Daughters Of The Storm (53 page)

‘It feels wonderful,' she confessed.

‘I mean, how do you do it? What happens in your mind?'

‘I find them with my thoughts. I can see them too and they never look happy. But they do as I ask without delay and then are relieved when my mind releases them.'

‘Any element?'

‘Water, earth, trees ... they are the only ones I have tried.'

‘Spirits?'

‘I'm not sure that I understand.'

‘The spirits of the dead?'

Ash's blood cooled. ‘I don't know. I haven't tried.'

Unweder sensed her fear and backed away from the question. ‘You will learn more about yourself over the coming years. But I must tell you, your ability is rare and strong. The Earth Mother has blessed you.'

‘I wonder what reason she had,' Ash said.

‘I doubt there's any reason, Ash.'

‘But there must be. Some task I am to fulfil or ...' She trailed off, aware that Unweder was shaking his head.

‘Do not seek or expect reason in undermagic,' he said. ‘Things are as they are, and undermagicians pursue their own aspirations.'

Ash frowned. ‘But that seems so —'

‘Selfish?'

‘Yes. Selfish.'

Unweder stood, stretching his arms above him with a sigh. ‘Everyone is selfish,' he said. ‘Everyone. Who should we serve but the person we are and must always be?'

Ash listened to him and didn't respond, wondering if he was right. Bluebell made much of serving her family and her kingdom, but by doing so she served herself. She looked up at the sky
through the trees. The sun was being eaten by a blanket of grey cloud.

‘Rain coming,' she said, pointing upwards.

Unweder glanced up then grimaced. ‘I am cursed this week.'

‘Unweder,' she ventured, ‘perhaps now we are out here and it is still fine, you can show me your talent? You can explain to me what the Earth Mother blessed you with?'

He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. ‘Oh, I do many things.'

‘But you must have a special interest. You said yourself that —'

‘I am very experienced. I am a master of many skills. Too complicated to explain now. You focus on your abilities. You can see you've already gained power by taking your mind off other things. Don't worry about me.' He held out a hand to help her up. ‘Come. Let's return to the house and breakfast.'

She followed him back through the woods as the first spits of rain clattered on the brown leaf-fall, unconvinced by his dismissiveness, suspecting that he was deliberately holding something back from her.

Now Willow had a calling. An injured man and a blind boy waited for her in the woods. Relied upon her for food and medicine. She was gone before dawn most mornings, her apron heavy with supplies for them. Sometimes when she arrived, they were still asleep and she sat and watched them both. Well, mostly watched Wylm. The rise and fall of his chest, the faint purplish tinge of his closed eyelids, the way his long fingers curled by his cheek. After giving them breakfast, she would head back to the farmhouse to tend to Heath and her father, spend a few hours praying, then be back in the woods at dusk. To her delight, Wylm started to heal. By the fourth day, the wound's edges were dry and pink, and his fever
had ebbed away. He seemed as delighted with her as she was with him, and they spoke about the miracles of Maava and he even once compared her to Liava, the doomed mother who died with her twins upon the fire so that others might hear the way of the light.

‘You are so patient and kind with Eni,' he said, eyes crinkling at the corners with a smile, ‘as Liava must have been with her children.'

Oh, she had glowed for hours after he'd said that.

The next day, though, she was in father's room, trying to concentrate on prayers rather than replaying that moment over and over in her mind's eye. Indeed, it seemed her mind's eye had developed its own will and wandered often to the woods and to Wylm's side. Outside, a light drizzle had moved in and her father's room was very quiet and still. Stuffy. She tried not to worry about Wylm in the rain. She tried not to think about him. She bent her head and closed her eyes.

Maava, great and good, give me the strength to resist these waking dreams that come upon me ...

But then she remembered. The other thing that came into her mind unbidden were angel's voices. Could it be that these flashes of her mind's desire were actually given to her by angels? By Maava himself?

And if that were so, what about the dream, the one where Wylm had saved her from the raiders, like a fiery angel with a holy sword?

The door to the room opened, letting in a strong smell of woodsmoke and baking bread. Willow looked around to see Heath standing there with Eni.

She hurried to her feet. ‘Oh.'

‘I thought you took him to the village.'

‘I did. He must have found his way back.'

‘Willow, we can't have people knowing where we are.'

Willow put her arm around Eni's shoulders. ‘I know, I know. But nobody knows who I am, don't worry. Nobody knows about ...' She didn't say her father's name, gesturing with her head instead.

‘Rabbit sleeping,' Eni said.

‘Is that right?' Willow said, lightly, reassuring herself that Heath could have no idea what they were talking about. ‘Come, let me take you home.'

‘Be careful,' Heath said, frowning, as she took Eni through the kitchen and out the front door.

His tone of voice made Willow bristle. Be careful? That was precisely what she was doing. Taking care, and not of a bunch of heathens. What did he know about care? ‘I know,' she said gruffly, closing the door behind her.

‘You mustn't come here looking for me,' she said to Eni, but he didn't seem to understand. He shuffled along at her side, feeling the way with his toes adeptly.

‘Rabbit sleeping,' he said again.

Wylm was indeed sleeping. It was best for him to sleep, to give his body time to heal. She ached to sit next to him and be there when he woke, but Eni was restless so she took him down to the edge of the stream where they found rocks and oddly shaped twigs, and he was happy and quiet for an hour or so, his hand in hers.

‘Come now,' she said. ‘Let's take you back to Rabbit.'

As they made their way through soft leaf-fall and between the saplings, the fluttering of angel wings started in her ears. A breath became caught between her lungs and her lips, choking her. She tried to breathe in, but could only pull in a series of loud wheezes.

‘If you can speak to him with your mind, you can trust him.'

I don't understand, angel, Maava's minion. I don't understand what you mean.

‘Speak to him with your mind, as you speak to us.'

A thousand sharp, chattering voices rushing around her. Wylm's sleeping back came into view and, without pondering further, she focussed her mind on him and said inside her head,
Wake up! Wake up!

His shoulders twitched and he sat up with a gasp.

Willow smiled, waving at him. He waved back, a bewildered expression on his face.

I can speak to him with my mind.
That meant they were linked somehow. Destined to work together, in Maava's name, for the good of Thyrsland. She knew this as a fact as well as she knew her own name. She felt light.

‘Eni came and found me at the farmhouse,' she said, closing the last distance between them and sitting down.

‘I must have dozed off.'

‘It's good for you to sleep. Your bandage has come loose. Let me fix it.'

He offered her his hand, and she slowly unwrapped the bandage. ‘It looks much better.'

‘I still can't close and open it properly. It's tight and hot.'

‘Yes, but you are no longer dying of a fever,' she said, wrapping the wound again and tying it neatly. ‘And that is to be celebrated.'

He smiled at her and wings flapped past her ears. The angels had delivered their message and were no doubt satisfied with her. Perhaps they were going straight to the Sunlands to tell Maava. The idea of being thought well of by both Wylm and Maava was the dearest happiness she could imagine.

‘You have a warm heart and a happy nature, Willow,' he said, ‘but I need to be able to defend myself and until my hand is properly better ...' He glanced at the sword, lying in its scabbard, that he slept beside.

‘It isn't your sword hand,' she pointed out.

‘I'm left-handed.'

How wonderfully
uncommon
he was. ‘It will be better in a week or so.'

‘I need it to be better now,' he mumbled, but she didn't push the conversation any further.

‘Is it your father's sword?' she asked.

He shook his head. ‘My father wasn't much of a swordsman. He was a trader. No, I stole this from the Crow King.'

‘Never! How brave you are.'

‘I did what I had to.' He unsheathed the sword, and she could see runes carved into its grip, the evil troll magic of the raiders.

Her breath caught. This was the sword she had dreamed of. More proof, if any were needed, that they shared a miraculous connection blessed by Maava.

‘What is it?' he asked, peering closely at her face. ‘You look as though you've seen a ghost.'

‘I dreamed of this sword ...' she said, then couldn't finish her sentence because the rest of the dream had been so unsettlingly intimate.

‘You did?' His eyes were eager now. ‘Then destiny ... Maava's will ... is working in us both.'

She reached out and touched the grip of the sword and he closed his own hand over hers and held it there one moment ... two ... three.

Then his hand withdrew, but already the wheels of some great engine had started turning within her body and her mind. Angels shrieked and hot oil ran in her veins.

‘I should go,' she said, shooting to her feet.

‘Come back soon,' he said, sheathing the sword.

She couldn't form another sentence, not even to reassure him she'd be bringing bread at dusk. Her body and brain were too bright with heaven's blaze to stoop to anything as low as language.

Rose's journey east to Stonemantel took three and a half days. At first, the blackest of clouds had possessed her, so she shook and sobbed like a madwoman, drawing the pitying stares of those who passed her on the road. The weary limbs and muscle aches of being in the saddle for hours every day took their toll, and she slept poorly at night so that daylight seemed to her too bright, too unforgiving. She made a habit by the second night of reminding herself Rowan was not dead: she was safe, in the care of her nurse. There was still hope; in fact there would always be hope. So she said this word over and over, ‘hope ... hope', as she made her way towards Heath.

The stable door was ajar as she walked her horse through the front gate in the late afternoon. The flowers were blooming in wild profusion, their scent heavy and deep in the damp air. Bumblebees careened around her. She led the horse to the stable and ran into Willow coming in through the front gate.

‘Rose!' she said with a gasp.

‘Willow? Are you well?'

‘I am ... yes. I am well. But where is Bluebell?'

‘She's not back yet?'

‘No.'

Rose did the calculations in her head. Of course Bluebell wasn't back yet, and if she'd thought about it — if she'd had any room left in her mind for rational thought — she would have realised that. ‘Bluebell and Ash went ahead without me. I imagine they will return very soon.' Rose began to unbuckle the horse's bridle, but Willow stopped her.

‘You look tired. Have you been travelling a long time?'

‘Nearly four days. Why?'

‘Let me take care of your horse. You go inside and wash and eat. Heath is there.'

Rose's heart hitched. ‘I would be so grateful.'

‘Go,' said Willow, taking the horse's reins. ‘It will make me most pleased to do this for you, sister.'

Rose blinked back tears, this simple human kindness almost too much for her. She nodded, touched Willow's shoulder lightly, then turned to hurry over to the house.