Daughters Of The Storm (62 page)

Rose leapt to her feet to pour him a drink of water from the pitcher by the door. ‘Just outside Stonemantel. You've been sick. We brought you here to cure you.'

He drank the water gratefully, dribbling some of it into his beard. But instead of being oblivious to it as he had been the last few weeks, he cursed lightly and ran his palm over it. He handed the cup back to Rose. ‘I am so tired, Rose,' he said.

‘Sleep a little longer, my lord. There's no hurry. Now you are yourself again.'

He lay back, looking at the ceiling a few moments. Then his eyelids dropped softly closed. A minute later, he turned on his side. A man sleeping. Not an enchanted king. Rose began to cry, her heart blocking up her throat. If she couldn't be happy for herself, she could at least be happy for her family. For Bluebell.

The spell was broken at last.

The first night had been one long bad dream for Wylm, waking up every twenty minutes certain that Bluebell would find them and kill him in his sleep, before he could get his hand on
Griðbani.
They had camped in a ditch away from the road, but still he couldn't shake the feeling. So this evening he was a little more relaxed. He'd found a cave in a hill high above the treetops. He'd tied the horse to a tree on the flat near the road — it was exhausted and would likely not last another day, as Wylm had pushed it harder than he'd ever pushed an animal before in order to stay ahead of Bluebell — and then helped Eni up the rocky slope and into the cave. It was shallow, dark, musty. They had eaten only a few mushrooms early in the day, and Eni was whining from the cold and hunger.

‘I'm sorry, Eni, but I dare not light a fire,' Wylm said. ‘There's a monster following us and I can't risk her seeing us.'

Eni quieted. This story, about them escaping together from a monster, had worked on the child brilliantly. Though now, at night, Wylm felt sorry for him. He slipped off his cloak and put it around Eni's shoulders, pulling the boy close. Eni lay his head in Wylm's lap so that Wylm could stroke his hair the way Willow did,
and there was something soothing about this very human touch. Wylm remembered his own father, who would hold him still on his lap once a week to clean his ears. It had been Wylm's favourite time of the week, sitting between his father's strong knees, enveloped in his manly warmth. Perhaps Wylm could have been that kind of man, one who was gentle with children and animals and craved no power or influence in the world. But no. His father, after all, could never defend himself in a fight, would never have had the gumption to kill somebody, especially somebody like Bluebell. Wylm needed to be a different kind of man. He stilled his hand.

He looked out of the mouth of the cave, over the treetops and down to the road in the grey dark. The black shape of a rook, late to bed, flew past, its caw echoing around the rocks and out across the fields. A sign from Hakon and his randrman? Wylm shuddered. Rooks were considered portents of death.

Tomorrow was the day. If he had Eni, then Bluebell couldn't hurt him. Wouldn't hurt him. It would give him the time and freedom to land the killing blow.

He felt about for the sword and unsheathed it. Fear and wonder caught on his ribs and he noticed a faint phosphorescent glow on the runes. The time was drawing near then. A battle with Bluebell approached. He hefted the sword in his hand. His grip was not what it should have been; it didn't sit where it ought. But still, here it was, his glowing trollblade, forged to kill Bluebell. He thought he could smell the randrman's burning herbs on the wind, and he allowed himself a little smile.

Eni startled, letting out a little moan in his sleep. A nightmare. Wylm smoothed his hair off his brow. ‘Sh, Eni,' he said. ‘Soon there will be nothing to worry about.' His eyes went to the silent road again. ‘Tomorrow I slay the monster.'

There was no need for secrecy, so Bluebell took the Giant Road, the mighty artery that led to her home town. The road bustled with trade and travel, and the inns took advantage of the extra traffic and the longer days. The world was a whirl around her, but Bluebell was trapped in her own grim reality.

‘Do you have a room?' she gruffly asked the alehouse wife. The inn she'd stopped at as soon as the sun set was large, but also very popular. The bar was full.

‘For you, my lord, we will find a room,' the woman answered. She shouted some orders at a kitchen boy, then returned her attention to Bluebell. ‘Are you hungry? Can I offer you food?'

‘Have you seen a man and a boy travelling together? The boy is blind. The man is a slippery weasel with black hair.'

‘No, I haven't. Would you like me to ask around?'

‘If you would. And put out the word to those who pass through that Bluebell is looking for them.'

‘I will, my lord. Now do you mind me asking you how goes the king?'

Bluebell's eyes narrowed. ‘Why? What have you heard?'

‘There have been rumours from travellers that he has long been away from Blicstowe, that some were saying he had gone mad.'

She was naïve to think that such rumours wouldn't start. ‘He is well.' The words didn't give her the buoyant happiness she had expected to feel in saying them. ‘He will return soon to Blicstowe.'

The woman smiled with genuine relief. ‘Really? Well, I shall let everyone know. Please, my lord, find a spare seat and I'll bring you food and ale, compliments of the alehouse. Your room will be ready very soon.'

In a corner, opposite an elderly woman mopping up the last of her soup, there was a spare stool. She strode over and sat down. The woman looked up, opened her mouth to say something, but Bluebell raised her hand in warning.

‘Don't speak to me. I have a lot to think about.'

The woman's mouth twitched, and she quickly finished her meal and vacated her seat. Bluebell leaned forwards on her elbows, considering the people around her, drinking, talking, eating, laughing in the warm light of the lanterns and the roaring fire. The smell of smoke and sweat and dogs. Everyone seemed so unburdened by cares, but she knew it wasn't true. Everyone had worries, everyone struggled. It was just that Bluebell's struggles bore more weight. Fates of kingdoms rested on her decisions.

Three impulses pulled her in three different directions. Kill Gudrun. Get to Sabert's farm and find out if he was unharmed. Find Wylm and Eni. The last she could do little about. She could waste days or weeks or more trying to find them. Once the other things were sorted out, she could use the king's resources to track them down. Eni was defenceless in himself, but Bluebell could mobilise a king's army if she had to.

If Wylm thought holding Eni to ransom was going to stop Bluebell killing Gudrun, then he was wrong. He could send a ransom note if he wanted, but Bluebell couldn't read and, besides, it would likely arrive after Gudrun was already dead. Perhaps he would send Willow to stop her. Perhaps that's why Willow had taken her horse and locked her in the stable. Damn Willow. She'd become a trimartyr and betrayed her family without a breath in between. Bluebell could forgive many offences due to Willow's youth and innocence, but trying to burn her sister alive in a stable was not forgivable. She could never trust Willow again, and so there was little to be done but to lock her up somewhere in Blicstowe and let her rot.

No, Sabert's farm was only half an hour from Blicstowe. She could stop and look in on Sabert. Maybe she would find him there, with Eni, both well and happy, and Willow's story would be revealed as a lie to frighten her out of killing Gudrun. The idea
gave Bluebell a warm feeling in her stomach. Her food arrived and she ate it with a good appetite. This time tomorrow, it would be over. Gudrun would be gone, Father would be recovered and on his way home, and life could resume as it had been once, when things were good.

Before Æthlric had loved Gudrun. Before Willow had turned trimartyr. Before Rose had lost her child. Before Ash had exiled herself. Before Yldra had told her the truth about her father.

She reached for her ale to drown out her thoughts.

Ash's eyes flew open in the dark, her heart thudding. She could see her own pulse as her eyes adjusted to the lightless house. Why had she woken? The strangled half of a dream slipped away from her. Something about Bluebell.

She rose. The hearthpit had burned down to warm embers, so it must be well past midnight. She went to the door and opened it quietly, gazing out into the dark. Cold air. Bare trees. Stars obscured by shredded clouds. Somewhere out there was her sister, and she was in trouble. Ash felt it low down in her stomach. She tried to concentrate her mind and reach out, but received only frustrating half-images. Somebody lying in wait. The image was daylit, so it hadn't happened yet. Bluebell on her back, open to attack. Was it raiders? No, somebody closer to home. Ash's mouth was dry. Bluebell went to war and Ash had never felt this way. Why now, unless ... unless she really was seeing Bluebell's death?

‘Ash?'

She turned to see Unweder behind her.

‘I had a dream.'

‘Do you remember it?'

‘No. But it was a premonition. My sister is in danger.'

‘Which one?'

‘Bluebell. I think ... I think somebody is trying to kill her.'

He smiled in the dark. ‘Isn't somebody always trying to kill her?'

‘I think he's going to succeed.'

Unweder came to her and took her arm gently, closing the door. ‘You can't trust your premonitions any more, Ash. As you develop your skill with elementals, your other talents will weaken. Certainly Bluebell may be in danger, but that is how she lives her life. Nobody can kill her.'

‘Then why do I feel such a sense of dread?'

‘Nightmares do that. The shadows wait everywhere at night. You'll feel differently in the morning.'

She allowed herself to be led back to her bed, where she sat, holding her knees, while Unweder stood over her. ‘You aren't part of their lives any more, Ash,' he said. ‘If you are to do your work here, if you are to develop the command of your ability that I know you have in you, you simply must disconnect from your family.'

‘But how can I? The same blood flows in my veins as theirs.'

He shook his head. ‘Undermagicians don't care much for blood. Perhaps you don't want to be an undermagician.'

She watched him go back to his bed. The outside air had made the room cold, so she lay down and wrapped herself tightly in her blanket. She thought about what Unweder had said, and perhaps he was right. Perhaps the sour taste of the bad dream had made her premonition seem worse. Perhaps it was time she let go of her family.

Or perhaps there was one last thing she could do for Bluebell.

At first light, Wylm took one look at Bluebell's horse and realised it would kill the beast to go further. He considered saddling it
anyway, taking it as far as he could until it dropped dead, but on this day, the day he would face Bluebell down, pity stirred in him unexpectedly. He too knew what it was like to be exhausted, to want to lay down his burden and rest.