Daughters Of The Storm (11 page)

‘You are too dangerous to let go,' she said. ‘I am sorry.'

Serpents and birds were carved into the round beams that held up the roof of Æthlric's hall. Bluebell thoughtfully traced the swirling patterns with her fingers, considering her dirty nails in the half-light. The hall was the largest in Thyrsland at forty yards long and seven wide, big enough for a great feast. But now it was quiet, the mead benches stacked away, the hearthpit cold, the cauldron on its long chain empty, the smell of ash and animal fat lingering in the air. The door opened and a shaft of light fell across the stone floor, then disappeared again as the door swung closed behind Byrta.

The older woman approached, stopped in front of her with arms folded. ‘Gudrun is terrified of Dunstan.'

‘Good.'

‘You are cruel.'

‘It's my job to be cruel.'

‘Not to your family.'

‘She isn't my family.'

Byrta made an exasperated noise. ‘You have never liked her, but she is a good woman. Your father loved her, so she can't be all bad.'

‘Perhaps that was also an enchantment.'

Byrta narrowed her blue eyes. ‘What do you mean “also”?'

‘Father is elf-shot, Byrta. Don't you see?'

Byrta's mouth opened and closed once. Then her soft hand reached out to encircle Bluebell's wrist. ‘Oh, Bluebell, no. He isn't elf-shot. He is sick.'

‘What kind of sickness is this? I've never heard of anything like it.'

‘The brain is mysterious, but some say it can block up and fill with pressure, with unpredictable results. I'm almost certain that is what's happening to your father. But I disagree with Osred that it will be over quickly. I think he will see out the spring with us. There will be plenty of time for you to say goodbye, to grow used to the idea.'

Bluebell formed a fist with her right hand and punched the pillar. ‘I do not intend to grow used to it. I intend to find somebody who will make him better.' Osred had denied until blood was shed that he had elf-shot Æthlric, then denied until locked away that he could fix it. A week in a muddy hole in the ground with a festering wound and rats for company might change his mind. But if it didn't, she would need to find somebody who could cure bad magic.

Byrta was shaking her head, pity in her eyes.

Bluebell grew furious. ‘Don't you look at me like that, old woman.'

‘Respect somebody who has had feet in the world longer than you, girl,' Byrta responded hotly. ‘Your father isn't elf-shot; he is brainsick. He will die, as do we all. You are familiar enough with death, surely. You don't fear it like a baby.'

‘Pity you if a soul heard you speak to me that way,' Bluebell muttered. ‘I'm not a child any more.'

‘You will always be a child to me. I was the first person who held you, covered in your mother's blood.'

Bluebell crossed her arms tight over her body, shoved her hands in her armpits. ‘You are certain it's not bad magic?'

‘I am almost certain.'

‘Almost?'

Byrta shrugged. ‘There is always possibility. But don't look to Gudrun. Gudrun loves your father.'

‘I don't trust her.'

‘You have never trusted her. Are you mad? Do you think she wants to harm your father? Take his throne? Give it to that oily boy she calls her son? She'd no more be able to achieve that than jump to the moon.'

Bluebell fell silent. Those possibilities did seem remote, now they were voiced.

She needed her sisters here. She needed Ash.

‘Bluebell,' Byrta said, her voice softening, ‘I know this hurts. But he doesn't suffer. He doesn't know who he is, what he has lost. And when the time comes, you shall be our king, as you have been preparing to be your whole life.'

Bluebell thought about this a while, then said, ‘He recognised me.'

‘Surely not.'

‘He did, I know it. For a moment, but certainly.'

Byrta didn't respond, but Bluebell knew the counsellor believed her self-deluded. Bluebell cared little: she had seen her father's
brow furrow at mention of her name. He wasn't so far from life as they all believed. And she would bring him back.

After the second night with no sleep, Ash was raw behind the eyes. The journey seemed interminable as the river weaved its winding pattern through fields and forests. She grew used to the smell of the donkeys, she ate the rough chewy bread offered her by the crew, she even managed to raise a smile at their dirty jokes. But she did not sleep. Because every time she veered close to sleep, the dream was waiting. It was inescapable now, she knew. And yet, here she was, still trying to escape it.

She was nodding into her knees, pinching herself awake at dawn on the third day. The clouds had cleared and the sun was fiery orange as it can only be when rising directly over a cloudless horizon. The sail turned black in silhouette in front of the burning sunlight, and Ash's heart spiked. The colour reminded her of something ... something ...

She stood, hurried to the side of the vessel, grasped the heavy wood with her hands for safety. But it was no use, sleep or no sleep, the dream was coming, roaring down on her ...

Thriddastowe is alive with panic. They rush to the sea, to the rough rocky beach, shouting and crying. The end of everything is here. I am among them, confused, blinking in every direction, crushed on every side by swarming, frantic bodies. They look to the sea, where steam rises in a thin curl. They point and scream. Then the thin curl disappears and a mighty spout of steam shoots up, and the noise grates against my brain like iron against stone. The sea ruptures, a scream tears my throat. Something vast and terrifying is coming. From within the churning ocean rises a great dragon, dark as cinders, cruel hooks tipping its tail, water sheeting off its wings as they spread and black the sky. The people turn and begin to run away, back to the town. I am buffeted by the crowd but stand to watch as
the dragon opens its jaws and spews sunbright fire, bloody amber across the crowd. Charred bodies fall.

But I know this fire is intended for me and nobody else. As soon as the dragon sees me, he will leave the others alone. My body is shaking to pieces with the fear. The dragon rises like the sun, mighty and cruel and scorching, and I turn to run with the crowd, before those ancient glassy eyes can see me.

But he
will
see me, because it is only me he seeks. And I know this as certainly as I know I am breathing.

‘My lady?'

Ash startled back into the world, heart thudding. She became aware of a pain in her hands, looked down and realised she had driven her fingernails into the wood so hard that splinters had shafted up inside them. Her body ached from nape to ankle, as though she had been trampled. In some way, perhaps, she had.

‘Are you well, my lady?' the donkey trader said to her.

‘I ... I am ...' Her mouth was dry, her head swam, her ears rang. ‘Not well,' she said.

‘We'll have you home within a few hours,' he said kindly. ‘Come back to your seat. I'm afraid you'll fall and hit your head.'

She allowed herself to be led back to her seat, took a drink of ale from him. He returned to work and she found herself alone, icy-skinned and terrified. For, certainly, she had seen her own Becoming and it was blighted beyond redemption.

The weather held and the afternoon was fine and clear as Wylm rode up towards the gatehouse and into Blicstowe. He wasn't expecting the gatehouse guards to step out in front of him and shout for him to stop.

He reined his horse, skin prickling with irritation. This was Bluebell's doing, no doubt.

‘The queen sent for me,' he said. ‘I'm here to see my mother, the queen.'

‘Bluebell said we are to accompany you to the family compound,' one of the guards said, while the other held his horse firmly around the bridle. ‘Dismount. My friend here will take care of your horse.'

Wylm slid from his saddle. His mouth was dry. Damn his stepsister. One of the guards moved off with his horse, the other held him firmly but respectfully around the upper arm.

‘Please,' Wylm said, ‘I won't run. Let me go. Everyone will see and think I've committed some crime.'

The guard released him, but did not stand back. ‘Stay close,' he said.

‘Or what?' Wylm laughed. ‘Will you kill me?'

The guard didn't answer, and Wylm resigned himself to the shame of being walked through the main thoroughfare of Blicstowe under guard. He kicked a passing chicken in frustration. It squawked and dashed off, shedding feathers in the mud.

Outside Æthlric's hall, the guard instructed Wylm to sit on one of the long benches beneath the overhangs and wait. Wylm slumped in the seat petulantly, expecting Bluebell to come and chastise him. Again, his thoughts turned to how things might be if Mother were free of both Æthlric and Bluebell, if he were the king. Nobody would dare treat him as though he were a naughty child. He passed the waiting minutes entertaining this fantasy in detail. Footsteps nearby. He turned; it wasn't Bluebell, it was his mother with the same gatehouse guard.

‘My son!' she said, rushing towards him.

He stood and took her in his embrace. She seemed very pale and thin, her normally tidy hair working its way loose of its plaits. ‘Mother,' he murmured against her hair, ‘are you well?'

‘No, no. I'm not.' She stood back and looked at him, and her eyes were moist. ‘I'm so glad you're finally here.'

Wylm looked over her head at the guard. ‘Go on. Leave us be.'

He looked uncertain.

Gudrun turned. ‘Leave us,' she said. ‘Neither of us are under arrest, are we? Or is unhappiness a crime in Blicstowe?'

The guard inclined his head slightly to the side, then said, ‘I will leave you be, my lady. Remain in the town.'

‘I would not leave my husband's side,' Gudrun said. ‘Don't offend me.'

Wylm waited for him to move off then said, ‘They marched me here like a prisoner.'

‘It is Bluebell,' Gudrun said. ‘She has gone mad with sorrow.'

‘Bluebell is always mad. She needs no excuse.' Wylm took her upper arms in his hands gently. ‘Mother, why did you send for me and not her? Who gave you such bad advice?'

‘I took no advice. I wanted you near me, before
she
came.' She glanced away, not meeting his eyes. ‘Now she thinks I meant her harm. Æthlric says I will come to love her, but she is a monster. How is a monster to rule a kingdom as important as Ælmesse? Æthlric deserves an heir who people will love, not fear.'

‘She commands a mighty army.'

‘And I am to be impressed? She has done nothing good for me. She has done nothing good for you, either. She sent you away from me, to a remote outpost, probably hoping you'd meet your death.'

Wylm considered telling his mother Bluebell had saved him from death at the hands of the bandit. But he decided not to. Everyone else sang her praises, why should he? ‘Was she cruel to you, Mother?' he said.

‘She only threatened me at swordpoint! She sent Osred away. She has me under watch in my husband's bower by that one-eyed monster who calls me “the Twit from Tweoning”.' She dropped her voice low. ‘I hate myself for being so afraid of her, Wylm. I am soon to be widowed for the second time; I want to be at my husband's side, to count his breaths. I should be thinking of him, but instead my thoughts are always on her. What will she do to me next? What will she do to me when Æthlric dies? I've nowhere to go ...' She descended into sobs and Wylm pressed her close, shushing against her hair in the same fashion she had comforted him in his childhood. He led her to the long bench to sit and let her cry a while.

‘Where is Bluebell now?' Wylm asked, when her sobs eased.

‘I don't know. She hasn't been near her father since she first arrived. She mustn't love him. Perhaps she thinks her other
business is more important.' Gudrun snuffled against her sleeve, and gazed up at the sky. ‘Why have I lost two husbands, Wylm? Am I careless or unlucky?'