Daughters Of The Storm

by Kim Wilkins

  Their longship was pulled up on the muddy beach about five miles from where they’d intercepted him. From here, Wylm could see the smoke of the village of Græweall, where he had spent the previous night. Eni was at his wit’s end, rocking from side to side and muttering as they tried to lead him onto the ship. Finally, they capitulated and let Wylm take him and sit with him under cover on the floorboards, with some barrels and a few skinny sheep. The raiders took an hour to organise themselves and pack their belongings. Wylm could feel the thuds and creaks of the ship as they did, while Eni’s bony body trembled as though he might shake to pieces.

  The fog had finally lifted and the sky was clear and pale blue as the raiders pushed the ship over mud and rattling pebbles and into the water. The ship found its weight in the water, bobbed softly. One by one, the raiders climbed in and took up oars, while Ragnar strode to the back and took the tiller. Wylm could see his legs from his place among the stored goods.

  They lifted their oars and started to row, out past the currents into deep, dark water. A horn sounded. The sails came flapping down and they tacked against the wind, picked up speed.

  Eni clung harder to Wylm, whimpering.

  ‘Sh, now, lad,’ Wylm said. ‘All will be well.’

  The ship arrowed north, towards Hrafnsey.

  Seventeen

  Willow’s throat was sore and her mouth was dry from praying. She no longer needed to whisper her prayers under her breath: Heath kept his distance from her, so when she sat in here with Father, it was as if they were alone in the world together. Sometimes she ran out of words to pray with and settled for saying Maava’s name over and over. But then the angels would hiss and spit and she would start again.

  ‘Take my father’s soul. Forgive him his many sins. Take my father’s soul into the Sunlands. Maava, great and good, listen to this poor sinner ...’

  And the angels’ voices died away.

  All except for one.

  Willow felt the angel in her head, like a thorn lodged in the soft part of her brain. It waited for her, cool and disdainful. She stopped praying.

  ‘What is wrong, angel of Maava?’ Willow said, her heart speeding.

  ‘Sinner,’ it said, its voice sizzling sharp against her ears.

  ‘I know I am a sinner. I know. I pray for Maava’s love.’

  ‘You are one of them.’

  Willow’s fingers began to shake. ‘One of ...’ Then she realised the angel meant her family. ‘No, no. I’m not. I have come to Maava’s light.’

  ‘Whores, witches, kinslayers.’

  ‘No, they are only heathens. I’m trying to bring them to Maava. See me? I’m praying night and day for the soul of the greatest heathen king in Thyrsland.’

  Æthlric began to stir, mumbling. One of his fits was coming on. She froze a moment, but knew she couldn’t cope alone. She went to the door and opened it, calling out for Heath.

  ‘Murderers, plunderers, adulterers.’

  Behind her, her father had begun to moan, low and long, like a wounded animal. She turned. His hands danced in spasms on the bed covers. The angel laughed in her ears.

  ‘He is no great king. And you are a sinner.’ Then the voice was gone.

  Æthlric flung back his covers and tried to get up, shouting at her incoherently.

  ‘My lord, you must be calm,’ she said to him, trying to smooth his covers over. ‘Heath! Heath!’ But Heath wasn’t in the house.

  Æthlric had sat up and was struggling to push himself into a standing position. Willow threw herself on top of him, straddling him, using the weight of her body to push him back down. He grunted. She put her hands on his shoulders and leaned into him, and he slowly sank back down onto the bed. The knotted fingers of his right hand closed around her wrist.

  Behind her, the door opened. ‘Willow?’

  ‘He tried to get up,’ she said to Heath. ‘He’s calm again.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I was in the —’

  ‘Bluebell?’

  Both Willow and Heath were stunned into silence. Willow looked down at her father, whose lips were moving silently now.

  ‘Did he say ...?’

  ‘Bluebell,’ Willow replied. ‘He said Bluebell.’

  Her father’s fingers went slack, drifting down from her wrist and landing on the covers. He slept again.

  Willow climbed off the bed, her heart hammering. She could still feel the ghost of her father’s touch, tingling cool on her wrist.

  Heath couldn’t hide his smile. ‘Do you think it’s possible he might recover?’

  Willow shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps.’ Her heart filled with light. If he lived, Willow could convince him to take the faith. She could convince them all. Ælmesse would convert, and the angels wouldn’t judge her any more. Of course. Of course. This was why she had been born, why she had come to Maava. Through her father’s illness, she would work a miracle. She would save the souls of her countrymen and make sure Thyrsland came to the trimartyr faith. She almost laughed, the giddy relief was so light.

  Then she realised: all along she had been praying for the wrong thing. She ought not pray for his soul. A living man could save his own soul. From now on, she would pray for his life so that her glorious destiny might rush upon her, bright and clear.

  From Stonemantel, the most direct route to Bradsey was to skim up along the coastline, but the west coast of Thyrsland was rugged and endured intense prevailing winds that had bent its trees into grotesque postures of submission. So Ash, Rose and Bluebell stayed with the inland road twenty miles from the sea, an overgrown track that led over the dramatic, heather-choked moors. They passed no other travellers and Ash had the feeling they were riding off the edge of the known world.

  Rose was silent, sulking. Bluebell responded by pretending she didn’t notice. Ash lost herself in thoughts about her power, her Becoming, and how she was to try to make a future for herself. Now she had spent so long allowing her second sight to be open — or at least, not actively shutting it down — she had realised her ability to read what was going on around her was patchy. Sometimes, the sight was wide-ranging, intense, rolling over her like an ocean wave. Sometimes, it was like seeing through a chink in a wooden board: no matter how she positioned herself, she couldn’t get a complete picture. And there seemed to be no pattern to predict it by.

  How she longed for good advice. She knew she wouldn’t find it at Thriddastowe, where the old seers would be jealous or alarmed. She hadn’t even found it with Byrta and her hopes Yldra might help had been quickly dispelled. She had thought of asking Bluebell for advice but Bluebell, for all her knowledge and experience in war, would surely have nothing to offer beyond sympathy. Perhaps she would say, ‘What does it matter if you can’t predict your second sight? Just use it when you can.’ She wouldn’t feel Ash’s sense of urgency. What is happening to me? When will it stop? Will I survive it?

  Out here on the lonely moors, far from the world of men, she could feel the creeping magic everywhere. It was skulking in the tangled heather, it was draping itself from the crooked rowan trees, it was slouching cool and dark in the crevices between rocks. The further north they moved, the stronger this sense of organic magic grew. A force neither hostile nor kind; rather, coolly neutral. Indifferent. It was a feature of the landscape here, as much as rolling green hills were a feature of the landscape in Ælmesse, or dense elm forests were a feature of the landscape in Netelchester. And, today, they were still miles from the plains of Bradsey, where the magic was thickest, roiling across the ground like fog.

  Rose slowed so she was riding alongside Ash, and said in a harsh whisper, ‘When do you think she’ll let us stop for a rest? We’ve been riding five hours with barely a break.’

  As Rose said this, Ash became aware of the tired ache across her back and thighs.

  ‘Even her dogs are nowhere to be seen,’ Rose continued, looking around. Her long hair was stuck to her face by the wind. ‘They’re probably sensibly having a rest, a few miles behi
nd us.’

  ‘They’ll find us,’ Ash said, ‘but if you’re tired, you should ask her for a rest.’

  ‘And give her another chance to put me in my place? I think not.’

  Ash urged her horse forwards. ‘Bluebell, when are you thinking of resting?’

  Bluebell stirred, almost as though from a dream. ‘Hmm? I suppose we can rest now if you want to eat. But I’d hoped to get to Sceotley and stay there for the night. It’s only an hour away, and then we’re past the moors.’ She looked around, almost as though she was sniffing the air. ‘I don’t like it out here. Something unseen lurks, as though it’s watching us.’

  Ash glanced over her shoulder at Rose, raised her eyebrows to say, ‘See? You only had to ask.’

  ‘Let’s keep going then,’ Rose said. ‘I can stand another hour if it means a soft bed.’

  Ash’s body had been preparing itself for rest and now she had to tell it to keep going. She shifted in her saddle, finding a new position for her back to settle in. She thought about Bluebell’s comment: something unseen, watching them. This place would surely be crawling with elementals. Did she dare? But before she could even make up her mind, the sight was opening up.

  What surprised her most was the stillness. She’d imagined elementals bustling about, darting between rocks and trees, going to ground as they felt her eyes on them. But they were motionless. Hundreds of them, lined up along the side of the track as though she and her sisters were a procession and they had come out to ...

  Watch. They had come out to watch. To watch Ash.

  Wonder and fear boiled up in her gut. She looked at them with frightened eyes, and they looked back at her. Guardedly, sometimes hopefully, sometimes with angry apprehension. She moved past them, and they were perfectly still. Her sisters were unaware of the audience; her horse didn’t shy.

  Then she remembered what the oak spirit had said to her. Your voice is aræd. She wanted very much to test if this was true, but fear kept her words inside. Besides, what would her sisters make of her shouting out commands to nobody?

  So, in her head, she called to them: Go to ground! All of you!

  And every single one of them dropped to the earth and disappeared. The air shimmered as it collapsed around them, and the ground shuddered as though a herd of invisible oxen had passed momentarily over it. Ash’s bones shook.

  ‘What was that?’ Rose said, looking around alarmed. Her voice came to Ash’s ears as though muffled by layers of wool. Ash’s horse put her head down and moved to buck. Bluebell stopped, her long tattooed arm raised.

  Ash’s heart thundered. She didn’t say anything.

  ‘The earth shook,’ Rose said, superstitious fear making her face pale.

  ‘I felt it,’ Bluebell said, her mouth a thin line. ‘I think we should pick up our speed.’

  So they did and Ash shut down her sight and clenched her stomach so she wouldn’t throw up over herself. Her joints felt bruised. The physical discomfort was a welcome distraction for a little while. Stopping her from thinking about what all this signified.

  She could command elementals. A storm of magic was gathering around her, and she had neither knowledge nor power enough to stop it.

  Nor, perhaps, the courage.

  Sceotley was only a small village, but walled and gated from the wild woodland around it. It must have once been a town important to the giants, because the woods were punctuated by white ruins crumbled to head height by time and weather. They reached Sceotley by crossing a wide wooden bridge over the Gemærea, a turquoise-blue river that supported the village by way of trade and the abundance of Sceotley trout, considered a delicacy throughout Thyrsland. The river marked the border between Ælmesse and Lyteldyke, and as they crossed it, they left behind the last shire in which Bluebell had direct rule. She and her father had not been this far north on king’s business in many years. She doubted the people who lived in these parts knew they were ruled by anyone.

  The stables were poorly kept: dark, with mouldering straw. The dogs looked at Bluebell with pleading eyes as she left them in one of the boxes.

  ‘Would they let me keep my dogs at the alehouse?’ she asked the terrifyingly old stable hand.

  He smiled at her with teeth worn down to stumps. ‘I’d say not, my lady. But I’ll take good care of them here if you slip me an extra coin.’

  She did as he asked then reluctantly left, trailing Rose and Ash behind her.

  The sweet steam from the alehouse called her. How she longed to sit still and drink ale, then fall into a soft bed — if there was one in Sceotley — and sleep for a long time.

  As she was about to open the door of the alehouse, Ash tugged on her sleeve. ‘Bluebell,’ she said, ‘we ought not stay here too long.’

  ‘Here? At the alehouse?’

  ‘Sceotley.’

  Bluebell’s stomach twitched. ‘We have to rest.’

  ‘Keep your head low. Hide your weapons and wear a dress.’

  ‘Wear a dress?’ She almost laughed. Then said, ‘You’re serious?’

  Ash nodded. ‘Come. Around the side here and away from eyes.’ She pulled Bluebell into the alley between buildings. ‘I have a strong sense it would be better if nobody knew Bluebell the Fierce was here.’

  Bluebell shrugged and turned to Rose. ‘Do you have a dress I can wear?’

  Rose dropped her pack on the ground and pulled out a length of fabric. ‘Do you want a shift as well?’

  Bluebell was already unbuckling her weapons and handing them to Ash, wriggling out of her tunic. ‘No, I’ll just throw it on. Hurry.’

  The dress only came to her calves, revealing her gaiters and the leather straps that tied them on. Her tattooed wrists were also visible. Rose was trying not to laugh as she pinned the dress at Bluebell’s shoulders with two amber and glass brooches.

  ‘Will I do?’ she said to Ash.

  ‘Try to look a little less ... fierce,’ Ash said, helping Bluebell back into her sword-belt and pinning her cloak: ‘And keep this covered.’

  Together, they entered the alehouse. Ash urged Bluebell to sit down with Rose in a dim back corner while she went to order food.

  Bluebell eyed Rose across the table. They’d barely spoken since they left the flower farm. ‘Are you still sore with me?’

  Rose gave a humourless laugh. ‘Sore? That’s what you used to say when we were children, after you wrestled me into submission over something.’

  Bluebell shrugged.

  ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, Bluebell, we are not children any more. I have a child of my own. And she is somewhere between here and the moon, I do not know where.’

  ‘They’d be in Withing. That’s where I told Sighere to stop.’

  ‘We hope.’

  ‘I know. Sighere will protect her. That’s why I sent him with her.’

  ‘If I knew she was home safe with those who loved her, I wouldn’t mind so much ...’ Rose dropped her head. ‘But it feels as though that cord between her body and mine was never cut, and it pulls and pulls at my guts to have her so far away.’

  Bluebell realised she wasn’t going to get any sense out of Rose and gave up, taking the opportunity instead to look around the room. A lot of smelly old fishermen and hard-faced women. No great threat. And yet, Ash’s eyes were dark with concern over some unseen thing.

  Ash made her way back from the bar then and shooed Bluebell out of her seat. ‘You face the back wall,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t like to sit with my back to the door.’

  ‘I don’t want anyone to recognise you.’

  Bluebell slid off the bench and swapped places with Rose. Now she felt uncomfortable. She couldn’t see what was happening anywhere in the alehouse. ‘What is this about, Ash?’

  Ash slid their cups of ale onto the table. ‘The moment we crossed the bridge, a cold feeling came over me,’ she said. ‘You are too bright a woman to come into this dark place, I know it. I can say nothing more than that. These feelings aren’t always clear, they
run beneath my skin like instincts. Wordless, but certain.’

  ‘Perhaps we should not have stopped. There are woods we could have slept in.’

  Rose shook her head. ‘The woods are wild. I saw no managed trees beyond the first few feet from the path. There would be wolves for certain.’ Rose’s eyes flickered, catching sight of something over Bluebell’s shoulder.

  Bluebell resisted the urge to look around. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It looks like a drunkard with love on his mind,’ Rose said.

  Bluebell braced herself. A moment later, an oily man with a flushed face was standing by their table, his right foot propped on the seat next to Bluebell’s thigh.

  ‘Good evening, ladies,’ he said.

  Bluebell turned his face to him. ‘We’d thank you to leave us be,’ she said.

  ‘But three good ladies such as yourself must surely be in need of the company of a good man.’

  Bluebell bit back the retort on her lips, mindful of Ash’s advice.

  Ash smiled at him. ‘We sisters are all the company we need for each other. We simply want to have our meal in peace.’

  He scowled, then walked away.

  ‘He smelled like trout guts,’ Bluebell murmured into her ale.

  Rose laughed.

  ‘Not so loud, Rose,’ Ash admonished. ‘He heard that.’

  ‘What’s he doing?’ Bluebell asked.

  The serving woman arrived with their meals then, thumping the plates onto the table with the kind of dull force only deeply unhappy people can achieve.

  Ash glanced up under her eyelashes. ‘He’s talking to another man. A big fellow.’

  ‘We’ve not heard the last of our new lover,’ Bluebell said. ‘You’ll see I’m right. Let’s eat quickly and get to a room.’

  They fell on their food. Bluebell would have wolfed it down under any circumstances, she was so hungry from the day’s travel, but she could also see the building panic in Ash’s face. They had to get out of there.