It was inevitable, Rowan supposed, that she would be back here in the woods.
The fog was so thick she could barely see three feet in front of her. She felt the way forward with her toes on the slick leaf-fall. Linden wouldn’t follow her this time. She had told him where she was going and, rather than trying to reason or persuade, she fell back on the time-honoured older-sibling technique of threatening: ‘You stay here while I go, or I’ll punch you in the face.’
His eyes had widened with shock: one of the few conventional reactions she had seen from him. But then, Mama babied him so relentlessly he’d probably never been challenged before.
Deeper into the sacred wood she went, following memory and instinct when landmarks were invisible. At last the trees opened out and the stones came into view. She positioned herself in the middle of them and waited.
For long minutes, nothing happened, and she shivered and wished she was in bed.
‘Whoever you are!’ she called. ‘Make yourself visible to me.’ Then under her breath, ‘I’m fucking cold.’
A rumbling beneath sound, sensed with her skin rather than her ears. She held the air in her lungs.
He stepped out of the woods. A tall, cloaked man made of mist and vapour, coalescing into shape and coming apart again into trailing wisps of smoke, then back together and holding. On his head he wore the antlers of a great stag. Beneath the horns, his eyes were bright, brilliant, penetrating. He glowed like the moon.
Rowan stumbled back, her hand landing on one of the stones. Cold as the grave. She moved her lips to ask who he was, but his voice sliced through her mind like a hot knife.
‘Why do you wear that mark?’ he boomed, lifting his hand and pointing at the mark of Rathcruick that was tattooed on her face.
Her hand went to her cheek, but she could not find the words to speak to him. Awe. Dread.
A flash of light momentarily blinded her, and with it a blistering cold sensation arose from the tattoo on her cheek. She withdrew her hand as if bitten, but then the sensation fled as quickly as it had come. She blinked, and realised the antlered man was gone. Touched her face. It felt warm and soft as usual.
‘Hello?’ she called. ‘Who are you?’ She turned in a circle. ‘Hello? Come back. I need to talk to you.’ Because she suspected she knew who this imposing figure was: her grandfather, Connacht of the West.
An ordinary mildness had returned to the clearing. She knew in her heart he wasn’t coming back, but lingered nonetheless. Ten minutes passed. An owl hooted. Still her pulse did not slow.
Finally, Rowan accepted he was gone and turned back towards home.
At the foot of the hill, a shadow moved in the mist, setting sparks of alarm flying through her veins.
‘Who’s there?’ she called. Was it Linden, disobeying her threats? Or was it somebody much more dangerous?
But it was neither. Heath stepped out in front of her, his face grim.
Rowan put her hand over her heart. ‘Heath,’ she said. Then, ‘Did you follow me?’
He grasped Rowan gently around the elbow. ‘Come home.’
‘I wasn’t doing anything –’
‘I know what you were doing because I have done it myself. Linden showed me that map as well.’
Rowan fell into step beside him. ‘So you have seen the antlered man too?’
Heath stopped, turned to her. She could not see the detail in his face in the grey dark, his eyes hooded by shadows, but his brow was drawn down. ‘You saw him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he speak to you?’
‘Yes.’ Rowan paused a moment before asking, ‘You haven’t seen him?’
Heath dropped her arm. ‘I am not chosen for such things.’
‘What do you mean?’
He looked away. ‘I came here, just as you did, when Linden showed me his map. I felt something gathering around me, I felt a pressure on my ears. But ultimately … nothing.’ Now he returned his gaze to her. ‘What did he say?’
Rowan shook her head. ‘He didn’t say anything.’
Heath’s shoulders seemed to relax. He smiled. ‘I see. Well, perhaps Linden’s map is not for either of us. Linden finds things, you see. All of his maps lead to something, something you have lost or misplaced or do not know you need. He has helped me find my shaving comb more than once.’ Heath chuckled. ‘Remarkable lad.’
‘Is that so?’ Rowan immediately started composing a list of things Linden could find for her.
‘Your mother won’t let him, though. So don’t ask him for anything.’
‘No?’
‘There are those who would exploit him.’
Rowan didn’t admit that a few seconds ago she might have been one of them. ‘I understand. She’s a good mother to him.’ Rowan realised it sounded like a backhanded compliment. ‘And to me. When I am with her.’
‘Yes, and she will be worried that you have been gone so long. So let us get you home.’
They made their way back to the roundhouse wordlessly.
Something was going on and Rose knew it, but here she was playing toy horses by the fire with Linden. Rowan had said she was going to climb the watch fire tower to take in some fresh air and quiet. Ten minutes later, Heath had made an excuse about going to visit one of his councillors and the door had closed a second time, leaving her housebound.
It was not as though Rose had the luxury of being able to flounce off for private time or an important meeting. Her responsibility to Linden was unrelenting. Though admittedly, she would be reluctant to leave his side while the thought of Wengest finding him was still sharp in her imagination. So she lined up the toy horses and made horse noises, all for the benefit of the quiet, watchful little boy who barely seemed to show he was enjoying himself.
At length, Heath and Rowan returned together, both with downcast eyes. Rowan crossed the room, heading straight for the bedroom, but Rose called her back.
‘Where have you been? Both of you?’
Heath looked sheepish. Rowan gave him a meaningful raise of the eyebrows.
That’s when Rose saw it. The tattoo on Rowan’s face, the horrible snarl of black marks that Rathcruick had carved into her cheek, had changed. Gone were the twisted branches; in their place a pair of antlers.
‘What …?’ She leapt up and reached for Rowan’s face.
‘Ow,’ Rowan said.
‘When did this happen?’
‘What are you talking about?’
Heath joined them. ‘How could this be?’ he gasped. ‘I didn’t see it in the dark.’
Rowan’s fingers brushed theirs away; she touched her cheek. Looked frightened. ‘What is it?’
Rose’s heart hammered hard. She had been here all these years with Heath, and she knew that when he had been revealed as heir of the mighty Connacht, there had been much disappointment that he had no powers of enchantment or prophecy. ‘This is no longer the mark of Rathcruick,’ Rose said, fingers returning to Rowan’s cheek. ‘It’s the mark of Connacht.’
The last time Bluebell had been in Druimach it had been a blisteringly cold winter day with snow swirling but not settling on the round rooftops. Today it was mild and clear, and the town was teeming. After the long wind up the hill, she, Ash, and her hearthband rode through streets full of Ærfolc, dodging children and skinny dogs who growled at Hyld. Stares and dark mutters followed in her wake. The insignia of Ælmesse was not always welcome among the tribes. Bluebell flew it high and proud anyway.
As she approached the high fence of the chieftan’s compound, the wooden gates swung open, stirring up fallen leaves. Heath himself stood there, in checked trousers and a deep red shirt, with a green cloak. He had grown out his beard, and it was flaming red in contrast with his blond hair. He raised a hand, and an army of stewards and grooms descended on them. Bluebell climbed down and her feet had barely touched the ground before she had the bogle axe in her hand, offering it to Heath for inspection.
‘What manner of markings are these?’ she asked.
‘Greetings to you too, Bluebell,’ he said with amusement. ‘And you, Ash.’
Ash, who had joined them, embraced Heath then stood back. ‘Forgive us,’ she said. ‘It’s a matter of some urgency. This bogle charm has attached itself to Bluebell.’
Heath peered at the markings, then said, ‘Gwr-y-Aírd. The Wildwalkers. Not your greatest supporters.’
The Wildwalkers were nomadic, moving from fell to fell in the fine months, then down into the caves for winter. ‘I’ll never find them,’ Bluebell cursed.
‘You will, for their chieftan and her band are here for the assembly. They have camped in the coomb.’ Heath folded Bluebell’s fingers over the haft of the axe. ‘But it can wait until tomorrow, can it not? You should come in and see Rose and – you should come in.’
‘I would rather get this done,’ Bluebell said, raising her hand to signal for her horse to be returned to her.
‘Bluebell,’ Ash said, grasping her wrist and pulling it down. ‘The horses need rest and so do we.’
‘The town is full,’ Heath said. ‘You and Ash can stay with us, but your hearthband will have to camp. The weather will hold.’
Bluebell glanced back at her men, the few who were left. They deserved better than sleeping under the stars. ‘Can you organise hospitality for them at the local alehouse at least?’ she asked.
‘Yes, of course.’
Bluebell looked to Ash, who nodded once. ‘We will go inside then and see our sister.’
Heath gave orders and instructions to his attendants, then the three of them headed to the house, with Hyld loping at their heels.
Rose practically leapt on them the moment the door opened on the warm interior of the roundhouse. Ash was in her arms, and then a second later she was pressing her softly rounded body against Bluebell’s gristly armoured one. She bent to offer greetings to Hyld as well, and the dog revelled in her pats and confirmations that she was indeed a ‘good girl’. All of Bluebell’s dogs had liked Rose, which Bluebell took as a confirmation of her sister’s worth.
‘How long will you stay? Do you have bags to bring in? Where are the rest of your band?’ Rose asked, not pausing to hear answers. ‘Oh, it is so good to see my sisters.’
‘Rose,’ Heath said, standing back a few paces from the flurry of embraces. ‘Where are … the children?’
‘Children?’ Bluebell asked. She had met Rose’s mute boy Linden before, but she could not have squeezed out another bastard in the time since Bluebell had last seen her, could she?
‘I told them to wait until …’ Rose turned to Bluebell. ‘Rowan is here.’
A small note of alarm rang in Bluebell’s guts. ‘What? Does Wengest know?’
Rose shook her head. ‘She ran away, she –’
‘I ran away because I did not want to marry.’
Bluebell turned to see that Rowan had emerged from the bower, Linden next to her, grasping her hand tightly. Linden wore a permanently terrified expression whenever Bluebell was around, something Bluebell found far more tiresome than the fact that he was a perfectly intelligent child who chose not to speak. Though she also found that tiresome.
‘Well, little chicken. What am I supposed to say?’ Bluebell spread her hands. ‘Of all the places to go …’
Ash approached and took Linden by the hand. ‘Come along, Linden. I’ll take you outside.’
‘No,’ said Rowan. ‘Bluebell and I will go somewhere to talk about this. It is between her and me.’
Bluebell had to admit she was impressed by the steel in the girl’s voice. A lesser young woman might whine or make excuses or avoid her.
Rose and Heath exchanged glances. Linden clung to Ash’s hand so hard his knuckles turned white.
‘Very well,’ Bluebell said.
‘Be careful who sees you,’ Heath blurted as Rowan reached for the door.
‘We won’t leave the compound,’ Rowan assured him.
Outside, Rowan led Bluebell to the wooden scaffold that held up the huge bronze dish of the watch fire. ‘I climbed up here at dawn yesterday,’ Rowan said, pulling herself up on the first beam. ‘You can see forever.’
Bluebell followed her, hand over hand up the tall ladder. The breeze stiffened. They were soon at the top, on the platform where the watchman stood during war. The dish was covered, but Bluebell knew that under the oiled skin was enough fuel for a blaze that would be seen for miles around.
Rowan sat, her feet dangling off the edge, and Bluebell sat with her. Rowan was right. The view was spectacular. Dramatic fells, the weak sun on the distant sea, the broad green arrows of forests. She took a moment to enjoy the view, then said, ‘You should have come to Snowy and me.’
‘You would have sent me back. You would have made me marry Wulfgar.’
‘Wulfgar is a good match.’
‘I’m in love with his sister.’
Bluebell groaned. ‘Why must you and your mother fall in love so fucking inconveniently?’
‘You can’t choose who you love.’
‘You can’t choose what family you are born to either, and it happens that you have been born into great privilege. You will have to earn it at some point.’
‘I will. I do not mind serving my people … the tribes, Netelchester, Ælmesse … but don’t make me marry a man whose sister I have lain with.’
‘You should have come to us,’ Bluebell repeated. ‘If Wengest finds you are here, it may threaten peace in Thyrsland.’
‘He won’t find me. If he goes looking for me, he’ll go direct to you at Blicstowe. He doesn’t even know where Mama lives. Besides … I thought she might be more understanding than you.’
‘I know you better than her,’ Bluebell said gruffly. ‘She’s all but a stranger to you.’
‘Nobody knows me well,’ Rowan countered. ‘Perhaps Snowy did for a while. But I have never been firmly anchored, although many have claimed me as their own. Sought to anchor themselves to me.’
Bluebell considered this. It was true, and Bluebell herself had been one of those who had tried to position Rowan for her own ends. She reminded herself that the girl was young. ‘You’re right,’ she said, eyes going to the horizon. ‘You’re too young to marry Wulfgar. Too young to marry Annis too, so don’t ask. Though I’m almost tempted to say yes to piss off the trimartyrs.’
Rowan’s body visibly relaxed. ‘Really?’
‘Return to Wengest and I will come to see him in a few weeks so we can make other plans.’
‘I can’t return. Not yet.’
Bluebell frowned. ‘Rowan, the longer you stay the more likely Wengest is to find you here. You do understand the peace between Ælmesse and Netelchester relies on you and Rose never seeing each other?’
‘Bluebell, three nights ago Connacht’s ghost came to me, marked me.’ She indicated the tattoo on her cheek.
Bluebell peered at Rowan’s face. The pattern on her cheek had changed by some magical means that Bluebell would never understand nor feel comfortable with. ‘Connacht of the West?’ She heard the note of impressed awe in her voice and suppressed it. Connacht had a mighty reputation, but his relationship with Ælmesse had been tense. ‘He never liked me.’
‘I am sure you are used to the first folk disliking you, Aunt Bluebell,’ Rowan said with a mischievous smile. ‘But if Connacht has spoken to me from the grave, perhaps I’m important to the tribes. Perhaps I can unite them.’
Heath was a good war leader, had served alongside Bluebell in the Ælmessean army. Ærfolc weapons and strategies were weak. He had brought them methods for smelting fine steel and shield-formation battle tactics. After he’d successfully repelled raiders at Moonhorn villages along the coast, Druimach became one of the few places never besieged. They did not dare. But there were those that needed more than a war leader; they needed somebody who could lead their spirits.
‘The tribes should unite simply because they’ll all be burned alive if they don’t,’ Bluebell huffed. ‘But I know once united, the tribes are more likely to turn to Renward for protection.’ Renward was in allegiance with Bluebell. She allowed herself a moment of imagining one strong allied army of the west of Thyrsland, from southern tip to northern border. ‘How often have you seen him?’
‘Once. Briefly. I have been back to the sacred grove again but it has remained silent …’
‘The trouble with ghosts,’ Bluebell muttered. ‘Live people are unreliable enough. Dead ones worse.’
‘I feel called to this task,’ Rowan said. ‘I want to stay.’
‘You can have until midwinter,’ Bluebell said impulsively. ‘When I am home in a few days, I will send word to Wengest that you are with me, and that I will bring you back after midwinter. That should put him off the scent.’
Rowan’s smile lit up her face. In that grin, Bluebell could still see the little girl she had been a few years past. ‘Thank you.’
Bluebell deliberately made her voice gruff. ‘Just don’t fall in love with anyone and fuck up all my plans. See if you can keep your heart locked and your legs crossed. If you need advice on that, ask anybody other than your mother.’
‘I’m not afraid of you when you’re grumpy,’ Rowan teased.
‘You should be.’
Rowan laughed it off.
When Bluebell said she was meeting her hearthband at the alehouse and Ash hurried to accompany her, Rose had leapt to her feet and said, ‘I am coming too.’ She knew Ash was part of Bluebell’s retinue, but to see her sisters go off without her when she was already so excluded from their lives had made her sting with jealousy. Bluebell had patted her twice on the back. ‘If you like, sister,’ she’d said.
Linden, understanding that Rose intended to leave him, began to shift from foot to foot, and Rowan – bless her – had stepped in to play a game with him.
Then Rose was free.
Alehouses in Druimach were different to the ones in Blicstowe. For one thing, they didn’t call them alehouses, but rather a cyafallar, which meant something akin to ‘meeting floor’. For another, they contained little furniture. Rather, guests sat on woven rugs on the hard-packed dirt floor, jostling for position close to the hearth, or stood leaning on a long rail bolted to the wall. Rose sat with Ash on a rich red rug, sipping mead from a wooden cup and waiting for Bluebell to finish talking with her hearthband. The tall, strapping Thyrslanders drew attention; some admiring, some hostile. Bluebell herself, pale hair brushed loose and long limbs encased in gleaming mail, caught the eye of everyone who entered the cyafallar. Rose felt a twinge of jealousy: every citizen of Druimach knew she was from the same family, but she did not command the same respect and awe. Most of her life she’d been more beautiful than Bluebell, who was plain to start with and plainer still after she’d had her best friend break her nose; now as Rose grew older she could see power was more coveted than beauty, and everyone she loved seemed to have it but her.
She hadn’t quite made her peace with these thoughts before Bluebell came to sit with them, setting down her cup and folding her long legs in front of her. ‘Damned uncomfortable places, these Ærfolc alehouses,’ she said.
‘How are the rest of the hearthband?’ Ash asked, and Rose noticed her eyes lingered on Sighere.
‘Morale is low. We need to get home.’ Bluebell glanced around the room. ‘For many reasons. This part of Thyrsland isn’t friendly.’
‘To you,’ Rose admonished gently. ‘They like me.’
Bluebell shrugged as though she didn’t care. She probably didn’t. ‘Your Rowan will fix all that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The girl is from two great bloodlines. She could unite the tribes and bring them into treaty with Ælmesse. A united Thyrsland, south to north.’
‘That’s a lot for her young shoulders,’ Rose said, maternal instinct squeezing her heart.
‘She wasn’t born to sit around and sew,’ Bluebell said. ‘Despite what Wengest’s chinless wife insists.’
‘She can sit around and sew with Marjory a little longer yet,’ Rose said lightly. ‘It’s safer.’
Bluebell shook her head. ‘She’s not going back to Folcenham, at least not yet. I want to give her a chance to get to know her people.’
‘She’s staying?’ Rose was at once delighted and terrified. ‘When was this decided? Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I’m telling you now,’ Bluebell said.
Ash, ever the diplomat, intervened. ‘Rose is only being protective, Bluebell. It’s natural for her to worry.’
‘What is there to worry about?’
‘Rowan’s safety,’ Rose said hotly. ‘And Linden’s. What if Wengest finds out where she is and comes to find her, and finds him instead? Am I to lose both of them?’
Bluebell held out her hands in a calm-down gesture. ‘I’ll take care of Wengest. Rowan can get to know her people, and maybe learn some military strategy from Heath. And you can have her in your house from the time you wake up until the time you go to sleep. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Rose said, sighing. ‘How I long for ordinary problems sometimes. Don’t you?’
‘No, never,’ Bluebell said.
‘Sometimes,’ Ash conceded.
Rose did not press the idea, and talk turned elsewhere; but she felt very strongly the burden of public life. She had neither the might of an army to command like Bluebell, nor the control of ancient undermagic like Ash. All of the obligation of life as a highborn woman, with none of the power to bend her own fate.
At first light, Ash woke to the sound of Bluebell trying to speak quietly to Heath and Rowan by the door. She lay there by the smouldering embers and listened for a moment, came to understand that Heath was slipping out with Rowan to introduce her to his closest advisors and make plans to reveal her presence to the tribes at the assembly in a few days. Bluebell was offering her best advice to Rowan, which included ‘look them right in the eyes’, ‘don’t smile at all’, and ‘don’t answer their questions too quickly; silence intimidates’. Ash might have laughed: Bluebell had tried every one of these strategies on her over the years, and they always worked.
Finally, Rowan and Heath left quietly and Bluebell came to sit by the fire and poke the embers, throwing on some kindling and bringing it back to life. ‘She should take over from him,’ Bluebell said.
‘He’s a good war leader. You trained him yourself.’ Ash sat up, pushing her hair from her eyes. ‘And she’s very young.’
Bluebell shrugged. ‘Heath’s pride will prevent him from making good decisions. You will see.’
Ash opened her mouth to answer but then the door to the bower opened and Rose emerged, sleepy-faced Linden in tow. ‘Where are they?’ she asked. ‘Not gone already?’
‘They will be back before long,’ Bluebell said dismissively.
Rose sank to her knees next to Bluebell. ‘Will you stay? Until the end of the tribal assembly? It would be good to have you here while Rowan … I am so worried for her.’
But Bluebell was already shaking her head and saying, ‘Absolutely not,’ and Ash wished that sometimes Bluebell could be a little gentler with Rose.
Linden had plopped down beside Ash and leaned into her.
Rose raised her voice. ‘What if one of these disgruntled Ærfolc takes a dislike to her? What if Rathcruick turns up? If you were here I’d –’
Bluebell raised a hand to stop her talking. ‘I have pressing business with the Wildwalkers and then I must get home. My men have taken a terrible blow. I have widows to visit.’
Linden looked up at Ash and she could see concern in his eyes. Bluebell could be a terrifying sight to a gentle little boy, Ash imagined, but especially so when berating his mother. ‘Come and show me your maps,’ Ash said, standing and lifting him to his feet.
Linden jammed his thumb in his mouth and, with one last nervous glance at Bluebell and Rose, headed off towards the bower.
Ash opened the shutter to let light and cool air in while Linden rummaged for his box. But instead of giving her the maps to look at, he took out a fresh piece of vellum and set up his inks.
‘Are you going to draw for me?’
He didn’t answer, but kept drawing. Confident lines.
Ash thought about what Rowan had told her the night before. He finds things. No doubt Yldra had given him the ability to assist her: having a small, able-bodied child to run out for blindweed and nightshade, to easily locate thornhand and dog parsley in the gaps between rocks, would have been a boon for an elderly cripple like her. But it was not simply plants he could locate, according to Rowan. The ghost of Connacht. The very thing Rowan needed the most to find.
She reached across and slid a finished map out of his lap. These detailed representations of the town, the surrounds … were they all maps that led to something? Something that needed to be found?
She leafed through them for a little while. Bluebell’s and Rose’s voices grew heated in the next room, and then conciliatory again. Bluebell was many things, but her loyalty to her family – her sisters especially – always won out. Maybe Bluebell would elect to leave Sighere behind to keep a watch on Rowan. If she did, then Ash vowed she would tell Bluebell of their love affair herself, and ask to stay with him.
Linden bumped her with his elbow and slid the map he’d been drawing into her hands. It wasn’t as detailed as the others were, but that was because it was drawn hastily and its scope was much larger. She recognised the ragged coastline of Thyrsland, the rivers Gemærea and Wuldorea, and all their winding tributaries: things he could never have seen rendered as if he had spread wings above them. He had drawn a tiny roundhouse, precisely where Druimach would be, and a route of little arrows down and down, south and west, and across the sea to the Brenci Isles: uninhabited rocky islands that had been the site of a famously doomed expedition of Ælmessean second sons from fifty years past, who – if the tale-tellers could be believed – had eventually resorted to eating each other.
‘Why have you drawn this, Linden?’ she breathed, knowing he wouldn’t answer.
Then he leaned across and drew a shape on the island. A little crown.
‘Whose crown is this?’
He quietly and tidily packed away his pens and his ink, locking the lid of the box. She offered to return the map to him, but he wouldn’t take it, pushing it gently back in her hands.
Linden found lost things. Perhaps the Brenci Isles was where she would find her magic.
The dew-damp of early morning was in the air when Bluebell and Ash made their way down to the coomb on foot. Bluebell left her hearthband behind, packed and ready for immediate departure to Blicstowe. As much as she would have loved for them to ride down on the Wildwalkers with weapons ringing, she knew it wasn’t wise to do so. Especially as she had made a promise to Rose to behave, for Rowan’s sake.
From the hill, Bluebell could see two dozen people camped in the grassy bowl held by the arms of the valley. She ought to have guessed that it was the Wildwalkers who had cursed her with the bogle axe. Her hearthband had encountered them once, many years in the past, collecting apples from an abandoned overgrown orchard. Bluebell had ordered her thanes to collect some apples too, and the Wildwalkers had put up their spears. Blood had been spilled on account of a few apples, and their chieftan, Niamma, had blamed Bluebell when it was clearly her own tribe’s fault.
‘So Niamma holds a grudge,’ Bluebell said. ‘I’m surprised she’s still alive. I’m surprised nobody has cut her throat in the night.’
‘I don’t know Niamma,’ Ash said.
‘She lacks both wisdom and humility,’ Bluebell said as they approached. ‘Calls herself Niamma the Bold, but it should be Niamma the Fucking Annoying.’
‘Why don’t you let me speak, then?’ Ash said. ‘Perhaps you cannot be diplomatic.’
Bluebell cast Ash an irritated glance. ‘I can be diplomatic. Watch.’
She lengthened her stride and heard Ash hurrying to catch up.
‘Hoy!’ Bluebell called, when she was within a hundred yards of the encampment. ‘Tell Niamma that Bluebell is here to see her.’
A few pale faces looked up from their campfires. A trio of little children stopped playing and ran inside an oilskin tent. From another, larger, tent dyed with swirling patterns, a tiny woman with a pretty face emerged, her hair the exact shade between copper and gold. She wore a bright blue dress overlaid with furs.
Bluebell approached, feeling her size and ugliness acutely. ‘Niamma,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen you for a while.’ Bluebell shrugged towards Ash. ‘My sister, Ash.’
Niamma smiled at Ash, then returned her eyes to Bluebell. ‘Did you come to steal our apples?’
‘We weren’t stealing your apples. They were nobody’s apples.’
‘Mighty King Bluebell, going to war over fruit,’ Niamma said, the smile never leaving her face.
‘You lost two men and we lost nobody. I wouldn’t be laughing.’
A small crowd had gathered. Bluebell could feel the hostility in the air around her, and thought of Ash’s warning about diplomacy, about her own promises to Rose. She turned to Ash and nodded.
Ash stepped forward. ‘Niamma, a bogle charm has attached itself to Bluebell. As you can imagine, this is a cause for some concern. Her safety as one of the most powerful kings in Thyrsland is very important to all of us.’
‘One of the most powerful kings in Thyrsland?’ Niamma said with a sharp voice. ‘Why do you people think you are better than us?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ Ash said.
‘That’s what I heard. I’m just as important as her.’
Bluebell interlaced her fingers and pressed them against each other until they were white. Don’t threaten her. Don’t draw your sword.
Ash’s voice and demeanour remained even. ‘No insult was intended. The bogle charm clearly has Wildwalker markings on it.’
Niamma clicked her fingers. ‘Let me see. You people know nothing of the Gwr-y-Aírd. Don’t call us Wildwalkers. Learn our language as we have learned yours.’
Bluebell withdrew the axe and held it out. The little woman folded her hands behind her back and leaned forward to examine it, then called out in a surprisingly loud voice, ‘Lugaid!’ She smiled up at Ash. ‘Lugaid is our druid. I will be most angry with him if he’s been cursing people without my permission.’
A middle-aged man with a beardless face rose from beside one of the fires. He wore grey robes and a tightly fitting black cap over his silver hair. He was smiling as he approached, almost as though he were trying not to laugh.
‘What is it, my lady?’ he asked as he joined them.
‘Did you make that bogle charm?’
Here he burst into laughter, as did Niamma and the gathered crowd. Even the little children emerged from their tent and began to run about, laughing and making sing-song teasing noises. Bluebell felt as though she had walked into a bad dream. The entire tribe was laughing her. They all knew about the axe, and they thought it a great joke.
‘Silence!’ she shouted.
Ash gripped her elbow firmly. ‘Explain yourself,’ she said to Niamma.
‘Of course we sent it,’ Niamma said. ‘You oughtn’t be interfering with Ærfolc business here in Bradsey. A bogle charm is nothing. An unexpected surprise, neither good nor bad. But if you do not go home, we will concoct something worse next.’
Bluebell wrenched her arm from Ash’s grasp and flung the axe past Niamma’s ear, so it embedded itself with a thud in the crossbeam of one of their tents. A ripple of silence, then low, hostile whispers.
‘Have it back,’ Bluebell said. ‘And be glad I don’t fillet somebody.’
Niamma raised her eyebrows with a smirk. ‘Oh, you wouldn’t do that. That would upset Heath and the Gwr-y-Llorcyrn far too much. Blood spilled at a tribal assembly over a little joke? Worse than apples.’
Red mist descended and Ash tried to tug Bluebell away. Bluebell flung her off roughly, stood a moment staring Niamma down, then turned and stalked back up the hill. ‘Come along, Ash,’ she said.
The druid called from behind them, ‘You’re as dried up as an old fig, little witch!’
‘What does he mean by that?’ Bluebell muttered.
‘He means me,’ Ash said. ‘My magic.’
‘He knows nothing,’ Bluebell sniffed. ‘Everybody knows the Wildwalkers are thickies.’
Ash chuckled, and Bluebell drew her protectively close. ‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘At least I got rid of that damned axe.’
The meeting with Heath’s advisors had gone well, but still Rowan dreaded speaking in front of the tribes. The night before the assembly she fell asleep but woke up within an hour or two, to low hearthlight and the sounds of her family sleeping. She lay staring at the roof beams, her hand on her cheek over the miraculous mark of Connacht. Why had he marked her?
She rose as silently as she could, slipped on shoes and let herself out. The night was foggy; she could barely see four feet in front of her. She moved carefully down the slope, crouching to steady herself on rocks. Rowan entered the clearing and sat on a flat stone and waited. An owl hooted in the distant dark. She shivered a little from the cold.
Then that feeling again: something gathering, pressure building. Her heart thudded and her blood seemed to heat up. In a moment, he was there, part of the fog, growing dense, denser, then almost solid in front of her. The mist shredded on his mighty antlers.
‘I like your face better this night, granddaughter,’ he said, his voice booming inside her head.
Rowan touched her cheek and smiled. ‘I like it better, too.’
‘I can undo all the enchantments Rathcruick wrought on you,’ he said. ‘I can make you a child again, but you would also lose your ability to work the waypoints.’
‘All things are possible in the woods behind the woods. Time passes slower, faster, backwards, forward …’
Rowan considered this. She had never been eight, or ten, or twelve, and would never know what those stages of childhood felt like. But nor had she ever lived with her parents or had friends her own age. She had been raised in the woods by a hunter. Nothing about her upbringing and growth were normal, and she found she didn’t mind.
‘I will stay as I am,’ Rowan said. ‘But thank you.’ She looked behind her, wary of Linden having followed.
‘He has not come tonight,’ Connacht said.
Rowan turned her attention back to the ghost. His eyes shone in the fog. ‘Linden helped me find you.’
‘Your great aunt gave him the power, for such petty reasons: to serve her. I do not understand the ways of undermagicians. They covet our magic but will not live in our communities. What is the point of power if it is not exercised for others? This is your only lesson from me. Be one of many, and act for the good of all.’
Rowan nodded. ‘I am here to learn all your lessons. I have to face the assembled tribes tomorrow and I’m … unsure.’
‘Unsure? No.’ His voice grew soft, grandfatherly. ‘You are my true heir. The magic that runs through you is born in you, and will emerge over time. Heath is a good war leader, but he does not have your magical ability. I could not speak inside his head the way I can in yours. He cannot be the leader of the Gwr-y-Llorcyrn for long.’
Rowan held her breath a moment, then released it. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You will one day wear the antlers on your head under the moon.’
As he said this, the vision sliced into her mind as clear as memory: Rowan looking at the tribe gathered around a bonfire, a heavy weight on her head, the moonlight running down to her in a silvery tide, Heath kneeling before her … then the vision was gone. She touched her forehead where the antlers had been. ‘When will these things happen?’
‘You will know when,’ he said. ‘For now, you must make yourself known to the tribes and unite their spirits. War is coming. The wretched trimartyr raiders will only grow bolder. Their religion is cold and their methods are cruel. The tribes can no longer squabble among themselves. They must unite under the Moonhorns. You must throw your support behind Heath. You must lead the way for their spirits, as he leads the way for their spears.’
Rowan felt a stiffening in her blood as the weight of responsibility and fate settled in it. ‘And may I return to you for advice?’
‘Until the Gwr-y-Llorcyrn are safe I will wander here in the grove. Sometimes close, sometimes far.’ His dark, serious eyes turned upwards. ‘I long to cross the veil and enter the green city.’
Rowan smiled. ‘I wish for your sake and the tribe’s that that will be soon.’
He made no sound or motion, but his presence began to fade. She watched him disappear, become the mist, then vanish.
Rowan stood a few moments in the circle, eyes closed, contemplating. She listened to the thrum of her pulse. Her blood, the blood of the Southlanders and the blood of the Ærfolc. Two grandfathers who were kings.
In her slight body converged two great bloodlines and, through this quirk of biology, a huge responsibility had been placed on her head, as heavy as the antlers in her vision.
Rowan stood very still in her bower while her mother pinned on her dress with two matching silver brooches.
‘These belonged to Connacht’s first wife, Fianna. She died giving birth, along with the babe, when she was only nineteen,’ Rose said softly. ‘The tribes will recognise the pattern. You see, it’s a pair of owl wings. Fianna was considered very wise.’
Rowan took a deep breath. ‘I am not wise.’ She could hear the voices on the other side of the door. The rain had set in and so the meeting had been brought inside the roundhouse: the leaders of each tribe and their closest advisors. Twenty people in all, crammed into the spaces where the family usually cooked and talked and played. Heath paced nearby, probably just as anxious as Rowan. Linden sat on his bed, legs crossed, drawing. The sound of the rain intensified, a true autumn drenching.
‘Hardship makes one wise. You will be wise one day.’ Rose smoothed down her dress and picked up a bone comb. ‘Let me fix your hair.’ Rose unpinned her daughter’s hair and began to run the comb gently through it.
Rowan barely registered the tug and pull as knots were untangled. She strained her hearing to pick up words and phrases from beyond the door, but could make out nothing but a low mumble, the occasional laugh. Some would think her the true chosen heir of Connacht, some would think her too young to be of any importance, some would think her dangerously close to the kings of Ælmesse and Netelchester.
‘There. Now you are ready.’ Rose stepped back. ‘Do not forget who you are. You have the blood of many kings.’
‘And queens,’ Rowan answered.
Heath ceased his pacing and approached, offering Rowan his arm. She took it, and then her feet were carrying her out of the bower, towards her destiny.
The roundhouse was airless and smoky, and so many eyes were upon her that she initially looked down at her feet; but then remembered what Bluebell had told her. She lifted her chin, unsmilingly, and prepared herself to meet every gaze. The occasional drip of rain made its way through the smoke hole in the ceiling and hissed on the fire. Rowan gently pulled her arm free of Heath’s and stood with her spine very straight. Heath glanced at her, then at the gathered crowd. He spoke a sentence, something Rowan didn’t understand as it was in the speech of the Ærfolc. It must have been some kind of welcome, because the assembly murmured a response in unison. Then Heath switched back to his own language, and said, ‘I called you here to present to you my daughter Rowan of Netelchester, whose lineage is drawn from two glorious forebears: the famed war leader King Æthlric of Ælmesse and Connacht the Wood King. This is the young woman the great seer called the little queen.’
A murmur went around the room. Some nods of assent. Some expressions of disdain.
Heath began to speak again, but Rowan lifted her hand and grasped his shoulder to stop him. If she didn’t say anything soon, they would think he spoke for her.
Her heart was hammering as she said, ‘I know your eyes see a stranger and a girl. I know I am untested in battle and know not your language and your ways, but they are things that I can learn. But magic, which no-one can learn, runs in my veins. I control the crossings and … I have spoken with the ghost of Connacht.’ She stopped and let her silence work in her favour, as the assembly muttered among themselves. She could feel Heath’s body tense next to hers.
Finally, an elderly woman with knotted hands and fading blue tattoos up her neck spoke. ‘And when you spoke with Connacht,’ she said in a voice oily with sarcasm, ‘what did he say? That we should all bow down to your blood-crazed aunt, the new king of Ælmesse?’
Rowan fixed the woman in her gaze and remained silent a few more moments. It gave her a chance to choose her words. ‘Bluebell poses no threat to us –’
She was instantly shouted down by a jumble of harsh phrases. ‘Ælmesse have always thought they are our lords and masters.’ ‘Renward is her faithful dog.’ ‘She kills before she thinks.’
But then another voice called, ‘Silence! All of you, be silent! Here stands the little queen, the true heir of Connacht, and she has his words from beyond the grave. Let her speak.’
Rowan caught the eye of the man who had spoken, a tall fellow with a scraggly red beard, wearing blue-and-red checked pants and a fur vest. She nodded at him gratefully, and decided she didn’t want to use Bluebell’s tricks any more. She wanted to speak as herself.
She offered them a smile. ‘I am not your enemy. I understand your mistrust, of course I do. But the war the Thyrslanders waged with your forefathers, generations past, has already been won. I am sorry, but I am not here to change history: not even the mighty Connacht could change history. But the raiders grow bolder, and we are safer united against them. Will you risk being consumed by grudges from the past when the future is crumbling? Connacht says we must unite, under Heath –’ here she took his hand, ‘– my father, who is a fine chieftan and leader of warriors.’
Then the debate began in earnest. Those who had always been in favour of Heath spoke fast and loud. A few questioned whether Rowan was lying, but the woman with the tattooed neck reminded them of the great seer’s prophecy of the little queen. One person pointed out the tattoo on Rowan’s cheek as evidence, while another said it looked like cheap ink from Blicstowe. The tall scraggly-bearded man told them of the deaths of his sister and her children at the hands of raiders. Others mentioned the threat that the Crow Queen’s trimartyr ways posed to their spirits, while others – mostly older men with only a handful of bitter years left to live – said they’d rather be trimartyrs than come under Bluebell’s rule. Heath told them again and again that he had no plans to submit them all to Ælmesse’s rule, or even to Renward’s, without a clear treaty of autonomy in place, and that was a decision for another time. Rowan stood back and allowed them to agree and disagree. She didn’t know their names or their histories, and sometimes they lapsed into long streams in the Ærfolc language – slightly different for every tribe, but they understood each other. But as ten minutes passed, then twenty, she could feel the tide turn. Voices calmed, and the words became ‘unity’ and ‘agreement’ and ‘together’.
Finally Niamma the Bold, whom Bluebell had warned her about, walked up to Rowan and peered up at her. ‘Connacht’s heir? I trust her more than I’d trust him.’ Here she jabbed a finger towards Heath. She turned to the crowd. ‘We trusted Connacht. We lose nothing by trusting his heirs for long enough to unite against the raiders. Beyond that, well … we shall see.’ She took Rowan’s hand and squeezed it, and she had such a soft twinkle in her eye that Rowan couldn’t help but feel fond towards her. ‘You’re a bonny young woman,’ Niamma said softly. ‘You remind me of myself. A little taller.’ Here she smiled mischievously. ‘We shall talk further, I know it.’
This acceptance by Niamma seemed to trigger a note of harmony through the assembly. The scraggly-bearded man, who Rowan now understood to be a very elderly chieftan’s son, called on those gathered to speak in one voice in favour of uniting under Heath to resist the raiders, in the hopes of stopping them from wintering over in tribal lands and to drive them back to Is-hjarta for good. Heath promised he would send four seasoned soldiers to each tribe to train them for war.
And the cry went up: ‘Aye.’ Every one of them. Some appeared more reluctant than others, some still gave Rowan dark looks, while others saved their dark looks for Heath and had warm eyes for her, but they all said aye.
Heath had just slipped his arm around Rowan’s waist when the door to the roundhouse burst open, letting in a blast of damp air. Standing there wearing a crown of blackberry twigs was Rathcruick of the Woodlanders. He was accompanied by a young man Rowan recognised as his son Carnax, and both of them were drenched through. At the sight of him, a jolt of heat went to Rowan’s heart.
‘What nonsense is this?’ he cried. ‘I have been standing beyond this door listening as you swore allegiance to this … Thyrslander –’ he indicated Heath with a contemptuous flick of his hand and a withering tone, ‘– when the young woman is not his heir at all. She is mine.’
Confusion. Hostility. Heath drew his sword.
Rowan had to speak. ‘Be quiet!’ she shouted, though whether it was to Rathcruick or the rest of the assembly, she didn’t know. ‘I have no Woodlander blood in me. I draw my lineage from Connacht.’
Rathcruick strode close and grasped her wrist hard enough to bruise it, pulling her close and peering at the tattoo on her cheek. ‘What is this?’ he demanded. ‘Dardru, what is this?’
‘I am not Dardru. I have never been Dardru. She is dead and if she is blessed by the gods, then her spirit has long since flown my body to make peace in the afterlife.’ Rowan didn’t know if this was true, or if some echo of Dardru’s spirit still fluttered inside her.
‘Can you not still open the crossings?’ Rathcruick demanded. ‘That is Dardru’s ability, not yours.’
She shook him off violently. ‘It is mine now. And I owe you nothing for it. You took my childhood from me.’
Rathcruick turned to the assembly. ‘You would trust Heath over me? One of your own? They say they will throw out the trimartyr raiders, yet they are both of Netelchester, a trimartyr kingdom! They say they will not subject you to Bluebell’s rule, yet Rowan’s mother is her sister! You have all been duped.’ He glanced at Rowan. ‘Even my daughter has been duped.’
‘I am not your daughter!’ Rowan roared. ‘Is this all you have brought to the assembly? Confusion and doubt? Have you no concern for Bradsey, where most of the Ærfolc live? It is not your village that is under attack from brutal and pious raiders. It is not your people being burned in their houses while their murderers pray to Maava. No, you hide between shadows and crossings, and have left us exposed. If you have nothing useful to offer us, then you should leave my father’s house, my father’s village, immediately.’
Rathcruick and Carnax stood staring at her. Rowan tried to imagine what Bluebell would say to them, and decided she would swear and wave her sword. So instead, Rowan said, ‘Nobody here is listening to you any more.’
Niamma echoed her. ‘Yes, go away. Our decision has been made and you were not part of it.’
Others began to jeer, and Rathcruick, standing in a puddle of dripping rainwater, turned his eyes to Rowan and lifted a crooked index finger. ‘You will regret this,’ he said. ‘I will make sure of it.’
Rowan felt the chill of his curse, but deliberately kept her appearance calm. ‘If all you have is trouble and threats, then you are not welcome among us. Leave.’
Rathcruick nodded, grasped Carnax’s shoulder, and stalked from the roundhouse, leaving the door open. The rain hammered down, turning the ground to mud. A slight woman near the back of the room hurried to close the door. Murmurs followed in his wake.
‘Well,’ said Heath, forcing brightness. ‘Let us celebrate our new unity.’
Rathcruick was forgotten, as arrangements were made for firelight, feast and good mountain ale.