by Kim Wilkins
‘You’re not supposed to be on watch. Ivy is.’
Relief was warm in her heart as she realised Bluebell hadn’t seen her praying. ‘Oh. Ivy was tired and I wanted to be there for Father.’
Bluebell smiled, an expression that made her scarred face look cruel. ‘You can help Father best by being fit to travel.’ She touched Willow’s shoulder lightly. ‘You do enough. Ivy needs to do more. Please let her.’ Then she was striding off while Willow wound up her chain and placed it carefully in her pocket, away from judging eyes.
Thirteen
They smelled the farm long before they saw it. A soft breeze from the north in the late afternoon carrying the sweet, creamy scent of flowers. Ash took deep breaths of it. The change from one season to another always made her ache pleasantly. Yes, it was a farewell to the stark splendour of winter, to the bare trees and pure glistening snow. But that first kiss of warmth on the breeze, those first green shoots on the chestnut trees, made her heart cheer.
Soon they would rest and eat and have a roof over their heads. Bluebell had dispatched Sighere and Heath to Stonemantel for supplies. The rest of the party rattled wearily down a rutted track beside a stream where trees created cold shade. Then over the rise Ash saw it: a sea of flowers. Creamy meadowsweet and blue wolfsbane, white daisies and yellow cowslip, all growing gloriously in the sunshine among the long, waving grasses. She caught her breath.
She urged her horse forwards so she was riding alongside Bluebell. A flurry of white flower seeds, like snow, was beaten up by her horse’s hooves. ‘The whole farm is like this?’
‘It used to be a barley farm. The woman who lived here loved flowers and turned the fields over to them.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘She died a few months ago.’
‘It’s very pretty,’ Ash said.
‘You can’t eat flowers,’ Bluebell grumbled. ‘But there are chickens and bees. And lots of room.’
As the stable and the farmhouse came into view, Ash understood how true this last statement was. The house was long and sturdy: one end was constructed of stone, but the largest section was constructed of dark wood. The doorframes and windowsills were decorated with carvings of creeping vines and flowers. They rode through the wide front gate, under a carved arch, and round to the stables.
Bluebell ordered a horrified Ivy to tend to the horses, and Willow offered to stay and help her. Æthlric was in one of his deep sleeps, so Bluebell left him outside the stable in his cart and led the rest of them inside to see the house.
They came into the main part of the farmhouse, where the cold hearthpit sat. The interior was cool and dark, musty with the smell of dust and mouse droppings. Posies of dried flowers hung from the ceiling beams. Rose and Rowan stayed to light the fire while Ash followed Bluebell as she explored behind other doors. One small room was a larder, where they found barrels of grain and salt. The next door led to a bedroom, where the ceiling sloped dramatically low. A wooden bed had been built on the floorboards and a large chest stood beside it. Ash opened the chest. It was full of women’s clothes.
‘This must have been where she slept,’ Ash said, careful not to touch any of the clothes lest the memories jumped onto her hands.
‘Æthlric can have this room,’ Bluebell declared, testing the mattress with her foot. ‘This is full of feathers. He’ll be comfortable here. There’s plenty of room for the rest of us around the hearthpit.’
She strode out, Ash scurrying after her. The next room was a kitchen. Knives and bowls, jars of pickled food and jams were stacked on benches. A large pot hung on a chain over the hearth. A low door stood opposite the one they’d come in. Ash unlatched it and found herself looking out over a soft carpet of meadow grass and flowers, down towards a deep green strip that unribboned across the fields.
‘A stream,’ Ash said. ‘Nice and close.’
Bluebell was examining the jars. ‘There’s a lot of food here already. I’m told there are chickens.’ She looked up. ‘Ash, could you go out and look for eggs?’
Ash nodded, and ducked under the threshold and outside. She followed her ears to the chicken coop. Two hens were still out in the soft light, scratching in the dirt. Ash bent to enter the coop. Eggs everywhere. Dozens of them. She collected as many as her skirt would hold and emerged into the twilight.
She stopped a moment, drawn by a prickling sense somebody was watching her. Her gaze went across the fields and towards the stream. A breath half-caught in her lungs.
Nothing.
Then, something. A dark silhouette on the opposite bank of the stream, flickering into visibility. Ash blinked hard, but already the muffling hush against her ears told her that her second sight had opened up. She focussed hard. The figure turned slightly, enough that the last light of the day caught her features. Then the figure dived into the water and disappeared, leaving a silvery flash behind her. It dissolved, and then nothing.
Ash knew she had seen a water spirit. She had never seen one before. She had never seen any kind of elemental before. Nobody saw elementals.
But she had seen one. And in that moment when the light had hit it, the creature had looked as surprised as she was.
The aching in her joints had started and Ash cursed this decision to keep her senses alert. Already, it seemed, she was attracting attention she didn’t want.
The wood where Wylm decided to stay the night was thick and overgrown. Little dark berries and pale flowers hung from vines that wove themselves around rough hedges. He was too tired to hunt and cook, so he unrolled his blanket on a patch of soft undergrowth and lay down. The tendons behind his ankles throbbed softly. Late afternoon shadows stretched cool throughout the wood. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about the sharp stone under his hip, the chilling damp that was beginning to seep through his blanket. Exhaustion overwhelmed these other discomforts, and he plummeted into sleep before the blackbirds stopped singing for the night.
The dream was as dark as the wood, though in it he was standing, not lying down. In front of him was a high stack of branches and twigs: a funeral pyre. He approached slowly. In the grey shadows, he could see a man’s hand hanging over the edge of the pyre. A gold ring on his index finger glinted dully and Wylm knew this man was his father. Inconsolable childish grief returned to him with full force. He struggled against the dream, but was caught fast in its web. The pyre burst into life, sending up a spray of bright embers. He stepped back.
Then the skin on his back shivered as he sensed something behind him. Someone was crying. He didn’t want to look around, for he knew when he looked he would see something so terrifying it would make his heart stop. The firelight made shadows leap and shudder.
‘Please?’ a little voice said, almost inaudible over the whoosh of the flames.
He turned. A boy stood there. The boy from the farm: Eni. Sightless eyes. Wylm’s heart flashed hot. Eni reached his hand towards him.
Wylm woke up. His heart was thudding and his feet tingled. The quiet that engulfed his ears was sudden and shocking. It was fully dark now, and his eyes took a moment to adjust.
He shivered. A light rain fell. He sat up, pulling his knees close in the circle of his arms. The shivering wouldn’t stop; even his breath shuddered in his lungs. The soft tissue under his ribs felt raw. The boy. He had left the blind, simple boy alone, probably to die slowly of starvation, wondering where his father had gone.
The distress he experienced at this thought was blunt and hard, and it made him loathe himself and fear for himself, and at the same time it made him stand and grab his pack and head back onto the road the way he had come, to retrace his steps.
He could not endure the boy’s misery. He had to end it, one way or another.
Bluebell hated the hour before dawn blushed the sky. Quiet. Absolute quiet. Everyone slept, even the birds and the horses. The world had stopped. She sat on the floor next to her father’s bed, her chin resting on her knees. Father slept too.
She glanced at
him in the candlelight. He was no better, he was no worse. Experience told her things would go as they would go, that hoping and fearing would make no difference to the outcome. Her spirit was weary of the hope and the fear.
The door opened, and Sighere stood there. ‘My lord. Your watch is over.’
‘Close the door,’ she said.
Sighere did as he was told and sat cross-legged next to her. He was a tall man, with bony knees, very dark hair, and thick eyebrows. Not a great brain, but a great heart.
‘Why are we still watching him, Sighere? We’re in no danger now.’
‘We are watching him because you willed it, my lord.’
‘You didn’t question me.’
‘I never do.’
‘Yes, you do. If I’m about to ride into an ambush.’ She smiled.
‘This is different, Bluebell,’ he said quietly. ‘This is your father.’
She turned her eyes to Æthlric. ‘I want him watched, Sighere, because I’m afraid he’ll die alone.’
Sighere didn’t answer.
‘I have been listening to the quiet,’ she said. ‘It is the quiet of death, but not glorious death in battle. The death of old age and winter. And I have been imagining his hall, when we have returned from a campaign and the mead flows and laughter and firelight warm everyone’s faces and the harps clang. Father with his arms outstretched, giving gold and love.’ She mimed the movement, her long arms sending spindly shadows across the bed. ‘Then I am back here in this wretched, silent darkness and I cannot bear it.’
‘I would bear it for you. If I could.’
She shrugged. ‘We must look to the future. He can’t travel. He is better here. I will take my sister Ash and we will go up to Bradsey alone. We’ll bring back the witch.’
‘If she will come with you.’
‘I will make her come.’
Sighere nodded. ‘I don’t doubt you.’
‘You will stay in command here and protect my sisters, and my sister’s child especially.’
‘When will you leave?’
She glanced at Æthlric again. She opened her mouth to say, ‘Today,’ but then hesitated. What if he woke up with the dawn, clear-eyed and asking for her? Should she not allow a few days for any magic to weaken? ‘I’ll wait until he’s been a week away from Blicstowe,’ she said.
Sighere’s eyes flickered almost imperceptibly, and she knew he thought she had made a decision from the heart and not the head. ‘As you wish it, my lord. That way you can be certain you’ve decided well.’
But certainty would continue to elude her, she knew, until he was well again. Or until he was dead.
Rose was meant to be collecting water from the stream behind the house, but it was too beautiful a morning to return inside. She put her bucket down and sat on a flat rock at the edge of the stream. She slid off her shoes and dipped her feet into the soft water, letting it lap around them. Bright green streamers of weed were pulled by the current, tickling her toes. The air was warm and the sun shone. A fresh breeze drove fine white clouds across the sky. The stream bent away to the east, disappearing into an oak wood, while to the west lay fields of unfurling flowers. On the other side of the stream were grassy hills. Sweet smells of creamy flowers and damp grass. She closed her eyes and listened. The stream running over rocks. The cheep and chitter of sparrows. Leaves rushing in the wind. And dogs barking.
She opened her eyes. The barking was close, around the bend of the stream. Happy barking. It must have been Bluebell’s dogs, but Rose had left Bluebell back at the house. She climbed to her feet and made her way barefoot along the rocks — avoiding sharp points — and into the cover of the wood to investigate.
Almost immediately, Thrymm was barking happily at her ankles, shaking water off her coat and soaking Rose’s skirt. ‘Bluebell?’ Rose called. She moved a little further in where the stream widened and the trees opened up. It wasn’t Bluebell with the dogs. It was Heath, stripped to the waist, standing in the water.
‘Oh,’ she said.
‘Oh,’ he said, seeing her.
Thræc, who was Thrymm’s mother and a much calmer animal, raised her nose to sniff the wind, then returned to drinking from the shallows.
‘What are you ...?’
‘Bluebell sent me to take the dogs swimming. They were still muddy from the trip.’ He shrugged. ‘It seemed like a good idea to go in with them.’
The breeze allowed a shaft of sunlight to break through the trees. It caught the red-gold in his hair, illuminating his white skin, his hard muscles, the black tattoo on his chest. A flame ignited, low in her stomach.
He must have seen the desire in her eyes, because he raised his hands in a stop gesture and said, ‘Don’t, Rose. We can’t be found together. Bluebell has made that clear.’
Bluebell. She hadn’t stopped bossing everyone since they left Blicstowe. She treated them as though they were her army, not her sisters. Rose approached Heath. ‘I’m not afraid of Bluebell.’
‘I am.’ He waded out of the stream and up onto the bank, where he pulled on his tunic. ‘You should go.’
Embarrassment made her angry. ‘Don’t be afraid of her,’ she snapped. Then, softer, ‘She’s my sister. She won’t hurt you.’
Heath didn’t look up. ‘I believe she will. You haven’t seen her in battle,’ he said, belting his tunic. ‘I know what she is capable of.’ He whistled to the dogs, who ran to his side with their tails thumping. ‘You go back the way you came and I’ll head back to the house separately, and we’ll —’
How was she supposed to bear this? Three years apart from him and then, in their one moment alone, he was shutting her out. Wretched, wretched Bluebell. ‘Heath, please.’ Her voice cracked. ‘Please.’
He wavered. He glanced around.
‘I cannot bear this. Why have I been chosen for such great unhappiness?’ She began to sob.
‘Hush, Rose, hush,’ he said, touching her shoulder lightly. This touch — the kind that could pass between any two people, not lovers — made her cry harder.
‘Let me hold you,’ she said, reaching for his wrist. He didn’t move. ‘Nobody will see us,’ she said urgently. ‘The dogs can’t talk.’
Slowly, he turned his hand over and caught her fingers in his. Rose’s feet tingled, and she breathed back her tears.
‘I can’t bear your unhappiness,’ he said, ‘but I can do nothing to prevent it.’ He squeezed her hand.
‘The blame is not yours.’
‘Can you not see? Here I am, willing to do anything for you. But nothing I do will change the situation. We cannot be together. And still I cannot accept that. I cannot feel it as truth in my heart, because surely such a love should ...’ He trailed off, words stuck in his throat.
They stood like that a moment, eyes locked together. Her skin burned. He reached for her. His clothes were damp. Her breath flew from her lips. The scent of his skin overwhelmed her as she pushed her body against his, her cheek into his shoulder. Her hands spread out across his hard flanks. She felt his fingers in her hair. Her skin hummed.
Then, a whistle in the distance. Thrymm and Thræc immediately turned and began to bolt. It was Bluebell.
Heath pulled away from Rose as though stung. Her body missed his immediately. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and his sea-coloured eyes grew sad. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ll disappear. Go on.’
He took her hand, squeezed it once, then went running after the dogs. She watched him go, then pressed her palm to her lips. She imagined she could smell his skin on her fingers: salty, male. It smelled like endless sorrow.
Fourteen
The shoulders of the day were best avoided if Ash wanted to stay clear of elementals. Like birds and ants, dawn and dusk were the times they were on the move. But Ash wasn’t sure she necessarily wanted to stay clear of elementals. And that surprised her.
It had been a glorious day: sunshine and pale blue skies, the air heavy with the scent of flowers an
d damp earth. She had cleaned the farmhouse floors and laid fresh rushes, been in charge of mucking out the chicken coop and helped Rose cut up vegetables for soup. The house was filled with the smell of cooking and she was looking forward to a meal and a good night’s rest.
But first, this.
As she left the farmhouse, the sky was pale pink along its western rim, shading to dusky blue. She headed for the stream, in particular the oak grove that stood to the north. A chill in the air coaxed goosebumps from her skin. Behind her, at the house, she could hear Rowan crying, Heath and Sighere laughing. She felt a long way outside everything, head down, hurrying for the dark grove.
She moved far enough into the trees that she was certain she would be undisturbed. Then, heart thudding, she closed her eyes and opened up her senses. Her skin fluttered. At first she could only hear her pulse, but then other sounds came to her. A breeze among the leaves, birds chattering as they settled in their nests, the soft pop of a twig deep in the wood as a small animal scurried about ...
And the faint ringing of magic. Slowly, she opened her eyes. In her normal vision, the wood looked as it had before. Rocks, undergrowth, dark ivy-wound trunks, the flat stream. But her second vision picked up indistinct shadows nestled inside the ordinary shadows. Now the magic was growing louder, drowning out the other sounds.
‘Come,’ she said, ‘show yourself.’
Under the lowest branch of the closest tree, a shadow began to shiver. Ash kept hold of her focus, even though her heart was thumping hard. A figure began to form, only visible if she didn’t look on it directly. Small and brown, a pointed face and black eyes, wild hair and two tiny horn buds. A tree elemental, with an expression of hostile curiosity on its face.
It spoke, its voice appearing in Ash’s head even though its lips did not move. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Ash.’
‘I am oak.’
‘Why can I see you?’
‘All is unveiled to you, woman. You can see behind the workings of the world.’
