Daughters Of The Storm (5 page)

Conrad nodded, his dark eyes careful not to hold hers too long. She watched him retreat then turned her attention to the sea once again, to the orange sun low on the horizon. Here it was, her chance to tell them what was happening to her. The dream, the constant interference of the sight, the hollow fear that inhabited her as her power intensified. Only her sisters and Byrta knew of her ability, and none of them guessed at how fast and wild it grew. Perhaps the elder seers might even help her.

The sea roared. The sun was bright on her cheeks.

And then a voice was in her head.

Ash.

Just one word: her name. But with it a cascade of sensations. Bluebell, lying on grass by a stream. Her sister's body ached, but not from battle. Inside her heart beat a bruising dread.

Father was dying.

The sensations lifted off Ash, leaving only the fresh morning air on her skin. ‘Oh,' she gasped, and her voice sounded loud in her ears. How could she not know Father was dying? Was the carefully undreamt dream about Father's imminent death? Or had her attempts to suppress the dream also suppressed any but the most immediate and close tremblings of the sight? It had taken Bluebell's direct address to break through.

What to do? She had to get home. But how was she to explain to Myrren why she had to leave? Myrren knew no messenger had come for Ash. She couldn't wait for one to come: it might take days and Bluebell needed her now. And she certainly couldn't admit she had received a vision as easily as other people took a breath. No scrying pool, no deep rumination, no sacred fire: a sudden and certain overlaying of Bluebell's mind with her own.

Ash was overwhelmed with tender feelings towards her sister — her favourite sister, if the truth be told. Ash loved her father, of course, but nobody loved him as Bluebell did.

Another option waited, unconsidered. Ash turned her mind to it warily. She could simply run. Put off indefinitely facing Myrren over the incident with Ingrid and her son. Her father was dying: her father was the king of Ælmesse, the largest and most powerful kingdom in Thyrsland. And when he was dead ... well, what would they say? They could not caution her if she was grieving. A counsellor's first law was that compassion comes before all else. And when Bluebell was queen, perhaps Ash could beg her not to have to go back ...

Already her feet were moving. Home to her father's hall.

Rose held Rowan's little hand and was led around the garden.

‘This one?' the child said.

‘Crocus.'

‘This one?'

‘That's a bluebell.'

Rowan nodded solemnly. ‘Like Bluebell.'

‘Yes, like your aunt.'

‘It doesn't look like her.'

‘No,' Rose laughed, ‘it doesn't.' Rose turned to see if Wengest was still watching. He was, a lazy smile on his face. He sat on a carved chair he'd had a servant bring out onto the grass. His legs were spread out in front of him and Rose could see clearly how indolence was making his body change. His torso had softened; it strained against his richly-sewn tunic.

Rowan pointed to the next flower.

‘Daisy.'

‘Clever girl,' Wengest said. ‘Come here for a kiss.'

Rowan turned and ran towards him, flinging herself on top of him so hard it nearly knocked him out of his chair. He laughed and turned her upside down roughly, while she squealed happily.
Her skirt pooled around her middle, revealing two plump white thighs.

The garden behind the chapel had become Rowan's favourite place since spring stretched awake, and Rose brought her here every afternoon if it was fine. It was unusual for Wengest to join them, though not unwelcome. Rose lay back on the grass beside them, stroking the cool blades with the back of her hand. The mingled soft scents of flowers and damp earth evoked layers of memory and anticipation. Spring had its power.

Wengest wrestled with Rowan. The child should have been born a boy: she was all wild energy, hot as the midsummer sun, and as strong and wilful as a little goat. She broke from him and bared her teeth and claws. ‘I'm a dragon!' she shrieked.

‘There are no dragons in Thyrsland any more. They died out with the giants,' Wengest said, giving Rose a cautionary nod. Her own father's standard bore a three-toed dragon. Family lore held that Rose's great-great-grandfather had slain the last dragon in Thyrsland and that her father's hall had been built upon the bones, and that was why Ælmesse was the most powerful kingdom in Thyrsland. Wengest preferred Rowan to learn about the kings of Netelchester.

‘No! I found a dragon bone in the garden,' Rowan declared.

Wengest looked at Rose, who shrugged. ‘I think it was a sheep bone.'

‘It's a dragon bone. And
I
am a
dragon
!'

Wengest scooped her up again, tickling her violently. A clatter at the chapel gate caught their attention. One of the gatehouse guards stood there.

‘Speak, fellow,' Wengest said, righting Rowan and putting her on her feet.

‘Again!' Rowan shouted.

‘My lord, your nephew has arrived.'

Every drop of Rose's blood lit up.

‘Heath is here?' Wengest smiled. ‘Where have you put him?'

His words were a thousand miles away. Rose's ears rang faintly. Her breath moved roughly in and out of her body; she had never been so aware of it.
I am alive, after all.

‘In the hall, my lord.' The guard dipped his head towards Rose. ‘He has news from your sister, my lady.'

Bluebell had sent Heath to Folcenham? That was a surprise: her sister had kept them apart for three years. Perhaps Bluebell thought time and distance would cool her love for Heath. They had not. Some days she had tried not to love him but, inevitably, the ordinary misery of her life forced her imagination back to thoughts of him.

Wengest propelled her gently towards the bowerhouse. ‘Go, Rose. Take Rowan to her nurse. I'll meet you in the hall.'

‘Can I not come, Papa?' Rowan asked.

‘Can she not meet Heath?' Rose echoed, somehow managing to keep her voice steady.

‘You know I don't like to do business with the child around,' Wengest said, with a dismissive gesture. ‘If he stays long enough to eat, Rowan can meet him then.'

Rose scooped Rowan up — the girl grew so heavy — and hurried out the chapel gate. Heath was here. Music in her veins.

Rose found the nurse in the spinning room, and left Rowan there playing with threads on the floor. Her heart sped and she dashed into her bower to tidy her long, dark hair in the bronze mirror. She stopped a second, steadying herself on the bed pole. Breathe in, breathe out. It wouldn't do for Wengest to see her with such a high colour in her cheeks, to see the frantic desire behind her eyes. She had never stopped hoping Heath would come back. That she would be able to look on his face again and feel his touch on her skin. But she had carefully hidden those feelings. She mustn't let them slip out from under cover now.

The door to the hall creaked open under her trembling hands. There he was. Her heart caught on a hook. He was deep in conversation with Wengest, his back turned to her. His body, so familiar to her yet so long kept from her: his square shoulders, his lean legs. His clothes were dirty from the journey, his long, golden hair lank with sweat.

Wengest glanced up and saw her and came to take her hand with a sad expression on his brow. Rose's vision darkened. Her bliss bled away. It was ill news, that's why Bluebell had sent him. Rose felt a fool, young and self-centred.

‘What is it?' she said, her voice giving way.

Heath turned, his sea-green eyes fixed on her. ‘Rose,' he said, and his voice was a breath on an ember that had never faded to coal. The heat of her heart was in her face, but cold dread weighed down her hands, gripped roughly in Wengest's fingers.

‘My sisters?' she managed.

‘Are all well,' Wengest said quickly. ‘Your father, though, is ill.'

‘Ill?'

Heath tilted his head, almost imperceptibly, to the side, his mouth tightening softly. His adored cheek was faintly lined, not as smooth as it had been three years ago. What horrors had he seen in the intervening years? ‘Your father is dying,' he said, plainly.

An image of her father sprang to mind: his tall, lithe body; his unruly fair hair; his boyish smile. ‘But ... but I saw him not two months ago. He was here with his wife. He looked well.'

‘I'm sorry, Rose.' He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘Bluebell rides even now for Blicstowe. She wants you to join her immediately.'

‘Of course, of course.'

‘Slow down,' Wengest said, dropping her hands and standing back. ‘I can't race off to Blicstowe now. I have business here.'

‘I have to go,' Rose said, indignant. ‘It might be my last chance to see my father. Your ally. The king of Ælmesse.'

‘You can't travel alone.'

‘I travelled here alone five years ago, when we married.'

‘Women can't wander about by themselves. It will set people talking.'

‘What do I care for such talk? If I don't go they'll talk, too. They'll say I didn't love my father.' Rose became aware Heath was watching them squabble. She felt small.

‘I can accompany Rose,' Heath said, slowly.

Rose's skin hummed. Wengest considered. Her imagination formed the journey a thousand times in a moment: flashes of caresses, kisses, embraces that crushed her ribs ...

‘Wengest,' Heath said, ‘when Æthlric dies, Bluebell will rule in his place. She would want her sisters about her.'

A sour expression crossed Wengest's face. Rose knew what he thought of women rulers. And yet, he was as afraid of Bluebell's power as any of the kings in Thyrsland. She was capable of raising a passionately loyal army quickly and deploying it with devastating brilliance. And her ability on the battlefield was legendary: rumours circulated that the raiders spoke of dying by her sword — known as the Widowsmith — as the only honourable way to die at the hands of a Thyrslander.

‘You are right, Heath,' Wengest said. ‘It's a politically important moment. I need you there to represent my interests. Rose can accompany you.'

Rose was careful not to say anything at all, lest her desire be betrayed by her voice.

Heath nodded. ‘I'll speak to the stable hands and have two fresh horses for us to ride in the morning.'

Rose took a deep breath. ‘Will you join us for a meal?' she asked Heath.

‘I ... I've been riding non-stop for two days,' he said, glancing away.

Her heart thudded uncertainly.

‘Not a moment to sit and talk to your favourite uncle?' Wengest said, slapping his shoulder.

Heath smiled weakly. ‘Let me bathe. Perhaps it will restore me.'

Rose watched him leave. The promise of his presence over dinner was a delicious thrill in her heart. Wengest slid his arm around her. ‘You should go to Nyll. Pray for your father's soul.'

Rose turned and caught him in her gaze. ‘My father does not believe in Nyll's religion.' Æthlric ruled through love, not fear. Æthlric was a leader who rode out into the battlefield to protect his people. Wengest sat at home and ate too much pork fat.

Wengest shrugged. ‘Your hot tone suggests you take offence. I mean none. But you
will
go to evening-thought with Nyll tonight.' He released her roughly and moved off, closing the doors behind him with a thud. Rose stood in the hall alone.

The inside of the chapel was dim and smelled of mould. It was the last place Rose would have thought a soul could feel closer to the vast and powerful gods, and yet Nyll claimed all the trimartyrs built little chapels like this. And then they enforced daily, dreary observances like Æfenthenken. Every afternoon at dusk, Rose, Wengest and Rowan came to kneel on the bare floor of the chapel to contemplate the fate of their souls. Nyll, the head of the faith in Netelchester, knelt with them. He seemed to enjoy kneeling on the hard ground, as though the bruises on his knees provided the proof of his god that was everywhere else lacking. Maava was a lone male god who ruled without balance and with a rather cruel set of directives. Little wonder the faith wasn't catching on.

And yet, this was the decision Wengest had made for Netelchester three years ago. He had perceived the expedience of a religion that held kings as divine. The citizens of Netelchester became trimartyrs overnight, but in name only. While the people here in Folcenham knew what was expected of them, most of the people in the countryside had no idea they were to believe anything other than the common observances. Most in the small towns quietly and subtly continued as they always had.

Rose glanced at Rowan. The trimartyrs also believed women were unfit to rule. Rowan would never be queen of Netelchester. The little girl's dimpled hands were clutched together in front of her, but her eyes wandered everywhere. Through her daughter's dark hair Rose had wound hawthorn blossoms to mark the first month of spring. Rose's own little protest against the dust-dry trimartyrs and their year round misery.