Bloodchild

by Anna Stephens

  ‘Then kill me.’

  The light in the tent contracted, shadows leaping, crowding close. There was no air, nothing for her straining lungs to find. ‘What?’ Rillirin didn’t recognise her own voice. ‘I can’t.’

  Dom smiled, so tender and full of love she couldn’t reconcile it with his words. ‘I’m dying, Rillirin. Nothing is going to stop that, but you can stop it hurting. If you do it, you fulfil the final prophecy and it’s all over. You bring death to love – me. And you bring love to death – Macha, once the Bloodchild, destined to be death itself and saved by you and loved despite who she was meant to become.’

  He trembled, in pain or fear or just tiredness she couldn’t tell. He smiled like a skull, and his breath hitched, and his heart stuttered beneath Rillirin’s hands. ‘Do it now, my love. And then make sure our daughter knows who I was and what I did. Tell her all of it, the good and the bad. She deserves that. Everyone deserves that.’

  ‘I can’t.’ She wanted to beat him, to press her hands over his mouth and stop his words.

  ‘You can.’ He reached for her, hand questing in the air until she took it in hers and held it to her cheek. ‘You have to.’ He paused to breathe, fighting pain she finally realised he’d been feeling for years and that built now, wave upon wave, to drown him. More pain than she would ever know. ‘I’m broken, shattered in so many ways there’s no chance of putting me back together. There’s only one thing you can do for me. Let me go.’

  ‘I can’t.’ The same denial, softer now, a child’s plea against the coming of night, as though if she believed enough, wanted it enough, she could summon back the sun.

  ‘Please.’

  Her heart was burning, her eyes stinging hot, unable to cry. She was numb. ‘But you’re home,’ she whispered. ‘You’re my home, the only one I ever really had. The only one I want.’

  ‘Macha is your home,’ Dom contradicted her. ‘And Gilda and Ash and Dalli and even Mace. They’re all your home. Give me the grace, my love. Let me make my peace with the Dancer, after all this time and all our angry, bitter words. Let me sleep. Knowing Gilda as I do, she’ll have left you a knife.’

  And she had. Rillirin picked it up, the handle smooth and obscene in her palm. And right. ‘I will always love you,’ she murmured. ‘You don’t get rid of me that easily. Wait for me in the Light.’

  ‘Forever,’ Dom whispered.

  Rillirin bit her lip, hard, until the pain stopped her hand from shaking, and then she pressed a sore and solitary kiss to his brow, heard him breathe her in, one last time. The things he’d done, the people he’d killed and hurt, the betrayals … none of it mattered. Her courage was failing her and he knew it.

  He raised his poor mutilated arm and she put her face against it. ‘Best thing I ever did, saving you from the Mireces. It was all worth it in the end. To be with you. To love you.’

  ‘Best thing you ever did, Dom Templeson, was make Macha with me, our perfect, beautiful babe,’ she contradicted him, and the smile that lit his face would warm her for the rest of her life. ‘Go in grace, my heart,’ Rillirin whispered, and she sent him home.

  MACE

  Tenth moon, first year of the reign of King Mace

  Freedom Hill, edge of Deep Forest, Wheat Lands

  Mace stood beneath the same royal standard that had marked his command post on this day the previous year. Around it stood banners marking the Ranks who’d fought and died there: South, West and Palace. A high black flag with a stylised wolf’s head picked out in silver to commemorate the many dead and few surviving Wolves who’d given everything in the war. The Warlord of Krike’s standard.

  Below the hill, two more flags flew proud against the high expanse of emptiness – the Trickster’s, a fox with two-coloured eyes – and the calestar’s, a wolf beneath a sun and moon, newly commissioned for the memorial.

  Everyone who’d fought or resisted, everyone who’d lived and could travel had come to bear witness and pay their respects. Mace looked out at them in silence, Dalli by his side with their baby girl wrapped up in her arms. The ghosts of the dead thronged the hill.

  Mace took his daughter from Dalli and looked into green eyes in a tiny face. ‘Lots of people here, sweetheart,’ he whispered. ‘Just not as many as there should be. I can think of a few who should be celebrating with us, can’t you?’ He kissed the pudgy fist that tried to grab his nose.

  Dalli stepped forward. ‘They’re waiting, love.’

  The host was silent and solemn, retired soldiers standing stiff and straight in uniforms not worn for a year. Gilda, Hallos, Mark Salter, wearing a major’s sigil now. Colonel Thatcher, now Commander of the Ranks, and his husband, the promoted Major Kennett. Brid Fox-dream and Cutta Frog-dream, who’d together held the wood and the slope with the Wolves and lost three-quarters of their warriors defending a foreign land. Dalli’s Wolves, just over one hundred, all that was left of an entire people. Even Rillirin and young Macha with her blood-red hair and black, black eyes.

  Among them, hundreds of civilians from Rilporin, the Wolf Lands, Sailtown and Pine Lock and the South Forts. Soldiers, warriors, survivors all.

  The dead were shadows among them, hovering close as their names were whispered, and it seemed there was only one living person missing: Ash.

  Where he’d gone nobody knew. What had happened to Crys’s body, no one knew that either. They’d simply disappeared into the snowstorm, never to return. Some thought that Crys still lived and together they haunted the high passes of the Gilgoras Mountains, watching Rilpor and all the world, ready to descend and defend it once more when danger threatened. Others thought they’d taken a boat to Listre, or maybe all the way out the other side into the great, endless ocean that Gilda had once seen, sailing for new lands and new gods, where nobody knew them and they could be free.

  No one believed that Crys was dead.

  Not even Mace could truly believe it.

  ‘We are gathered here today to honour the fallen.’ His voice cut through the murmurs and the wind. ‘We are here to remember their sacrifice and yours. One year ago today we defeated evil. One year ago today two men faced down two gods and triumphed.’

  Mace paused and pressed a kiss to his daughter’s forehead before sweeping them all with his gaze. ‘They were heroes. And so is every single one of you. Do not let your deeds be submerged beneath greater stories. Do not ever forget that your heroism did as much to win the day as theirs. When no one would answer our call, Krike came. When the Mireces killed the Evendooms, the Ranks did not falter – and nor did you. I never wanted to be king,’ he said and there was a ripple of laughter. ‘I never wanted to lead this country. But I’ve never been prouder in all my life than the day you led me – by your example – to victory here on Freedom Hill.’

  He paused, fighting emotion, and Dalli took the baby from him and handed him a silver cup. ‘For Durdil Koridam and Tara Carter.’ He shouted the names, pouring drops of wine into the grass with each one.

  Dalli took the cup from him. ‘Ash Bowman,’ she cried, spilling wine. ‘And Dom Templeson.’

  One by one they advanced, calling out the names of those they’d loved and lost, comrades in arms, friends, family. The ground ran with wine red as blood, staining boots and the hems of skirts. Mace refilled the cup for them himself, over and over and over again as the day progressed. He listened to their voices, listened to the names they called. It wasn’t snowing this year and the wind hadn’t yet got winter in its teeth, and yet he was chilled to the bone by the sheer multitude of what – of who – they’d lost.

  Mace squinted up at the next, a giant of a man with a familiar look to him. ‘Name’s Merol, son of Merle Stonemason. He—’

  Mace shook his hand. ‘I remember Merle well. Your father was a great man, Merol. Pretty sure he saved my life. And I’ve seen you in the city, helping us rebuild. Thank you for coming.’

  In the depths of the beard, Merol’s lower lip wobbled. ‘He wouldn’t let me fight, Your Majesty,’ he said. ‘I wa
nted to, but he wouldn’t …’

  Mace searched his memory for all the stories that had been told after the war ended. ‘You carried Rillirin, didn’t you, out of the city? Rillirin and her daughter?’

  The mason nodded and Mace slapped him on the arm and then winced: it was like slapping marble.

  Merol shuffled his feet, embarrassed. ‘Weren’t nothing much, Your Majesty. Not like I carried her all the way. Just a while, you know. Just … seemed right.’

  ‘Well, what do you think would have happened to her if you’d fought and died alongside your father, eh? No, Merol, the gods saved your life to help her. It might not seem as heroic as some other deeds recounted here today, but you ask Rillirin what she thinks of your actions. She’s here, too. Speak to her.’ He noticed two small faces peeking from behind Merol’s massive legs. ‘And who are these young princesses?’ he asked with a smile.

  Merol ushered them forward, his massive hands gentle enough to cup a butterfly’s wings. ‘My girls. Adopted after the war ended. They’re … from the west, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘They’re Rilporian now, Merol,’ Mace said firmly. ‘Now and always.’

  ‘Can I see your sword?’ the littlest one asked, making a grab for the scabbard.

  Her sister hauled her back. ‘Ede,’ she said. ‘You’re supposed to curtsey.’ She stumbled into one of her own and Mace felt the corner of his mouth lift. ‘Hello, Your Majesty. I’m Kit. I’m six now.’

  Mace gave them both a little bow. ‘Hello, Kit and Ede,’ he murmured. ‘You know your da’s a great man, don’t you?’ They giggled and nodded. ‘Be good for him, yes? Promise me.’

  Merol dragged his fingers through his beard, blushing. ‘Thank you, Your Majesty, though I doubt even you can command this pair.’ He took the cup. ‘Merle Stonemason,’ he said. ‘Tara Vaunt.’

  Mace frowned. ‘Tara Vaunt?’ He put the names together and his eyes widened. ‘Come and find me after the ceremony is over. It seems that’s one story I haven’t heard.’

  Merol bowed awkwardly and shuffled away.

  Mace watched him go until Hallos blocked his view. He looked deep into his king’s eyes. ‘You made your father proud this time last year,’ he said. ‘And you make him proud today.’

  Mace coughed and shifted. ‘Thank you, Physician,’ he murmured.

  ‘King Rastoth,’ Hallos said, pouring wine. ‘Durdil Koridam.’ He handed the cup back and Mace blinked away the sting. Hallos leant in close. ‘And I’d like it put on the royal record that I’ve still got a limp. The next time your wife goes into labour, you can find someone else to deliver her.’

  Mace pressed his lips together but couldn’t prevent a very unroyal snort of laughter. ‘Duly noted, Hallos.’

  The afternoon was beginning to gloam when the last person appeared to make her offering. The grey novice priestess robes suited her and Mace squeezed her shoulder, gave the toddler on her hip a little wave. Rillirin’s hand shook so hard the wine sloshed and the little girl wrapped her arms around her neck to comfort her.

  ‘Take your time,’ Mace said quietly. ‘There’s no rush.’

  Rillirin took in a shuddery breath. ‘Tara Carter, for saving my life,’ she said, pouring, and a muscle flickered in Mace’s jaw. ‘And Dom Templeson, for showing me how to live it.’

  EPILOGUE

  RILLIRIN

  Tenth moon, first year of the reign of King Mace

  Watcher village, northern Wolf Lands, Rilporian border

  ‘Say hello to Uncle Ash, young warrior.’

  ‘’Lo, Uncle,’ Macha said as she scampered in through the archer’s front door. She squealed when he swung her up and around, darting in for kisses on her ruddy cheeks.

  Gilda followed her in, leaning on the walking staff that was a spear. Rillirin closed the door and watched, arms crossed over her chest and fingers cupping the polished amulet hanging from her neck. It had been Dom’s. She smiled at Macha’s screams of laughter as Ash tossed her up towards the roof beams and then caught her. ‘You’ll make her sick.’

  ‘And then I’ll give her back to you to clean up,’ Ash agreed. Gilda snorted and Rillirin pretended outrage.

  ‘Sleepy man,’ Macha said, pointing to the door.

  Rillirin didn’t miss the flash of pain in Ash’s grimace and winced. ‘You should have come to the ceremony,’ she said softly.

  Ash scowled. ‘And leave him? No.’

  ‘Not today, Macha,’ she said and held out her hand.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Ash said and put the little girl down. ‘He’d like a visitor and you’ve learnt lots of new words since you were last here, I expect.’ He dropped to one knee and brushed back her sunset-red curls. ‘Go and see the sleepy man then. Give him a kiss from me.’

  They waited until she’d trotted through the door with a wave. Ash handed out cups of ale even though it was barely noon. Gilda drained hers in one go and smirked as she held it out to be refilled, eliciting a reluctant smile from Ash. She’d always been able to drink him under the table. He watched the door to the bedchamber, swirling his ale in his cup. Brooding. ‘At least she’s not afraid of him.’

  ‘How can she be afraid of her uncle Crys?’ Rillirin protested, but Gilda gave a single shake of her head and she bit her tongue. Priestesses sought the truth, no matter how hard, and she knew what Ash meant: though he fed him water and soup, vegetables mashed into a paste in tiny, patient dribbles, Crys was a barely breathing skeleton clothed in papery skin. He, and the room, smelt of sickness and shit, no matter how often Ash bathed him. Now the snow was here, Ash couldn’t even prop open the shutters to let in fresh air.

  ‘’Lo, sleepy man!’ they heard Macha say cheerily. Ash’s mouth twitched in a smile.

  ‘That one’s not afraid of anything,’ Rillirin said with a hint of sourness. ‘I caught her standing on my table this morning. I have no idea how she got up there, but she was preparing to jump back off.’ Worry vied with pride, the scales evenly balanced. Macha was far too young for most of the things she knew and did and there could be only one explanation for her development, but still, not even Gilda’s wise old eyes could see a shadow on her granddaughter’s soul.

  ‘She’s her father’s recklessness,’ Gilda agreed and winked. ‘How are you, Ash?’

  ‘I know why you’re here,’ he said, flinging himself into a chair and downing half the ale. ‘Honestly, I’m glad you went to Freedom Hill for the memorial – you deserved to be there – but you don’t need to mother me the moment you get back. It’s not as if anything’s changed.’

  Gilda raised a grey eyebrow. ‘I’ve been mothering you for bloody years, lad. Not much point stopping now. Besides, Dalli’s had the bairn. Thought you’d want to know.’

  Ash sat back up. ‘She has? All well?’

  Gilda smirked. ‘She threatened Hallos with a spear up his arse at one point if I’m not mistaken, but yes, she’s well. Healthy as a horse, the babe too. A girl.’ She looked at Rillirin.

  ‘Tara.’

  Ash’s face crumpled. ‘Good name,’ he said thickly. ‘She told me once – our Tara – that if she’d had balls, she’d be King of Rilpor.’

  Rillirin swallowed. ‘Well, her namesake will be queen, and apparently she’s all girl.’

  ‘She’d love that,’ Ash said, and they fell silent.

  Rillirin knocked back her ale, suppressed a burp, and refilled her cup and Ash’s.

  ‘They don’t know, do they, about us?’ he asked. ‘You didn’t tell anyone?’

  ‘No,’ Gilda said. ‘Though why—’

  ‘’Lo, sleepy man!’ Macha said again, happiness in her voice. Ash twitched again. The lines in his face were carved deeper now; there was the first scattering of silver in his curly hair. His hand went to two scars, one in his jaw, one in his chest. He flushed when he saw Rillirin notice the gesture.

  Because you can’t go into the Light and bring Crys back as he did you. Because he isn’t in the Light. He’s somewhere else. Stuck between this world and
the next. And none of us can find him, not even Gilda.

  And that’s why you can’t bear for people to know where you are. Because you think you’ve failed him.

  Macha appeared in the doorway. ‘Sleepy man,’ she said, pointing.

  ‘Yes, Uncle Crys is the sleepy man,’ said Ash.

  Rillirin could see how much the words cost him. She started forwards to offer some sort of comfort when Macha spoke again.

  ‘Sleepy man ’wake!’ They froze, all three of them, as the little girl giggled and bounced up and down, her curls floating into a crazed halo around her head. ‘’Wake,’ she repeated, and there was a noise from the other room, the slightest sound. A murmur, perhaps, or the slide of blankets on a form that never moved.

  Very, very slowly, Ash rose from his chair. Gilda beckoned, and Macha ran to her, holding out her arms to be picked up. Gilda swung her on to her hip and met Rillirin’s eyes, the look binding her in place.

  They watched Ash creep to the door of the bedchamber, tension and broken hope in his lanky frame. Rillirin heard his throat click as he swallowed, and then he stepped through the door. ‘Crys?’ His voice was unbearably soft.

  Rillirin took her daughter in her arms and held her tight, breathing her in. The little girl’s black eyes were solemn. ‘’Wake,’ she whispered. ‘Uncle happy?’

  Rillirin pressed a kiss to flame-red hair. ‘Oh yes, little one. Uncle Ash is very, very happy.’ She looked at Gilda. ‘But how?’

  ‘And the godlight will lead us all, to death and beyond,’ the old priestess whispered. ‘And what is beyond death but the promise of new life?’

  From the other room came the sound of quiet weeping, full of joy. Gilda ushered them out into a world of black trees and white snow. ‘Let us give thanks,’ she said.

  ‘Happy,’ Macha repeated, and her high laughter pealed across the clearing.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Like many of my characters, I wasn’t sure I’d live to the end of this trilogy when I was writing it and I don’t really know what to say now that we’re here. It’s been such a huge part of my life for fifteen years and now it’s finished I’m a bit lost.