by Kim Wilkins
And it happened. It happened upon her thought and as it happened the shock of her power and guilt cracked through her like lightning because the white bird was caught on a gust and hit the rocks, but it was a man all in black who fell out of the sky.
Ash ran, leaving the door wide open behind her.
‘Unweder! No!’ she cried, heedless of the rocky ground as she sped over it. At the edge of the cliff she pulled up sharply and looked down.
His crumpled body limp on the tide, his clothes swelling and swishing around him. He couldn’t possibly still be alive, could he? A fall like that … But how much of him was man and how much still bird – weightless and hollow-boned – when he fell?
Ash couldn’t leave him to drown, especially given it was her fault – was it her fault? – that he had fallen. ‘I didn’t ask you to do this!’ she shrieked at the wind, but the wind did not answer and Unweder would soon run out of breath. If he was still breathing.
Down the path she went, commanding the water ungently, harshly, to turn him over, and so he flipped on the waves as if he had flipped himself but she could see now the enormous gash across his left temple and the blood that oozed from it. She stumbled and ran, ran and stumbled, then waded into the water, which raged and swirled around her thighs.
‘Unweder,’ she gasped, desperately. She got her arms around his upper body and leaned close and despite the noise and movement around her, she became very still and held him, waiting, listening.
The tickle of his breath upon her ear.
She began to pull him out of the water, falling on her backside and dropping him, swallowing sea. She stood again, and saw unexpected movement from the corner of her eye. It was the sea-spirit, standing on a vein of rock that jutted out into the sea a few hundred yards away. It signalled to her with both its hands.
‘Not now,’ she mumbled, getting a grip on Unweder again, and she saw the sea-spirit dive into the water and disappear.
One hand around his chest. His arms bobbed on the water uselessly. She pushed the sea out of her way with her free arm, kicked against the rocks and sand.
Then the sea-spirit popped up in the water directly in front of her and spoke from its mind to hers.
‘Let me.’
Ash was puzzled a moment, then let Unweder go. The sea-spirit grasped Unweder’s foot, and eased him through the water as though he was nothing more than a poppet made of rags. Ash stumbled out of the water, drenched and panting, as the sea-spirit hoisted Unweder onto its shoulder and began to carry him up the cliff path.
Ash hurried after it. ‘Thank you, thank you,’ she said. ‘I think I hurt him. I didn’t mean to hurt him.’ Did she mean to hurt him? ‘I don’t know what happened, I had a thought and –’
‘Your thoughts are loud as bells to us,’ it said.
Loud as bells.
At the chapel, the sea-spirit stopped, gently lowered Unweder to the ground, then turned and gave Ash its full face. Its strange scales shimmered in the morning light.
‘How can I make it so my thoughts aren’t as loud as bells?’ she asked.
‘Why would you want them to be quiet?’
Before she could answer, it vanished, leaving her alone with Unweder. She opened the door of the chapel and dragged him inside. She stripped him and rubbed him dry, neither surprised nor embarrassed by his naked body. Then she wrapped him warmly and cleaned and dressed his wound, performing the tasks with single-minded focus, so that the larger, more difficult questions would stay at bay. His face was slack and his skin looked bloodless, but he breathed yet and his heart ticked softly under her searching hand. Her eyes kept returning to the wound on his head, where he had taken the full force of the accident. How could he hope to survive after such a blow to his head, such a great, grinding rattle of his brain?
She gathered his wet clothes and took them outside to hang in the sun, boldly stripped out of her own to leave on the rocks as well, and returned inside to dress and tend her patient.
As she sat next to him, she became aware of noise and movement near the door. Her heart started, and she turned to see the seagull flopping against the cheesecloth. She reached over and plucked the cloth off it. The bird lurched this way and that a few moments, then righted itself, cawed at her and spread its wings. In a flash it was airborne, flapping past her to the window and out beyond into the world, alive and perfectly well.
Ash turned to Unweder. His chest rose and fell softly, almost as though he was sleeping. Blood had seeped through the bandage already. She returned to her seat beside him, took his hand, and prepared herself for the fact that he would die. Hopes and regrets played across her mind. She imagined her life stretching out before her with the stain of her betrayal of him, her unintended murder of him, upon her conscience.
And she half-hoped he would live, and she half-hoped he would die.
So it happened that Bluebell had been travelling for six – or was it seven? – days, when she finally rode into Sæcaster with her hearthband. A messenger had been sent ahead, and so they entered the town with full honours, the city guard arrayed along the bridge and a small crowd of young men and women – those not old enough to brew on old troubles – cheering and throwing flowers at them. A soft bouquet of meadowsweet hit the cheek of her helm and slid down her armoured right arm, but not before she caught its sweet smell. It was such a stark contrast from her own dank odour that she almost laughed: they may as well throw petals on a turd.
She raised her hand in greeting, Torr’s muscular body strutting beneath her as though he believed the cheers for him. Sæcaster was a very old town, and the buildings had been built close together for warmth. Its grey narrowness made the town seem unwelcoming, even on a fine shining afternoon like this when the sea was a silver-blue expanse gleaming beyond the jettied houses and Guthmer’s smoke-stained hall. But Sæcaster was perhaps the most important port town in all of Thyrsland. Its docks heaved with imports from faraway places, and were lined with traders’ ships, sitting deep in the water with their own hulls full. Its position – part of Netelchester but close to Lyteldyke and the hump of the highcliffed shorelined of Thriddastowe – was also crucial in maintaining peace, especially from Ælmesse’s perspective, as it was so far from Æthlric’s hall, beyond their ceaseless watch.
At the end of the procession, under the jutting eaves of Guthmer’s hall, stood Ivy. Her golden hair – the same colour as Bluebell’s – fell in two braids over the shoulders of a rich emerald gown. Ivy was beautiful, full bodied, smiling but clearly nervous: Bluebell didn’t visit often. She thought of taking off her grim helm so Ivy could see her face and know she wasn’t in any trouble, but decided against it. On either side of Ivy, her tiny sons clutched her hands and looked up at Bluebell’s hearthband with awe.
Bluebell rode up to Ivy, towering over her on Torr, and said, ‘Sister.’
‘Welcome, my lord, to Sæcaster,’ Ivy said with practised grace. ‘We have a feast laid out in –’
‘I need a bath. Before anything else.’
The smallest little boy pressed his face into Ivy’s thigh and began to cry with fear.
‘Hush now, Edmund, it’s just your aunt.’ This affirmation of kinship seemed to make him cry harder.
Ivy turned her face up to Bluebell. ‘The stablehands and stewards will take your horses and your men can use the guest quarters behind the hall. Come with me, Bluebell. I have a bower prepared for you, and can have a bath drawn for you in quick order.’
‘Thank you.’ Bluebell dismounted. A steward ran forwards and she removed her helmet and her byrnie, but took back her sword belt and refixed it around her hips. Ivy instructed the two children to walk close behind them, and led Bluebell by the arm away from the crowd and through a high guarded gate, then into a compound of bowerhouses bordered by flowering gardens. Bluebell could hear the sea in the distance, over Ivy’s nervous chatter.
‘I put all these gardens in,’ she said. ‘The boys love being outside and they love flowers and the summer has
been so lovely. The rest of the year has been a bit bleak. Not that I’m complaining. Poor Guthmer can’t even rise from his bed and –’
‘It’s all right,’ Bluebell interrupted. ‘I’m not here to make your life difficult in any way. I just need a bath and some fresh clothes, then we can talk.’
Ivy indicated a small bowerhouse at the end of the path. ‘I’ll send Elgith to tend to you.’
Bluebell had to duck under the doorway of the little round-roofed bowerhouse. The fire had been lit and the bed made and there were fresh flowers in a brass cup on the dresser, a polished mirror and a warm nightdress and cloak laid on the end of the bed. Bluebell sat on the bed and eased off her shoes, wrinkling her nose at her own stinking feet. The door opened and an older woman with a sour face came in, rolling a tub.
‘Over there,’ Bluebell said, indicating a space by the hearth.
Elgith righted the tub then left for water. Bluebell continued to undress down to her shirt while Elgith and two helpers moved in and out of the bowerhouse, filling the bath with steaming hot water brought from the kitchen. Finally, when the tub was full, the helpers left and Elgith stayed to sprinkle the water with lavender leaves.
Then Elgith turned to her and said, ‘Would you like me to sponge you, my lady?’
Bluebell shook her head and took the scratchy sea-sponge from her. ‘I can do that myself.’
‘As you wish.’
The woman stood there a little longer than was polite, so Bluebell asked, ‘Is there something wrong?’
‘My lord Guthmer is very ill. He ought to be here.’
‘To bathe me?’ Bluebell said, with a wry smile.
Elgith blushed so rapidly it was as though her skin changed colour in an eyeblink. ‘To welcome you. To – whatever king’s business you have it is with Guthmer, not your sister.’
‘You speak very plainly for your station.’
‘My station has been brought low. But I have heard tell that you will listen to even the lowest people, that your spirit is fierce but that your heart is great.’
‘It’s really not,’ Bluebell said. ‘But it’s true that I believe that all people under the sun have something to say, so perhaps you should say it. Your name is Elgith?’
She nodded. ‘I was once Guthmer’s closest companion. Now I am your sister’s maid.’
Bluebell understood the situation immediately. Elgith loved Guthmer. ‘You must feel his illness very heavily, then,’ she said.
‘Very heavily.’ She stared at Bluebell, and the intensity of her gaze was unreadable. Was it hostility? ‘And if he should die …’ She trailed off, and Bluebell was almost certain an unvoiced threat had been made.
Bluebell was tired, dying to get in the bath. Perhaps Elgith was descended from one of the old families who hated her. ‘Well. Perhaps he’ll get better,’ she said lightly. ‘Now, please leave me to my bath. Even I can’t stand the smell of myself. I’m surprised you’re still breathing.’
Elgith, stony-faced, backed out and closed the door behind her. Bluebell stripped naked and stepped into the tub, sighing with joy as her body was swallowed by the hot water. Her hair floated around her. She made a note to tell Ivy to get rid of Elgith the moment Guthmer died. She couldn’t be trusted around Æthlric’s grandchildren.
Bluebell was the last to join the feast. Underneath the clothes she had borrowed until hers were washed, her skin was still pink and puckered from the long soak. She wore ill-fitting trousers that she’d had to rope in around the waist, and a green and gold-trimmed tunic of Guthmer’s that was inches too short. Her hair was damp and loose, her sword belt a familiar weight around her hips. The hall was warm and crowded. Music played and a drunk soldier danced to it out of time. Her hearthband sat at the head table, being served by two pretty Ærfolc twins, but it was Ivy Bluebell sought. She found her with her boys and their nurse in a quieter back corner.
‘Hello, boys,’ Bluebell said, crouching down.
‘That’s Papa’s shirt,’ the older boy said.
‘Why you have the eye of hunter,’ Bluebell replied.
The child grinned stupidly.
‘Eadric,’ Ivy said. ‘This is your aunt Bluebell. You’ve met her before when you were a baby.’
‘I remember,’ he said, though it couldn’t have been true.
‘And this is Edmund,’ she said, presenting the younger one, who sucked on his fingers and looked at Bluebell with round eyes.
‘I’m not so scary now, am I?’ Bluebell said to him, reaching out a big hand to ruffle his curls. ‘What a fine young lad you are.’
Edmund’s facial expression didn’t change, but at least he wasn’t crying.
Bluebell stood and nodded at Ivy. ‘I need to speak with you alone about a matter of great importance. Is there somewhere we can go?’
Ivy glanced around the room and Bluebell wondered whose eyes she was hoping to avoid. ‘Perhaps it would be best to take a walk in the garden behind the guest’s quarters? We could take in the view of the sea.’
‘I’ll follow you.’
Ivy left instructions for Hilla, kissed her boys, and led the way out of the hall, down the side then around the roughly built house where Bluebell’s hearthband would all be staying. She debated whether she should move in there with them tonight, but days on the road sleeping by them in tents had been enough. She wanted a warm bed in a quiet room, a long way from anyone else’s snores.
Behind the house was a round, overgrown garden with a wooden seat in the middle, angled so it could look down over the city walls and towards the sea. Ivy sat and Bluebell sat with her, but side on so that she could see if anyone approached them from the direction of the hall.
‘Why did you check the room before you left it?’ Bluebell asked her.
‘You have enemies here. If you and I were to slip away into Guthmer’s hall tower together, they would become my enemies too.’ Ivy shook her head lightly and smiled bitterly. ‘Moreso than they are now.’
‘You underestimate your power. Mother of the heirs to Sæcaster. And what a bonny pair of lads they are.’
Ivy’s eyes lit up. ‘Are they not just so?’
‘I have come to ask you a question that is both simple and terrifyingly complex. Do you own a magic sword that can kill me?’
Ivy snorted a laugh. ‘What? No.’
‘Such a thing exists in our world, and I’m told that one of my sisters has it. Think hard. Has anyone – perhaps one of your enemies – made to you or to Guthmer a gift of a weapon? Told you it was ceremonial or something to pass on to your sons?’
But Ivy kept shaking her head. ‘No, absolutely not.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘I am certain.’
‘If such a thing should fall into your hands, promise me you will destroy it immediately. Take it straight to the forge. Have them turn it into a puddle. Do you understand?’
Ivy nodded. ‘Of course.’
Bluebell sighed, turned her eyes to the sea. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Willow.’
‘You think Willow has the sword?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps. She’s mad but not a murderer. Maava would surely stop her from skewering her own sister.’
‘I haven’t heard from her. She’ll have found some trimartyrs somewhere. Be living a simple life in a chapel, trying to pretend she was never one of us.’
Bluebell clenched and unclenched her hands. ‘She will always be one of us,’ she said. ‘I must find her, and I must find Ash. Perhaps you could go to Rose for me?’
‘I haven’t seen Rose in years,’ Ivy said. ‘I will go if you like, but my husband is very ill and I oughtn’t travel too far for too long. As it is, I must go to Wengest’s wedding without him soon.’
‘Father will be there. He’ll be glad to see you.’
Ivy lowered her eyes. ‘It’s always so awkward with Wengest.’
‘You’re a daughter of Ælmesse. Daughter of the Storm King. You can manage a little awkwardness, can’t you?�
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‘I’m not what I once was,’ Ivy said quickly. ‘I want you to know that.’
‘I can see that with my own eyes, Ivy.’ Bluebell tried an encouraging smile, and hoped it didn’t look like a baring of her teeth. ‘Who is Elgith?’
‘Guthmer’s lover. He ought to have married her, I suspect, but she is too old for babies.’
‘When he dies, you need to get her away from Sæcaster. She has hate in her heart for us.’
‘I know. I will.’
‘Is he going to die?’
Ivy began to twirl and untwirl one of her braids around her hand. ‘I think it very likely, though perhaps not very soon.’
‘You’ll be vulnerable. Send to Father or me the moment it happens.’
‘I shan’t be vulnerable. Nobody would think to take the town from the sons of Guthmer.’
Bluebell shook her head at Ivy’s naïvete. ‘They are little more than infants. You need to make a clear ruling that you are in charge until they come of age.’
‘Me? But … we are trimartyr in Netelchester. Women can’t rule.’
‘Fucking trimartyrs,’ Bluebell spat. ‘Then close all the chapels. Do it quickly and quietly, get the preachers out and organise a standing guard.’
‘I’m sure he won’t die soon,’ Ivy said, but the expression in her eyes was distant, as though she was thinking about something too large and complicated to be articulated.
Bluebell slapped her shoulder comfortingly.
Ivy laughed. ‘Ouch.’
A shape moved from behind them and Bluebell turned, hand going to her sword. It was only Sighere.
‘My lord,’ he said. ‘A messenger came for you.’
‘For me? How did they know we were here?’
‘They didn’t. It has been waiting here two days with the town guard, in case you came to your sister. Someone calling himself Snowy has sent for you from Nether Weald. He says it’s urgent.’
Bluebell frowned. Snowy had never sent for her, let alone urgently. Was Rowan in danger? She stood, her loose pants nearly falling off her hips.
