Daughters Of The Storm (55 page)

Griðbani.
Wylm held the sword upright, eyeing the runic inscriptions coolly in the dawn light. The randrman had told him each rune had powerful magic, and that when the time for combat with Bluebell was near, they would glow. He squeezed the hilt, sharp pain seizing his hand. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself through the pain, squeezed harder.

It was no use, he couldn't do it. Even beyond the pain there was a physical obstruction. The sword simply wouldn't sit in his hand properly.

He sheathed the sword and rewrapped the wound, glancing around to find Eni with his eyes. The boy grew confident as he learned the landscape of the woods, and was off in the distance crouched on the ground, marvelling over something he had found with his fingers.

A thump of footsteps drew Wylm's attention. He turned, tensed as ever. It was Willow and she was running. He was growing used to her strange, unpredictable behaviour. Her veering from being completely engaged in their conversation to being off in some distant place in her head, her strange grey eyes almost without pupils. He was used to her constant tic of drawing triangles on her chest with her fingers, of saying Maava's name as though she were clearing her throat with it lest he choke her. But in all this time he had never once seen her run.

‘What's wrong?' he asked, as she drew closer.

‘She's back,' Willow gasped. ‘Bluebell is back.'

Wylm's stomach turned to water. His ears rang, and he had to sit down lest he fall down.

Immediately, he hated himself for such weakness. What kind of man was he, to collapse like a pisspants child at the mention of his stepsister's name?

Willow crouched in front of him. ‘Are you well? You look pale. Has your fever returned?'

‘When? When did she get back?'

‘Just now. She woke me. She came in with an old woman I don't know. Looks heathen, covered in charms, mud in her hair.'

An undermagician. Bluebell had gone to fetch herself an undermagician to heal Æthlric. All would soon be undone, and here he was unable to hold the magical trollblade destined to kill her.
It's too soon. Too soon.
Destiny rushed upon him while his breath was still flat in his lungs. He barely noticed that Willow had pulled him against her shoulder and was stroking his hair.

‘Don't be afraid of her,' Willow said.

‘I'm not afraid,' he said, through a mouthful of her straight brown hair. What was she doing? Up until this point, she had become skittish at anything close to physical contact between them. A good trimartyr virgin. ‘Does Bluebell think the old woman can cure her father?'

‘I don't know what Bluebell thinks.'

‘Perhaps her spells won't work.'

‘It's in the hands of Maava now.' And off she went into her strange, silent whispers, as though she had left this clearing and the woods behind.

He let himself be held. Willow had bent so easily to his will, her brain so malleable from years of trimartyr worship. He'd remembered a few prayers and proverbs, and she had fallen over herself to side with him, to provide him food and medicine and take the boy
from time to time so he could rest or scheme or practise swordplay with his mutilated hand. He had never viewed her as anything more than an object to be placed where he needed her most, but her hands had moved down his back now and he caught a smell of her sweet skin and a glimpse down her dress to the upper curve of a slight breast. How like Bluebell she was with her hard surfaces and athletic limbs. But how unlike Bluebell, too. Vulnerable and innocent and not of this world. Something stirred in his loins, but he was smart enough not to mistake it for emotion; it had simply been a long time since a woman had touched him.

Gently, he pushed her away. She seemed disappointed. ‘Willow,' he said, ‘I need you to keep a very close eye on Bluebell. You need to tell me if your father awakes. The moment it happens.'

She nodded solemnly. ‘Of course.'

‘And be careful when coming to give us food. Don't let her see you or follow you. She's sharp. Sharper than you can imagine.'

‘I know my sister well enough.'

‘Nobody does. You can think her the sharpest and the strongest person in the world and still you'd be underestimating her. She is a monster. Never forget it.'

Already her thoughts had wandered, he could see it by the way her pupils shrank.

‘Go, then,' he said. ‘Be my eyes and ears.'

‘Do you not want my comfort?'

The question startled him. ‘I ... the greatest comfort you can give me is to assure me I am safe from Bluebell until my wound has healed.'

She nodded once, then left. He watched her go, then turned once again to his sword. No matter what pain, no matter that he opened the wound again, he must master this weapon. And soon.

Not now, Rose, not now.
How many times had Bluebell said that to Rose since her arrival? Rose understood her sister was tired: the dark shadows under her eyes were proof of that. But then she woke and took her dog out and refused company: ‘I'm too tired to think straight. Ask me about it tomorrow.'

Rose knew she should wait. Time would not affect the outcome, and she needed to approach Bluebell in a good mood. She even considered waiting until their father was recovered, but the urgency pressed itself too hard upon her heart.

Bluebell spent the rest of the day in the king's room with Yldra, whom Rose had not yet spoken with. Bluebell kept everyone away. Frustration upon frustration as the whole day passed and Rose was no closer to resolving the anxious misery in her heart.

There was the consolation of Heath, of course. They left the house separately, discreetly, and met in the woods to spend hours together touching, stroking, kissing, making love. Yes, they talked too, but there was only one topic of conversation. How much she missed Rowan and couldn't believe this had happened to her. How sorry he was that she was in pain.

On Monday morning, Rose stood in the kitchen grinding grain for bread. Willow had carefully unpicked the stitches in Rose's forehead then said she was going out to collect herbs for a salve. Heath had gone to tend the horses. Rose had grown frightened of solitude: being alone with her thoughts was a form of torture. As she worked, she became aware from the prickling of the hairs on the back of her neck that someone had entered the room. She turned to see Yldra standing there, watching her. Rose's skin went cold. She had once seen Yldra in a dream, and now she stood here in the flesh. Small, pale, and with a very focussed gaze. She seemed a thing of the night, out of place in the morning light.

‘Good morning,' Rose said, trying a smile.

‘I told you to kill Wengest,' Yldra said, with no returning smile.

Rose's mouth strained at the corners. ‘Yes, you did. Four years ago.'

‘Perhaps you should have listened.' Then she limped off, opened the kitchen door, and left.

Rose held her breath, but she didn't return.

That meant Bluebell was alone with Father.

Rose carefully placed the heavy quern-stone on the wooden bench, wiped her hands on her apron, and went to the bedroom.

Bluebell sat next to the bed, her arms stretched out in front of her, hands clasped, and her face on the bed. Was she sleeping?

‘Bluebell?'

Bluebell looked up, blinking. Yes, she had been dozing. But she looked less tired than the day before.

‘Not now, Rose,' Bluebell said.

‘Yes, now. Now. Yldra isn't here. You've had a proper night's sleep. Now. It's urgent. It's a disaster.'

Bluebell's face softened. She reached out to touch the angry line on Rose's forehead. ‘It's healed then.'

‘Yes, thanks to my sisters.'

Bluebell nodded. ‘Go on, what do you need to say to me?'

Rose held her breath, couldn't speak for a moment. Until Bluebell knew and decided what she would do, hope was still alive that Rose would get Rowan back. Slowly, carefully, she said, ‘Wengest has discovered that I have not been faithful.'

Bluebell sat upright. ‘He has?'

‘Ivy told him.'

‘How did Ivy know?'

‘She ... she saw us. Before we left to head north. But Wengest doesn't know it was Heath. And he still thinks Rowan is his.'

Bluebell's mouth tightened. ‘Do you see what you have done?'

But Rose wasn't in the mood for listening to lectures. The next part came out in a rush. ‘He's taken Rowan away and he won't
tell me where she is. He can't do that. He can't separate a mother and her child. I don't know if she is well, I don't know if she misses me. It's not fair. And he says to tell you that peace will hold between Netelchester and Ælmesse only if I never see her again.'

Bluebell frowned. ‘So peace will hold?'

Rose's heart thudded. Already, she knew how this discussion would end. ‘He says so. Yes.'

‘Then you can't see Rowan.'

‘But she's my baby,' Rose sobbed.

Bluebell sighed, spread her hands apart. ‘I am sympathetic. Of course. But I have to balance the desires of your heart against the lives that will be lost if we go to war with Netelchester again.'

‘It's not a desire of my heart. It's a need.'

‘Same outcome.'

‘I'll die! I'll die if I can't see her! Wengest is terrified of you. He's terrified of Ælmesse. You could make him do whatever you want.'

‘But Rowan will be alive and well. Wengest adores her. She has a nurse that she knows and loves.'

‘She'll miss me.'

‘She'll ...' Bluebell stopped herself.

‘Go on, say it,' Rose said, anger clouding her vision. ‘She'll forget me. That's what you were going to say.'

‘No, I was going to say she'll adapt,' Bluebell said. ‘She's very young.'

Rose's body felt light and grainy, as though she were becoming as transparent as she would be in Rowan's mind. A thing half-remembered. The pain in her heart was more intense than it ever had been, and she thought it might kill her. Bluebell wanted her to let Rowan go.

‘Maybe, in a few years, Wengest will have cooled down,' Bluebell said. ‘You're right. He is afraid of us, and when the edge has
worn off his anger we can ask him again about you seeing your daughter.'

‘Years? Years? Do you realise what you're saying to me?' Her voice sounded hysterical, and it frightened her. She had lost control of everything. The threads of meaning were unravelling and slipping from her fingers.

Bluebell pulled herself to her feet, towering over Rose and grasping her upper arms. ‘I told you, Rose. It gives me no joy to say that, but I told you over and over again that no good would come of you fucking that man. If you had only listened to me, Ivy wouldn't have seen you, and wouldn't have had something to say to Wengest. Do you understand this?
You
did this to yourself.
You
couldn't control yourself.
You
put Rowan at risk of losing you.'

Rose gasped. Half of her wanted to scream at Bluebell. How did she dare to say such cruel things? If Rose's love for Heath was so destructive, then why did it feel so good and pure? But the other half of her realised with horror Bluebell was right. She had put herself first, she
always
put herself first. She had expected Bluebell would go to war with Wengest, never thinking deeply about the people who would die. Die and never live again, because she was in love with her husband's nephew.

Bluebell released her. ‘I'm sorry that you are sad, Rose. But you have thought of nobody but yourself. I'm not going to rescue you now.'

Rose doubled over, face in her hands. The nightmare too real to comprehend.

‘Accept your lot and make the best of it,' Bluebell said, opening the door for her to leave. ‘And for fuck's sake, stay away from Heath. Wengest will kill him if he finds out.' She gently pushed Rose out of the bedroom. ‘Don't let your selfish desire doom him as well.'

Then the door closed and Rose stood on the other side in the empty house, her world in pieces at her feet.