s emblem. She was here on official business. The Widowsmith, as ever, hung at her hips. His stomach clenched. He feared her, and hated himself for fearing her. A brief memory from the previous night fluttered into his mind. He’d been imagining the woman in his bed was Bluebell, hadn’t he? He’d imagined conquering her body, pounding it into submission. Now he squirmed with embarrassment and distaste. The woman — a pretty-faced thing not more than sixteen — sat up, pushed the blanket off herself and looked at him blearily.
Bluebell glared at the young woman, who saw Bluebell and went white with fear. ‘I’m leaving,’ she said hoarsely.
She gathered her clothes while Wylm gathered his wits. Bluebell would be full of questions now, maybe accusations. He had to tread carefully. When the door had closed and they were alone, Bluebell grasped a chair and sat down. As she moved, the chain mail rang pleasantly. She eyed him a while, then said, ‘You can go.’
Wylm took a moment to comprehend. ‘What?’
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have detained you.’ She was practically choking on her words. ‘My sister Ash is here and she has given me good counsel.’ She even managed a little smile, and Wylm’s spine crawled. Dark currents tugged and swirled beneath this conversation: though he didn’t know where precisely they lay.
‘You’re sorry?’ he said.
‘No harm?’
‘No more than usual.’
She nodded. ‘King Æthlric is sick, as you know. But we mustn’t assume he is dying and we mustn’t spread fear and uncertainty. Don’t speak of it to anyone. You are free to stay here in Blicstowe to be with your mother until the situation is resolved, one way or another.’
Wylm was speechless.
She cleared her throat, not meeting his eye. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘will you stay with her? Or will you return to the garrison?’
‘I’ll stay with her. Of course.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘I’ve settled your account here.’ Then she was extending a hand for him to shake, and suspicion burned in his belly.
He took her hand and shook it soundly.
‘We have cleared a room for you in the bowerhouse, with your mother. There are people here to help care for my father so she needn’t feel it falls only to her. Ensure she rests.’
‘Thank you, princess,’ he said, with as much silver on his tongue as he could manage.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she didn’t correct him. ‘I shall leave you to dress. Give my best to your mother.’
She backed out. Wylm lay down again, hands behind his head. He had never seen such a poor performance of forgiveness or generosity. It was clearly paining her to be nice to him. But why would she pretend? What was she up to? Wylm vowed not to let down his guard until he found out.
Ash found Byrta in her chamber at the back of the bowerhouse, directly across the way from the long wing that held the kitchen, stores and infirmary. Byrta had lived in this room for nearly forty years: a dozen of them with her beloved companion Hilda, and many alone after Hilda had died. The smell of the room was achingly familiar to Ash after so long away. The powdery scent of the lavender bushels tied to the roof beams, the thick odour of lanolin, the sharp-sweet dried herbs that sat in pots on every surface. Ash had spent many hours in here, learning to spin and weave — none of her sisters had the patience for it — and taking comfort in Byrta’s company. Byrta had been, in some ways, a reluctant substitute mother to Ash, who craved such connections in a way her sisters hadn’t. She had always talked over her problems with Byrta and taken her advice seriously.
Byrta was at her loom. She gave Ash a welcoming smile. ‘I’d heard you were here.’
‘I arrived late yesterday. It was a long journey.’
‘Did you sleep well last night?’
‘Like the dead,’ Ash said, sitting on the stool next to Byrta.
Byrta patted her shoulder lightly. She was not a woman given to displays of affection. ‘I’m sorry about your father’s illness.’
Ash took a deep breath. ‘Byrta, he’s not ill. He’s under the influence of bad magic.’
Byrta huffed. ‘Bluebell has got in your ear, I see.’
‘No. I reached out ... I ...’ She trailed off.
Byrta had put down the shuttle. ‘I sense you have a lot to tell me.’
‘Oh yes,’ Ash said. ‘I’m in all kinds of trouble.’
Byrta waited in the silence. A fly caught at the shutter buzzed against it before finding a crack between two slats of wood and flying free. Ash collected her thoughts.
‘You remember I told you about my ... ability?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Her fingers tapped against her lap once, and then were still; the only sign the topic wasn’t comfortable for her. ‘I’m very proud of you, and when you are older you will —’
Ash shook her head. ‘No. Not when I’m older. Now. In the last three years.’ Ash held apart her hands. ‘It has grown so big, too big for me to see the edges.’
Byrta pulled her eyebrows close together, and the soft light from the shutter illuminated two deep furrows. ‘I see. And you think your father has been elf-shot?’
‘I don’t think it. I know it.’
Raised eyebrows. A wary tone. ‘You are very sure of yourself.’
‘I am.’
Byrta exhaled slowly. ‘This is very serious. I hope you are not mistaken.’
‘I am not mistaken.’ Still Ash could feel Byrta’s resistance. Even Byrta was jealous. Byrta had a little sight and she had not sensed the bad magic around Æthlric. She couldn’t be blamed for that: bad magic tried to hide itself. It had certainly hidden the identity of the person who had dispensed it, much to Bluebell’s agonised frustration. ‘We have to move him, and soon. He will die if he stays where he is. Bluebell is making arrangements.’
‘So Bluebell knows?’
‘Yes.’
‘And she hasn’t yet skewered a member of her stepfamily?’
Ash had to smile. ‘There is no way of telling who has done this to my father. But I have assured her it isn’t Gudrun.’
Byrta did not return the smile. ‘I have been tending, this morning, to Gudrun’s physician, who has just been released from the pit. He is very ill with an infected wound. I don’t find Bluebell’s behaviour funny.’
Ash grew irritated. Byrta still saw them as children. It was difficult for her to imagine Bluebell as anything but the wild young woman she had been in her teens. ‘With my father sick, Bluebell is the most important person in all of Ælmesse, if not Thyrsland. Even I would not think to judge her.’
Byrta waved dismissively. ‘She will do as she pleases, I imagine.’
‘Indeed, she will. But she requires of you your silence. We are not telling anyone where we are going and none but the most senior of the army will know he is ill. Nobody except his daughters, Dunstan and you, will know he’s elf-shot.’
‘Not even Gudrun?’
‘Not even Gudrun.’
‘And when she notices her husband is missing?’
‘She will have her son for comfort. Gudrun isn’t our concern. Though Bluebell worded it more colourfully than that.’
Byrta picked up her shuttle again, her lips disappearing as she set her mouth in a line. ‘Well. It sounds as though you have both made up your minds. I must do as Bluebell says, so you’ll have no argument from me. I’m surprised you’re telling me at all. You didn’t need my advice.’
‘We would not leave you in the dark. You have always been my father’s counsellor and companion. You are family. Your wisdom has ever been a great comfort to me ...’ She trailed off. She wanted so badly to tell Byrta about the vision, about the terrible fear it had awoken in her. Her ears began to ring faintly, her head felt light, as though the awful knowledge woven into the vision was a presence in the room, pinching her skull.
Byrta sensed her distress. ‘Ash? You’re trembling.’
Ash looked at her own pale hands in her lap. ‘So I am.’
/> ‘Is there something wrong?’
‘No.’ But forcing a smile was as difficult as building a bridge over a raging river. She took a deep breath.
Byrta kept weaving. ‘Go on. I’m listening.’
‘I ... do you think it’s possible to know your own Becoming?’
‘No. You can’t turn your sight on yourself.’
‘What if it comes in a vision?’
Byrta shrugged, clearly at the end of her knowledge, and Ash decided not to say another word; not to say that she had always felt she was destined to die young, that she had been so fearful of death and so desperate to surround herself with company. The ringing in her ears became momentarily deafening. Byrta was moving her lips, but Ash couldn’t hear her.
‘What did you say?’ Ash said to Byrta, once the ringing had subsided.
‘All of you girls are given to too much drama,’ Byrta said, but her voice was kind. ‘Ash, you are so young. The path towards being a counsellor is a long one, and you’ll likely be a crone before anything you think or feel is reliable in the world. Go and be with your father, child. He’s dying.’
Ash stood, pushing away the irritation. ‘Very well. Thank you for listening to me.’
Byrta’s brow was soft. ‘You will become what you will become, Ash,’ she said.
Ash left her, still weaving hand over hand in the dim room.
Bluebell watched Gudrun, and Gudrun watched Bluebell. Between them: a wooden bed with a wool mattress and a king on the verge of waking. He muttered, his brow furrowing deeply, almost as though he could sense the tightly drawn mood in the room.
Bluebell had apologised, though it had nearly split her tongue in two to do so. She had sent Dunstan away so Gudrun didn’t feel she was under guard. She was doing, she thought, a very good impersonation of a woman who had accepted her father was sick and there was nothing she could do and nobody she could kill. But it made her ribs ache that this woman was sitting across from her still, tending to the king: because Bluebell didn’t trust her.
