Daughters Of The Storm (27 page)

It hadn't been dark when she'd left the farmhouse, just bordering dusk. She'd wanted to give Heath a good lead before following him. After all, her goal was for him to come upon her by accident in a flower field. She would look proud and beautiful in her yellow gown with the embroidered cuffs — a woman, not a girl — and he would be forced to admit he was wrong to speak to her as he had. But he had not headed into the fields, rather towards the stream. She didn't know that her embroidered cuffs would go particularly well with mud and rocks, but she gave him a headstart and then made her way across.

But Heath wasn't there. She'd stood for a minute, listening. Thought, perhaps, there were footfalls in the oak wood. Hesitated: perhaps it would be better to turn back to the farmhouse and wait for another opportunity to see him alone.

Then she'd moved off into the woods. And then, night had fallen. And now, her yellow dress was barely visible in the dark.

It wasn't like Ivy to panic though. She simply had to find her way back the way she came — if only she could be sure which way that was. She comforted herself with a fantasy Heath would find her and have to rescue her. Perhaps she would fake a limp. Yes. Then he'd have to put his arm around her waist and help her home. Once he realised how curvaceous her body was, he wouldn't think her a girl. She wasn't a skinny, flat-chested thing like Bluebell and Ash and Willow.

She was comforting herself with these thoughts, trying to find her way through shadowy undergrowth, when she heard voices. A woman's voice, calling out. It travelled to her on the breeze, then faded. But at least she knew
somebody
was out here in the
forest. Perhaps it was one of her sisters, looking for her. She was about to call out in return, when she reminded herself she didn't know for sure if it was somebody she knew and could trust. So she warily set off in the direction of the voice, careful to keep her footsteps light, just in case.

Nearby, an owl hooted, startling her. She shivered, and she realised her heart was speeding. What if she'd imagined the voice? What if she was going to be stuck out here for the night, with the hooting owls and the wolves and ... bandits, and whatever else was dark and evil and lurked in cold woods at night. Would Bluebell come for her if she didn't return home? The thought filled her with dread and relief at the same time. Bluebell would be cruel, but Ivy had no doubt she could fight off bandits with one hand and wolves with the other.

The voice again. Closer. And, unmistakably, the voice of a woman being pleasured. Ivy frowned. Not one of her sisters, then. Unless ...

The thought made her burn.
Burn.
She hadn't seen Bluebell all afternoon. Heath had gone out. And now, the sound of pleasure in the wood. Surely not. Bluebell could not possibly be a sexual being. Surely her orifices were riveted shut.

Ivy was determined to find out if her suspicions were right. She picked her way carefully through the trees. Now she could hear a second voice, a man's voice. She knew it was Heath's voice and jealousy spiked her stomach. She had hoped to hear those sounds he was making, yes, but not in these circumstances.

Her heart hardened. They sounded like a couple of animals, grunting in a ditch. Then she got a clear sight of them through the trees.

Not Bluebell. Rose. Rose, queen of Netelchester. Wengest's wife. Her white body arched under starlight, with Wengest's
nephew between her legs, his hands over her breasts. Ivy crept as close as she dared, but they were both lost to pleasure and heard and saw nothing.

Ivy slumped to the ground and gently and purposely knocked her head on a tree trunk. Why on earth did Heath prefer Rose? Rose was married. Rose had a child. That made her, surely, the least attractive woman in the party. She fought back tears. It wasn't fair. She had nobody and Rose had two men: a king for a husband and his nephew for a lover. Not fair. Not fair. Ivy was stuck in the woods alone, feeling like a fool. A little girl. Her only chance of finding her way home was waiting for them to finish and following them at distance, and so she sat and waited while their breathing grew more ragged and they gasped, one by one, with the release of desire. She was sickened by jealousy, and appalled — no, fascinated — by her sister's dangerous infidelity.

Ash's stomach was hollow the morning they left. This would be the last time she would be together with the whole family. Once she had led Bluebell to Yldra, it would be time for her take herself into exile. Away from light and laughter. And yet, she couldn't tell anyone of her sorrow, so it was locked inside her, eating her away.

Bluebell looked much more positive as she mounted Isern. Her long fair hair was clean and brushed loose. Ivy, who had been told an hour before that she was accompanying Rowan and Sighere to Netelchester, was red-eyed and sulking. They would ride in the other direction: back to the south, then across to Folcenham. The dogs barked happily, keen to be moving. Rose was fussing around Rowan, tightening the ties on her dress and pulling up her stockings.

‘If you are cold, you tell Ivy.'

‘Mama, I want to come with you.'

‘Papa wants to see you, darling.'

‘You come to Papa with me!'

Rose gave Bluebell a cold glance. ‘I can't. But I will be home in a few weeks. It's only ten days north, then ten days back. Then straight home to you, my precious.' She kissed the little girl's nose.

The cold that shimmered over Ash's skin then was intense. She was seized by the sudden conviction Rose would not see Rowan for a very long time. Not weeks. Not months. Years. Ash caught her breath, but the feeling skidded away from her before she could pin it down. She intensified her focus on Rowan, and foresaw only happiness and safety, running in the garden outside her bowerhouse. Puzzled, she took up the reins of her horse.

Mist lay close to the ground, and the sky was leaden. The dark woods on the other side of the flower farm waited. They would head north, into the oldest parts of Thyrsland. Wild lands where ancient trees and fallen slabs of hewn rock marked the way; where undermagicians spun their spells; where elementals moved about on the plains, unafraid of the approach of men.

Bluebell looked to the sky. ‘The weather will hold,' she said.

‘Keep my baby warm,' Rose said to Ivy, handing Rowan up to her.

Rowan wriggled and shrieked.

‘Go, make it quick,' Bluebell said to Sighere.

Rose stood with tears on her cheeks, as Ivy and Sighere galloped off towards the road.

‘The sooner we get moving, the better,' Bluebell said to Rose. Perhaps it was an offer of comfort.

Rose mounted her horse without a word.

Bluebell smiled tightly at Ash. ‘I leave here with hope. I trust I will return the same. Can you see anything, Ash?'

‘Not a thing,' Ash said, relieved. ‘Just the trees and the sky and the road.'

They moved off, north-west. Towards the undermagicians.

Wylm hadn't spent time around children since he had been a child himself, so he was wary and impatient with Eni. Nor was Eni a normal child: he was a bundle of instincts with hands and feet, feet that kicked wildly to be let off the horse the moment he needed to piss, for example. The horse itself was a superb, broad-chested warhorse, no doubt a gift to the farmer from Bluebell. It eased the journey; Wylm's feet didn't ache at the end of the day.

They were stopped now, in a soft grassy glade off the road. Wylm had kept them away from the main thoroughfares, which had made for a sometimes jolting journey. However, the roads to the north-west were not well travelled. The north-western coast of Thyrsland was a dank place, with muddy beaches and hollow forests disfigured by prevailing winds.

But rumours and whispers had come to him that the Crow King had built his hall on an island off the north-west coast. He hoped for more than rumours and whispers in the north-western inns: he hoped for a route, a map, a vessel to take him there. Wylm glanced at Eni, who was wandering around in the dusk collecting sticks. He also hoped to find somewhere to leave Eni.

‘Watch out, lad, it's dark,' Wylm called, then realised his warning was pointless. For Eni, it was always dark. He was sure-footed enough, mumbling to himself as he wove about, crouched over, feeling the ground for treasures. Wylm tugged at a slice of stringy rabbit meat with his teeth. What he would give for a soft bed and a proper meal, with turnips and beans and gravy. It wasn't that he didn't know hardship: Bluebell had had him stationed at a freezing garrison for over a year, sharing a long, low hall with seventeen other soldiers. It was simply that he didn't think he should have to deal with hardship. His mother was the queen.

Now everything had been twisted out of shape, the threads of his destiny balled in a hopeless knot. It would be a measure of the kind of man he was if he could smooth things out, take charge of his future, shape the world to his will.

But sometimes, he didn't want to be that man.

Eni returned and held out his hands to Wylm. Wylm glanced at the collection of sticks and said nothing. Eni put the sticks down in front of him, crouched and reached up for Wylm's head, taking it in his hands.

‘Hey, what are you doing?' Wylm spluttered, then realised Eni was pointing his head towards the sticks, making sure he had seen them. ‘Oh, yes. Yes, they are wonderful sticks.' He firmly moved the boy's hands away, noticing as he did that Eni still wore the gold dragon ring.

‘You'll have to take that off, lad,' he said, grasping the ring and tugging.

Eni's whole body spasmed in protest. He violently pulled away and threw himself on the ground, curling himself around the ring. ‘No!' he shouted.

‘But I need to find an honest woman to look after you. I don't want somebody taking you for the gold ring then turning you out.'

It was clear that Eni didn't understand this explanation. He flinched away from Wylm again, and said in a very clear voice, ‘Bluebell.'

‘Bluebell gave you the ring?'

‘Bluebell,' he said again.

Hearing his stepsister's name put Wylm in a foul mood. ‘Suit yourself,' he said to Eni. ‘Come and eat something.'

The child didn't move.

‘Eat,' Wylm said, thrusting a hunk of rabbit meat towards him. ‘Come on. Rabbit. Rabbit.'

But Eni stood and felt his way through the grass to the stream instead. Wylm watched as he bent to drink, then thrust his hands and wrists in the water, then stood and peeled off his shoes and stepped in the stream.

‘What are you ...?' Wylm sighed, finished his meal and stood. ‘What are you doing now, lad?'

Eni was smiling, giggling, as he trod on the spot in the water.

‘What is it?'

Eni grasped Wylm's hand and pulled him towards him.

Wylm shook him off. ‘No, I'm not going in the water.' He peered at the boy's feet, and realised he was squishing mud between his toes. ‘Come out. You'll be cold. You'll be ...'

But the boy just kept giggling. Wylm remembered doing the same as a child, and was seized by the mad desire to join him. Impulsively, he slid off his shoes and stepped into the cold water. Mud squashed up between his toes.

‘Ah, yes,' he said to Eni, ‘you're right, it does feel good.'

‘Mud, mud, mud,' Eni sang, surprisingly tunefully.

Wylm laughed, wriggling his toes in the mud as the sun disappeared behind the world.

Wylm woke to the sound of shouting in the distance. He sat up, addled for a moment by the morning light. Eni slept curled under a blanket next to him, arms wrapped around a bunch of sticks. It was their fourth morning together. The shouting continued, gruff voices arguing. He realised they were speaking the language of Is-hjarta, the language of the northern raiders.

‘Wake, boy,' Wylm said, prodding Eni. ‘We need to hide.' The two of them out here in the open, barely armed, while raiders were on the road. Wylm had never felt so vulnerable. The stories of their cruelty were well-known. He hurried Eni to his feet, packed swiftly and led the horse off into the trees, where they crouched quietly among the saplings and the dewy grass. Eni seemed to understand instinctively that they were in danger and he needed to be silent, his dark eyes rolling back and forth as they had the day Wylm had killed his father. An unexpected pang of guilt. But then Wylm brought an image of Bluebell to his mind's eye, and the guilt washed away.