Daughters Of The Storm (36 page)

Then Rose looked away, put her head on her knees to wait for the ghost. Time passed. Perhaps an hour, though it was difficult to judge with no moonlight.

And then, the owl let out a hoot. After a day without the sound of birds, it seemed unnaturally loud in the dark.

The woman straightened her back. ‘It comes,' she said again, but this time her voice trembled with fear.

Rose's skin prickled. She and her sisters stood, close, the three of them shoulder to shoulder.

A noise. Rose's senses grew sick, topsy-turvy. Was she hearing a noise? Or was she
seeing
a noise? Reality shivered. She could see the woods beyond the mud wall, then they were gone again. Cold crept across her skin. In front of them, a light began to grow, that same sick light that had surrounded the old woman. And yet ... Rose looked again. There was no light. There was nothing but clear forest air. The noise and the light were nothing, and yet they pressed on her senses heavy as a millstone.

‘It's a trick,' Bluebell said, as ever made uncomfortable by what she couldn't kill.

‘Let me,' Ash said, stepping forwards.

Rose watched as Ash moved towards the light that was there and yet not there. It became bright, formed into a vaguely human shape, and the sound of crying — a man sobbing — filled her ears. Rose had a strong sensation, deep in bones and belly, of recognition. But thoughts wouldn't form chains in her mind; they were as confused as her senses.

Ash held up her hands. ‘Tell us who you are,' she said to the ghost, ‘so we can set you on your way and this woman can be free of you.'

The sobbing turned into a snarling, then tangled over itself and became a noise that could not really be heard at all, except as a violent echo in Rose's head. If she looked at the light directly, it
disappeared, became merely a blue-green impression on the back of her eyelids. But if she looked just beside it, it was terrifyingly bright.

Ash's voice was calm. ‘Reveal yourself. Let us send you on your way.' The shape compressed itself together suddenly and a blue-white arc of light — brighter than lightning — leapt towards Ash. It wrapped like a vine around her wrist and yanked her forwards. She skidded to the ground with a yelp. The light left its trace on Rose's vision, even after it had rapidly extinguished, making it difficult to see. Bluebell instinctively rushed forwards with her sword and raised it, but the blue-white vine of light flashed to life again and snapped upwards, grabbing the point of the sword and tearing it from her hands. Bluebell cursed in shock as her sword flew away from her, landing with a dull thump somewhere in the woods.

The old woman laughed. ‘Two of you have failed. What does your other sister have to offer?'

Rose's heart sped. Ash climbed to her feet, rubbing her wrist. Bluebell stood back helplessly.

Rose thought about the skeleton in the woods, about the insides of her own body eventually being exposed to the wind and the rain. Ash couldn't help, Bluebell couldn't help. Their fate was clear. And yet her thoughts weren't clear. She felt something that would not jump onto her tongue. She felt the ghost; in her sinews and blood, a sense of knowing.

‘You give up?' the old woman asked, and Rose realised the question was directed at her. This was her chance to save them.

‘It's all right, Rose,' said Ash. ‘We did our best.'

‘No, wait,' Rose said. ‘It's just ... I feel ...' The strange, physical familiarity stirred inside her. Deep in unknown places. She tried to concentrate, but when that didn't work, she tried instead to turn her mind away from the problem. Like the light, perhaps this feeling could only be identified if not looked upon directly.

It was her breasts. A prickling sensation deep in her breasts, like the sensations she'd had in the years she had breastfed Rowan; the moment before the milk let down and started to flow. She put her right hand over her left breast, half-expecting it to feel damp.

‘It's a child,' she said.

The old woman gasped and grew very still.

‘That doesn't sound like a child crying,' Ash said.

Rose closed her eyes, and tried to hear and see with her body rather than her ears and eyes. Unfathomable grief opened up inside her; she stood uncertainly on the brink. Down there was only one thing, only one event horrific enough to pull her in.

‘You lost her.' The words escaped Rose's lips before she knew she was going to form them. Rose opened her eyes and pointed at the old woman. ‘You lost a child. An infant. The grief drove you mad.'

‘But the man crying?' Bluebell asked.

‘The child's father. He left. He didn't recognise you any more.'

The old woman raised her hands and she froze like that a moment, as though she didn't know whether to cover her face, or tear out her hair. Even in the dark, Rose could see the tendons in her wrists were locked with terrible tension.

‘Oh,' the old woman said. ‘Oh.'

Rose approached, moved by sympathy to touch her.

‘Don't get close,' Bluebell warned.

But Rose ignored her, grasping the old woman's hands and pressing them together.

As she did so, the light vanished, and the mud wall began to tremble like a dream upon waking.

‘I remember,' the old woman said. ‘I remember. But I don't want to remember.'

‘It's gone now,' Rose said. ‘The ghost is gone.'

‘Every night for fifty years,' she said. ‘The torture.'

‘Tell me about her,' Rose said.

Bluebell was already pulling away. ‘The wall's down. Let's go.'

Ash hushed her. ‘Let Rose do what she must do. She saved us.'

‘I'm going to look for my sword,' Bluebell harrumphed.

Ash and Rose exchanged glances, then invited the old woman to sit with them in the dark woods and tell her tale. The woman told the story of her infant daughter's long illness and the unrelenting pressure of hope and despair; how in the end nothing could be done and how she had buried the little body, then been unable to lift her head for weeks, months, years. How the child's father had finally left her one snowy day to make a life among the living. Some time after that, she had forgotten herself; all that remained were the hauntings. Her voice wove through the dark, and even Bluebell came to sit and settle and listen. Though Rose noticed she didn't cry.

Towards the end of the old woman's story, Rose realised the dark was not as complete as it had been. Then, a sound that Rose hadn't heard in here before. Morning birdsong. At first one tentative call in the dark, then, as the sun flushed warm behind the clouds, another and another, building to a chorus. The day reborn.

The old woman finished her tale bent forwards on her own knees like a doll without enough stuffing. Bluebell, Rose could tell, was itching to be on her way. She stood and shifted from foot to foot.

‘You should go,' the old woman said. ‘I have held you here long enough.'

‘So we can go straight out now?' Bluebell said, indicating where the wall had stood.

‘Yes, the magic has collapsed.' She managed a weak smile. ‘I have been very weary holding it in place all these years.'

‘How did you do it?' Ash asked.

‘One part of my mind was devoted to holding it in place,' the old woman explained, ‘but it was growing weak. It could keep a few people in, like yourselves. But it never would have kept an army out.'

‘I knew it,' Bluebell said, patting the grip of her sword. ‘Come on, sisters. To the road. Old woman, do you know of an under-magician named Yldra?'

‘I have heard of her. She lives much further north. They say she was once a queen.'

Bluebell frowned. ‘Perhaps a king's sister. Never a queen.'

Rose climbed to her feet and helped the old woman to hers.

‘I want to give you something,' the old woman said, grasping Rose's soft white hands in her calloused fingers. She looked fixedly into Rose's eyes, as though trying to see inside her skull.

Rose had the distinct impression of something stirring in her mind, almost as though the old woman were actually poking around gently.

‘Come on, Rose,' Bluebell said, already a hundred feet away with Ash following her.

Rose glanced at Bluebell, then back to the old woman.

‘You love,' the old woman said.

‘I do.' Her heart squeezed tight.

‘It's how you knew.' The old woman smiled. Her worn teeth were grey with age. ‘You are apart from the one you love.'

Rose thought about Heath and her heart felt heavy.

The old woman withdrew her hands and reached for her belt. It jangled as she felt along it, her fingers finally coming to rest on what she sought. She detached it from her belt and held it out to Rose.

It was a loop of bronze, with a piece of ice trapped in it. Rose touched the ice. The cold made her shiver. ‘What is it?' she asked.

‘It's a seeing-circle. Every morning, from the moment when the first curve of the sun appears, to when it has risen fully, the ice will become water, suspended in the seeing-circle. You will be able to see your loved one even if you are parted.'

Rose's heart lifted in her chest. ‘Really?'

‘Yes. But first, you must name the one you love the most in the world. So I can enchant it properly.'

Rose opened her mouth to say Heath, then remembered her daughter and cursed herself. All things being well, Rowan would be at Folcenham by now, safe in Wengest's arms, playing with Nurse and eating like a pig. Within weeks, Rose would be with her again, able to see with her own eyes every morning if she was well and happy. She remembered Heath telling her about going into battle.
In a two-minute skirmish, all can be lost.
Surely it wouldn't have been wrong to ask for assurance of his safety when they were destined to be apart?

But Rowan was her child. And she didn't know if everything was fine: if Ivy and Sighere had made her feel safe, if Wengest made her feel loved, and if she was crying on waking every morning because Rose was not there.

‘Rowan,' she said. ‘My daughter.' She fought selfish disappointment.

‘You have to choose a place to see her.'

‘If I can only see her at dawn, then it must be her bed back in Folcenham.'

The old woman lifted the loop to Rose's lips and said, ‘Go on, whisper her name.'

Rose did as she was asked. A wisp of steam rose from the ice. She handed it to Rose.

Rose pinned the bronze object to her own belt. ‘Thank you,' she said.

‘You can't ever change what the seeing-circle shows you, but you can pass it to another, if you desire.' The old woman raised her arm. The owl flew to her with a clatter of its giant wings. Rose stepped back, alarmed, but then the owl was still.

‘Good luck on your journey,' the old woman said.

‘Good luck with ...' Rose trailed off. ‘Good luck.'

The old woman nodded, her mouth trembling. ‘Bless you.'

‘Are you coming, Rose?' Bluebell called.

Rose looked up. Bluebell and Ash were waiting. Bluebell's lips were set hard with impatience.

Rose thoughtfully fingered the seeing-circle on her belt. ‘Yes, coming,' she called, hurrying off towards her sisters.

The dogs and horses had not strayed far from where they had been left, and were fresh and energetic where the sisters were not. Bluebell wanted them out of the deep wooded path before they rested and that meant a half day's travel. Ash's anxiety grew as the day woke up. Her belly felt loose, her scalp prickled. She thought, at first, it was a result of not having slept the night before, but as they wound their way out of the woods, she knew it was something else. Whoever was following them had waited for them and was now shadowing them again.

There was nothing else to do but go forwards, so Ash kept her gaze in front of her and kept going. The road grew shallow, and light ahead told her the wood was thinning. The grim yews gave way to young elms, strong saplings stretching up for sunshine. Bluebell increased the pace, despite Rose's protests.

‘The sooner we're there, the sooner we can rest,' Bluebell told her.

‘Where's “there”?' Rose asked
But Bluebell didn't answer. They were hoping for a village, for an inn, for a bed. Especially as the earthy smell of rain behind them intensified.

Finally, finally, the road widened and they left the woods behind. Stretching off on either side was overgrown farmland. Meadow grass and wildflowers growing unchecked. Ambitious hedgerows that marked off fields that were too rocky ever to grow much. And, in the distance, the dark shapes of buildings.

‘A village,' Rose breathed.

‘A bed,' Ash said, glancing at the sky. Dark grey clouds were moving in. ‘Bluebell?'

‘Yes, we'll stop. We'll rest this afternoon and have a good night's sleep. We are only a few days from Yldra now.'

This time, they were careful. Ash, in her counsellor's clothes, found them a room and Bluebell was kept well hidden when Rose went to the inn for meals. They ate in their room — a dim space lit by one narrow shuttered window and smelling of mouldy rushes — then eased their weary bodies into soft beds. Bluebell said they should only sleep an hour so they could sleep properly that night, but even she didn't sound convinced by her logic. Ash suspected they would all wake in the middle of the night when it was too dark to travel, but couldn't fight the tide of tiredness.
Sleep. Now.
She fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.