Daughters Of The Storm (8 page)

‘No,' he said, ‘you have only the one head.' His gaze was dark, oily.

‘Then why must your eyes always follow me?'

His eyes didn't flicker. ‘I know not what manner of thing you are,' he said.

‘I will be your king,' she said, ‘so it would be better for you to choose your words with care.'

He smiled. ‘You are a woman. You'll be a queen.'

‘I'll be what I damn well please,' she said, with a shrug of her bony shoulders.

He snorted with laughter. ‘You will still be a woman. You cannot be a man.'

‘And nor do I want to be a man,' she countered.

At this he shook his head in genuine bewilderment. ‘And so we are back to my first observation. What manner of thing are you, Bluebell?'

Bluebell's fingers crept to the grip of her sword, imagining the elastic resistance of Wylm's belly under the tip of the blade. Then there would be the shove and the gratifying give. Then there would be the smell of his blood, and it would be as hot and pretty as blood ever smelled. These thoughts made her feel better and she didn't draw her sword, but nor did she answer his question. The Horse God had given her speed and strength; what else was she to do but turn her arm to war? Not to do so would be dishonour. Why must people question her? Her father never questioned her.

The sadness — forgotten in her anger — returned. Life would go on without her father. She had her sisters; she had her hearthband. But without him, life would be sapped of its muscle and steel, a withered thing. She was only twenty-seven, but tonight she felt older than the Giant Road. Weariness infused her bones. She pushed her plate aside.

‘I must sleep,' she murmured.

‘It's not even dark.'

She shrugged. ‘Goodnight, worm.'

Wylm smiled at her tightly. ‘Goodnight,
sister
.'

Cynburh took Bluebell to a tiny bedroom at the top of the stairs, with a soft mattress on the floor and no shutters or fire. Dark and quiet. Bluebell turned on her side and, before she could draw a third breath, she was asleep.

Wakefulness came upon her too soon. The room was still dark. She could hear no men's voices, no creaking of floorboards as people moved about. Her body told her it was after midnight, but still long before dawn. She closed her eyes tightly, but she knew she was defeated. She was weary, so weary, and yet sleep resisted her. So all that was left was to wait in the dark.

But how could she bear to be still, lying awake in an inn, barely five hours' ride from her dying father? Especially when she suspected they had enemies on the move towards them. The raven-branded raiders had unsettled her. Rumours were everywhere that the Crow King was still alive. If word got back to him that her father was weak, that her country was weak ...

Bluebell slipped from her bed — every muscle ached — and pulled on her cloak. She scooped up her pack and cracked open the door. Downstairs, low firelight moved across the walls. Wylm would be down there somewhere, stretched out on a deerskin, sleeping too hard. She wouldn't wake him. Let him realise in the morning she had gone ahead. This way, she could speak to his wretched mother when he wasn't present to defend the woman.

Bluebell crept from the alehouse and out into the cool, dark morning. The stable door creaked open and she approached Isern's stall. He had sensed her and his eyes were open. He walked up to the gate and pressed his nose into her hand. Bluebell's gut clenched. He looked tired and old, and suddenly she couldn't bear to make him go out on the road again in the dark. For the first time since she'd had the news about her father, her throat blocked up as though tears might be on their way.

‘My lord?'

Bluebell turned to see Harald approaching. She cleared her throat roughly. ‘Harald?'

‘I heard you come in. I sleep in the loft.' He indicated Isern. ‘Don't make him go out.'

‘I won't,' she said. ‘I won't.'

‘I can give you a fresh horse, and I'll bring Isern down to you in a few days.'

Words wouldn't make their way into her mouth.

‘My lord?'

‘Yes,' she said, hoarsely, ‘that would suit me well.'

He eyed her in the dark. ‘You need to get home quickly?'

‘I do.'

‘King Æthlric is a good king. You will be, too. May it be a long time before that comes to pass, though.'

Bluebell patted his shoulder warmly. ‘We are of one mind, Harald.'

Within half an hour, she was back on the road with her dogs, leaving Wylm sleeping like a small, pampered child.

The sour smell of ash and the cool chill of morning. Wylm prickled awake. His shoulder was sore from sleeping on it too hard. He rolled over and opened his eyes. Dawn glimmered through the cracks around the shutters. Next to him, a fat dog slept, snoring lightly. Wylm was still tired, could easily have slept longer. But he wanted to be awake when Bluebell came down. He climbed to his feet and rolled up his pack, setting it by the door of the alehouse. A large bowl of porridge was hanging over the cooking pit, so he fished a bent silver coin out of his pocket to pay for a serving.

The sun was up, the shutters of the alehouse open, and Bluebell wasn't awake yet. This was wonderful. She had relished him sleeping through the thief's approach the previous night; perhaps he should find a disgruntled hunter to creep into her room and put his fingers under her blanket.

He wouldn't do it himself though. He valued having a hand attached to each arm.

Wylm finished off the porridge and went outside to sit in the weak morning sun on a carved wooden bench. A strong smell of damp earth filled the air. He spent the time sharpening his blade and watching the town come awake for the day. The door of the alehouse creaked open and he looked up, expecting Bluebell. He scrambled for a snide comment. It wasn't Bluebell. It was a silver-haired man in dirty hunting greens, a sleek dog pressed against his thigh.

‘Morning,' the man said.

‘Morning.'

He sat next to Wylm and put his pack between his knees. A few seconds later a woman, obviously his wife, joined him. She began going through arrows one at a time, checking for bent shafts and loose fletchings. The man waxed his crossbow string while his dog sniffed around the foundations of the alehouse and pissed every four inches.

Wylm was itching to get going. His mother was expecting him. Perhaps he should go and wake Bluebell. He stood. Hesitated.

‘Where's your ugly friend this morning?' the silver-haired man said.

‘She's not my friend,' Wylm countered lightly. ‘She's my stepsister. She's the king's daughter.'

He laughed. ‘I know who
she
is. A couple of the men last night were speculating if you were her lover. But you're her brother, eh? No climbing aboard?'

Wylm shuddered. ‘No.'

‘She usually travels with a pack. Like a wolf.' He lined his bow up with his eyes and ran a fingernail over the nocks.

His wife picked up the thought. ‘When she comes in with just one fellow ... well, we start to talk.'

‘Surely no man could be interested in ... doing that. With her.'

The silver-haired man raised an eyebrow.

‘Oh, she has a lover,' his wife said, ‘though nobody knows who it is.'

Wylm laughed. ‘I hope he wears a mail shirt in bed. And mail pants.' The thought of Bluebell having any kind of love affair was hugely, hopelessly wrong. ‘I should go and wake her up,' he muttered. The hunting couple didn't notice him leaving.

The warmth inside enveloped him. The fire was stoked again, and all of the sleeping bodies were up and off the floor and packing for travel or hunting. He found the alehouse wife tending to the porridge pot.

‘Where's Bluebell?'

‘Top of the stairs. You'd better knock.'

‘I will.'

He took the stairs two at a time, paused outside her door. Wondered for a moment. Did she undress to sleep? What was under those stinking travel clothes? White skin? A pair of small, firm breasts? He chased the thought away angrily. She was probably covered in scars and tattoos to match the ones on her arms. He lifted his hand and rapped hard.

No answer.

It occurred to him — very brightly — that she might be dead. She had enough enemies, after all. It was not the first time he had imagined her dead, but now, in the light of Æthlric's mortal illness ... why, he would have a claim on the throne, would he not? His mother would be the king's widow, the other daughters were not soldiers like Bluebell and plenty of folk in this land were more comfortable with a man on the throne.

He pushed open the door, heart speeding.

Not dead. Gone.

Wylm cursed, turned on his heel and ran back down the stairs. Let himself out and made for the stables. The silver-haired man's dog barked at him, snapped once at his heels. Wylm kept running.

‘She left hours before dawn,' Harald said, as Wylm crashed through the stable gate. ‘You won't catch her this morning.'

‘The sneaking dog,' Wylm spat.

Harald eyed him coldly in the dim light. ‘I should cut your throat for that. But I won't. I'm sure Bluebell will do it herself one day soon.'

Wylm reached for his saddle. ‘I'm her brother. She can't kill me.'

‘You may be right.' Harald shrugged. ‘But there'd be few that cared if you weren't.'

Wylm mounted up and urged his horse forwards. He wouldn't catch Bluebell, but he could still get there in time to protect his mother from the worst.

Brimhythe was the largest port town in Thyrsland and it lay twenty miles south of Ash's study hall. The sun had warmed to a high, bright yellow, casting an unforgiving light on her decision to run away to home. If it could be called a decision and not an impulse. As her feet, swollen from heat and walking, carried her down towards the docks, she wondered if she should return to face Myrren and the elder seers.

The sea roared out past the cliffs, but was gentle in the estuary, where dozens of ring-prowed longships skimmed past each other on their way in and out of the river. Their bright sails and canopies dazzled against the grey-blue water. The voices of the shipmasters, shouting at the crew, were stolen by the wind. The docks lined the estuary for two miles, the wide wooden planks standing firm against livestock and barrels and baskets of goods — wood, furs, spices, delicacies, treasures — being loaded on and off vessels. She watched it from a distance and it was curiously quiet, although once she was in among the jostling and noise she wouldn't be able to think clearly, so she took a moment now.

A deep breath that came with choking odours of fish, carrion, rubbish. She only had to find a vessel going upriver. The Wuldorea,
wide and calm, led from here to Blicstowe — the Bright Place — which sat between green fields and below the gleaming white ruins of the giants. She hadn't seen it in three years, since her father's wedding. Home.
Home.

She started down the hill, jumping out of the way as a caravan of trading carts streamed past her. Horses' breath and clattering hooves. A hawk circled overhead, riding the wind, the sun on its wings. The grass on the shoulder of the road was overgrown, tipped with yellow seeds. It tickled at her ankles as she descended and the sound of the docks grew louder and clearer in her ears.

The smells of the docks overwhelmed her. Seaweed and fish and spices. A crowd of men were rolling barrels onto a vessel with a striped yellow and gold canopy, its sail rolled tightly at the crosstree. She approached hesitantly.

‘Out of the way, please,' one of the men said.

‘I'm looking for a passage to Blicstowe,' she said.

He gestured to an indeterminate place in the distance. ‘We're only going as far as Whitebyre. Try Alchfrid.'

Ash looked around, confused.

‘Further up the docks. His ship has a green and white canopy and a hawk carved on the prow.'

She stepped back onto the thoroughfare, nearly colliding with four men carrying a hefty, wooden chest. She waited for them to pass, becoming aware somebody's eyes were on her.