Willow’s throat was sore and her mouth was dry from praying. She no longer needed to whisper her prayers under her breath. Heath kept his distance from her, so when she sat in here with Father, it was as if they were alone in the world together. Sometimes she ran out of words to pray with and settled for saying Maava’s name over and over. But then the angels would hiss and spit and she would start again.
“Take my father’s soul. Forgive him his many sins. Take my father’s soul into the Sunlands. Maava, great and good, listen to this poor sinner…”
And the angels’ voices died away.
All except for one.
Willow felt the angel in her head, like a thorn lodged in the soft part of her brain. It waited for her, cool and disdainful. She stopped praying.
“What is wrong, angel of Maava?” Willow said, her heart speeding.
“Sinner,” it said, its voice sizzling sharp against her ears.
“I know I am a sinner. I know. I pray for Maava’s love.”
“You are one of them.”
Willow’s fingers began to shake. “One of…” Then she realized the angel meant her family. “No, no. I’m not. I have come to Maava’s light.”
“Whores, witches, kinslayers.”
“No, they are only heathens. I’m trying to bring them to Maava. See me? I’m praying night and day for the soul of the greatest heathen king in Thyrsland.”
Athelrick began to stir, mumbling. One of his fits was coming on. She froze a moment, but knew she couldn’t cope alone. She went to the door and opened it, calling out for Heath.
“Murderers, plunderers, adulterers.”
Behind her, her father had begun to moan, low and long, like a wounded animal. She turned. His hands danced in spasms on the bedcovers. The angel laughed in her ears.
“He is no great king. And you are a sinner.” Then the voice was gone.
Athelrick flung back his covers and tried to get up, shouting at her incoherently.
“My lord, you must be calm,” she said to him, trying to smooth his covers over. “Heath! Heath!” But Heath wasn’t in the house.
Athelrick had sat up and was struggling to push himself into a standing position. Willow threw herself on top of him, straddling him, using the weight of her body to push him back down. He grunted. She put her hands on his shoulders and leaned into him, and he slowly sank back down onto the bed. The knotted fingers of his right hand closed around her wrist.
Behind her, the door opened. “Willow?”
“He tried to get up,” she said to Heath. “He’s calm again.”
“I’m sorry. I was in the—”
“Bluebell?”
Both Willow and Heath were stunned into silence. Willow looked down at her father, whose lips were moving silently now.
“Did he say…?”
“ ‘Bluebell,’ ” Willow replied. “He said ‘Bluebell.’ ”
Her father’s fingers went slack, drifting down from her wrist and landing on the covers. He slept again.
Willow climbed off the bed, her heart hammering. She could still feel the ghost of her father’s touch, tingling cool on her wrist.
Heath couldn’t hide his smile. “Do you think it’s possible he might recover?”
Willow shook her head. “I don’t know. Perhaps.” Her heart filled with light. If he lived, Willow could convince him to take the faith. She could convince them all. Almissia would convert, and the angels wouldn’t judge her anymore. Of course. Of course. This was why she had been born, why she had come to Maava. Through her father’s illness, she would work a miracle. She would save the souls of her countrymen and make sure Thyrsland came to the trimartyr faith. She almost laughed, the giddy relief was so light.
Then she realized: All along she had been praying for the wrong thing. She ought not pray for his soul. A living man could save his own soul. From now on, she would pray for his life so that her glorious destiny might rush upon her, bright and clear.
From Stonemantel, the most direct route to Bradsey was to skim up along the coastline, but the west coast of Thyrsland was rugged and endured intense prevailing winds that had bent its trees into grotesque postures of submission. So Ash, Rose, and Bluebell stayed with the inland road, twenty miles from the sea—an overgrown track that led over the dramatic, heather-choked moors. They passed no other travelers, and Ash had the feeling they were riding off the edge of the known world.
Rose was silent, sulking. Bluebell responded by pretending she didn’t notice. Ash lost herself in thoughts about her power, her Becoming, and how she was to try to make a future for herself. Now that she had spent so long allowing her second sight to be open—or at least, not actively shutting it down—she had realized her ability to read what was going on around her was patchy. Sometimes, the sight was wide ranging, intense, rolling over her like an ocean wave. Sometimes, it was like seeing through a chink in a wooden board: No matter how she positioned herself, she couldn’t get a complete picture. And there seemed to be no pattern to predict it by.
How she longed for good advice. She knew she wouldn’t find it at Thridstow, where the old counselors would be jealous or alarmed. She hadn’t even found it with Byrta, and her hopes Eldra might help had been quickly dispelled. She had thought of asking Bluebell for advice but Bluebell, for all her knowledge and experience in war, would surely have nothing to offer beyond sympathy. Perhaps she would say, What does it matter if you can’t predict your second sight? Just use it when you can. She wouldn’t feel Ash’s sense of urgency. What is happening to me? When will it stop? Will I survive it?
Out here on the lonely moors, far from the world of men, she could feel the creeping magic everywhere. It was skulking in the tangled heather, it was draping itself from the crooked rowan trees, it was slouching cool and dark in the crevices between rocks. The farther north they moved, the stronger this sense of organic magic grew—a force neither hostile nor kind, but coolly neutral. Indifferent. It was a feature of the landscape here, as much as rolling green hills were a feature of Almissia, or dense elm forests were a feature of Nettlechester. And today, they were still miles from the plains of Bradsey, where the magic was thickest, roiling across the ground like fog.
Rose slowed so she was riding alongside Ash, and said in a harsh whisper, “When do you think she’ll let us stop for a rest? We’ve been riding five hours with barely a break.”
As Rose said this, Ash became aware of the tired ache across her back and thighs.
“Even her dogs are nowhere to be seen,” Rose continued, looking around. Her long hair was stuck to her face by the wind. “They’re probably sensibly having a rest, a few miles behind us.”
“They’ll find us,” Ash said. “But if you’re tired, you should ask her for a rest.”
“And give her another chance to put me in my place? I think not.”
Ash urged her horse forward. “Bluebell, when are you thinking of resting?”
Bluebell stirred, almost as though from a dream. “Hmm? I suppose we can rest now if you want to eat. But I’d hoped to get to Shotley and stay there for the night. It’s only an hour away, and then we’re past the moors.” She looked around, almost as though she was sniffing the air. “I don’t like it out here. Something unseen lurks, as if it’s watching us.”
Ash glanced over her shoulder at Rose, raised her eyebrows to say, See? You only had to ask.
“Let’s keep going then,” Rose said. “I can stand another hour if it means a soft bed.”
Ash’s body had been preparing itself for rest and now she had to tell it to keep going. She shifted in her saddle, finding a new position for her back to settle in. She thought about Bluebell’s comment: something unseen, watching them. This place would surely be crawling with elementals. Did she dare? But before she could even make up her mind, the sight was opening up.
What surprised her most was the stillness. She’d imagined elementals bustling about, darting between rocks and trees, going to ground as they felt her eyes on them. But they were motionless. Hundreds of them, lined up along the side of the track as though she and her sisters were a procession and they had come out to…
Watch. They had come out to watch Ash.
Wonder and fear boiled up in her gut. She looked at them with frightened eyes, and they looked back at her. Guardedly, sometimes hopefully, sometimes with angry apprehension. She moved past them, and they were perfectly still. Her sisters were unaware of the audience; her horse didn’t shy.
Then she remembered what the oak spirit had said to her. Your voice is inexorable. She wanted very much to test if this was true, to feel that power, but fear kept her words inside. Besides, what would her sisters make of her shouting out commands to nobody?
So, in her head, she called to them: Go to ground! All of you!
And every single one of them dropped to the earth and disappeared. The air shimmered as it collapsed around them, and the ground shuddered as though a herd of invisible oxen had passed momentarily over it. Ash’s bones shook.
“What was that?” Rose said, looking around, alarmed. Her voice came to Ash’s ears as though muffled by layers of wool. Ash’s horse put her head down and moved to buck. Bluebell stopped, her long tattooed arm raised.
Ash’s heart thundered. She didn’t say anything.
“The earth shook,” Rose said, superstitious fear making her face pale.
“I felt it,” Bluebell said, her mouth a thin line. “I think we should pick up our speed.”
So they did, and Ash shut down her sight and clenched her stomach so she wouldn’t throw up over herself. Her joints felt bruised. The physical discomfort was a welcome distraction for a little while. Stopping her from thinking about what all this signified.
She could command elementals. A storm of magic was gathering around her, and she had neither knowledge nor power enough to stop it.
But there was no longer any hiding it from herself. She was an undermagician, and she was riding directly into the land where undermagicians belonged.
Shotley was only a small village, but walled and gated from the wild woodland around it. It must have once been a town important to the giants, because the woods were punctuated by white ruins, crumbled to head height by time and weather. They reached Shotley by crossing a wide, wooden bridge over the Gema River—a turquoise-blue waterway that supported the village by way of trade and the abundance of Shotley trout, a delicacy throughout Thyrsland. The river marked the border between Almissia and Bradsey, and as they crossed it, they left behind the last shire in which Bluebell had direct rule. She and her father had not been this far north on king’s business in many years. She doubted the people who lived in these parts knew they were ruled by anyone.
The stables were poorly kept: dark, with moldering straw. The dogs looked at Bluebell with pleading eyes as she left them in one of the boxes.
“Would they let me keep my dogs at the alehouse?” she asked the terrifyingly old stable hand.
He smiled at her with teeth worn down to stumps. “I’d say not, my lady. But I’ll take good care of them here if you slip me an extra coin.”
She did as he asked then reluctantly left, Rose and Ash behind her.
The sweet steam from the alehouse called her. How she longed to sit still and drink ale, then fall into a soft bed—if there was one in Shotley—and sleep for a long time.
As she was about to open the door of the alehouse, Ash tugged on her sleeve. “Bluebell,” she said, “we ought not stay here too long.”
“Here? At the alehouse?”
“Shotley.”
Bluebell’s stomach twitched. “We have to rest.”
“Then keep your head low. Hide your weapons and wear a dress.”
“Wear a dress?” She almost laughed. Then said, “You’re serious?”
Ash nodded. “Come. Around the side here and away from eyes.” She pulled Bluebell into the alley between buildings. “I have a strong sense it would be better if nobody knew Bluebell the Fierce was here.”
Bluebell shrugged and turned to Rose. “Do you have a dress I can wear?”
Rose dropped her pack on the ground and pulled out a length of fabric. “Do you want a shift as well?”
Bluebell was already unbuckling her weapons and handing them to Ash, wriggling out of her tunic. “No, I’ll just throw it on. Hurry.”
The dress only came to her calves, revealing her gaiters and the leather straps that tied them on. Her tattooed wrists were also visible. Rose was trying not to laugh as she pinned the dress at Bluebell’s shoulders with two amber-and-glass brooches.
“Will I do?” she said to Ash.
“Try to look a little less…fierce,” Ash said, helping Bluebell back into her sword-belt and pinning her cloak: “And keep this covered.”
Together, they entered the alehouse. Ash urged Bluebell to sit down with Rose in a dim back corner while she went to order food.
Bluebell eyed Rose across the table. They’d barely spoken since they left the flower farm. “Are you still sore with me?”
Rose gave a humorless laugh. “Sore? That’s what you used to say when we were children, after you wrestled me into submission over something.”
Bluebell shrugged.
“In case you hadn’t noticed, Bluebell, we are not children anymore. I have a child of my own. And she is somewhere between here and the moon.”
“They’d be in Withing. That’s where I told Sighere to stop.”
“We hope.”
“I know. Sighere will protect her. That’s why I sent him with her.”
“If I knew she was home safe with those who loved her, I wouldn’t mind so much…” Rose dropped her head. “But it feels as though that cord between her body and mine was never cut, and it pulls at my guts to have her so far away.”
Bluebell realized she wasn’t going to get any sense out of Rose and gave up, taking the opportunity instead to look around the room. A lot of smelly old fishermen and hard-faced women. No great threat. And yet Ash’s eyes were dark with concern over some unseen thing.
Ash made her way back from the bar then and shooed Bluebell out of her seat. “You face the back wall,” she said.
“I don’t like to sit with my back to the door.”
“I don’t want anyone to recognize you.”
Bluebell slid off the bench and swapped places with Rose. Now she felt uncomfortable. She couldn’t see what was happening anywhere in the alehouse. “What is this about, Ash?”
Ash slid their cups of ale onto the table. “The moment we crossed the bridge, a cold feeling came over me,” she said. “You are too bright a woman to come into this dark place. I can say nothing more than that. These feelings aren’t always clear; they run beneath my skin like instincts. Wordless, but certain.”
“Perhaps we should not have stopped. There are woods we could have slept in.”
Rose shook her head. “The woods are wild. I saw no managed trees beyond the first few feet from the path. There would be wolves for certain.” Rose’s eyes flickered, catching sight of something over Bluebell’s shoulder.
Bluebell resisted the urge to look around. “What is it?”
“It looks like a drunkard with love on his mind,” Rose said.
Bluebell braced herself. A moment later, an oily man with a flushed face was standing by their table, his right foot propped on the seat next to Bluebell’s thigh.
“Good evening, ladies,” he said.
Bluebell turned her face to him. “We’d thank you to leave us be,” she said.
“But three good ladies such as yourself must surely be in need of the company of a good man.”
Bluebell bit back the retort on her lips, mindful of Ash’s advice.
Ash smiled at him. “We sisters are all the company we need for one another. We simply want to have our meal in peace.”
He scowled, then walked away.
“He smelled like trout guts,” Bluebell murmured into her ale.
Rose laughed.
“Not so loud, Rose,” Ash admonished. “He heard that.”
“What’s he doing?” Bluebell asked.
The serving woman arrived with their meals then, thumping the plates onto the table with the kind of dull force only deeply unhappy people can achieve.
Ash glanced up under her eyelashes. “He’s talking to another man. A big fellow.”
“We’ve not heard the last of our new lover,” Bluebell said. “You’ll see I’m right. Let’s eat quickly and get to a room.”
They fell on their food. Bluebell would have wolfed it down under any circumstances, she was so hungry from the day’s travel, but she could also see in Ash’s face the building panic. They had to get out of there.
A few minutes later, they were standing at the bar. Rose asked the alehouse husband for a room.
He eyed them one by one, taking special notice of Bluebell. “Yes, we have a room. One of you might have to sleep on the floor.” He nodded toward Bluebell. “Your tall friend looks like she’s well used to hardship.”
“Give us the key,” Bluebell snapped, earning a kick in the shins from Ash.
He handed the key to Rose and they turned to the door, only to find it barred by the oily man and his friend.
Bluebell bit her lip so she wouldn’t swear. Her fingers twitched at her hip.
“Let us by,” Ash said in a sweet voice. “We mean you no harm.”
The larger man huffed. “You were laughing at my friend.”
The hushed quiet behind them told Bluebell they had an audience.
“We weren’t,” Rose said. “We were laughing about something else. We offer you no disrespect.”
“We see it differently,” said the oily man, “and we don’t take kindly to women who talk out of turn.”
And, by fuck, Bluebell wanted to make him eat steel. Hot mist built up behind her eyes.
The larger man took a step forward. “You see…” he said, reaching for Ash’s upper arm.
And that was it. Bluebell’s sword was out and swinging down, its deadly edge stopping suddenly on his sleeve. “Touch her and you lose your hand. Then how would you fist your mister?”
Ash gave an exasperated groan. The man reached for his knife, but Bluebell grabbed him under the armpit and in seconds had him in an armlock, his back against her chest and her sword resting lengthways across his belly. His knife clattered to the floor. The oily man stood back. A long way back.
“Do I have to spill your guts?” Bluebell asked him.
He shook his head.
She let him go and sheathed her sword. Looked around. Everyone was staring at her. She readjusted her cloak. The alehouse husband was staring at her, and she could see the wheels in his brain turning. She felt the first cool touch of regret.
“Come,” Ash said, urging her ahead. “Let’s be away.”
They found their way outside to the guesthouse, locking their room firmly.
“The alehouse husband recognized you, I’m sure of it,” Ash said, pacing.
Bluebell pulled off her dress and handed it back to Rose. “So what do we do? Do you want us to leave?”
“We need to rest,” Rose said.
Bluebell was climbing back into her own clothes. “What do you sense, Ash? Is danger near?”
“No. It’s not…I can’t control this. I’m sorry. We are both safe and not safe here, and I don’t know why.” Ash sat heavily on the bed, her head in her hands.
Bluebell considered her by the flickering lamplight. On the one hand, she took Ash’s fears seriously, but on the other, she found it hard to conceive of a world in which she couldn’t keep two of her sisters safe. She had sometimes kept her entire hearthband safe. “Ash? What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine,” Ash said. “Let’s sleep and be away early.”
Bluebell glanced around the room, spotted a large chest. She pulled it up to the door to bar it. “You two sleep, I’ll keep watch,” she said.
“You need sleep, too.”
“I’ll doze. I’ll be fine.”
She sat on the chest with her back against the door, the Widowsmith drawn, to wait for sunrise.
There were more appealing ways to be woken than being prodded by Bluebell’s bony fingers at dawn. Rose opened her eyes, the comfort of sleep fell away, and she was left instead with the memory that she was far from those she loved the most. Ordinarily, she would take a few moments to remember Rowan’s soft kisses and derive small comfort, but Bluebell was insistent.
“Come on. We must be away. Up and dressed, sisters.”
Ash was doing as she was told, but Rose wasn’t in the mood for Bluebell’s orders. “In good time, Bluebell,” she said.
“The good time is now,” Bluebell said in reply. In the dim light, Rose could see that her sister’s eyes were darkly shadowed. Had she stayed awake all night on watch? A small pulse of guilt.
Ash put a cool hand on Rose’s shoulder. “Take your time, sister. I’ll pack your things.”
Ash’s kindness galvanized her more than Bluebell’s overbearing bossiness ever could. She rose and pinned on her dress, pulled on her shoes. Bluebell paced the whole time, clearly anxious to get away. She took Ash’s premonitions very seriously, even when they were as inarticulate as this one. Rose wondered if it wasn’t the dark wood and empty isolation of the village that had made Ash uncomfortable. They were beyond the border of civilization here. For Rose, the idea of being away from everything was not an uncomfortable one. Away from everything meant away from obligation and damning eyes and promises made in public.
The dogs met them gratefully at the stable, tails thumping, and soon they were saddled and on their way. Bluebell was in a foul mood, shouting at the dogs and scowling. Rose ignored it, but when they had been riding about ten minutes and Shotley was a dark shape on the hill behind them, Ash ventured to draw Bluebell into conversation.
“Is everything all right, Bluebell?” she ventured.
“I’m fine,” Bluebell replied shortly.
“Did you have any sleep last night?”
“What does it matter?” Bluebell snapped. “Let’s get on.”
Rose clenched her teeth. Enough of Bluebell’s foul humor, especially as Ash had done nothing to deserve it. “Leave her be, Bluebell.”
“All is well, Rose,” Ash said. “She hasn’t slept. She stayed awake to protect us.”
“All is not well. She isn’t the only one who has a reason to be unhappy. Why should we indulge her? She doesn’t indulge us.”
“You mean I’ve never indulged you?” Bluebell said, pulling Isern up hard and turning on her. “And why should I? You were given one thing to do to earn your place in this family. One thing: marry the king of Nettlechester and be faithful to him. And you couldn’t even do that. You barely made it through a year before you were riding your nephew.”
“He’s not my nephew!”
“Please don’t fight,” Ash said. “You’re both tired, you both have a lot on your minds. This will get us nowhere.”
“Stay out of it, Ash,” Rose said, firmly. “Bluebell and I need to speak of this directly.”
“I’ve already spoken to you directly. Many times,” Bluebell said with a scowl. “Heath is Rowan’s father, and for that he may live and be of use to us. But one more half-breed bastard will be too many for me, and certainly too many for Wengest.”
“You speak as though all that matters is the business of kings.”
“It is all that matters. What am I to say to you, Rose, that you have my blessing to make decisions from between your legs? Where does that leave the rest of us in Almissia? In the other territories that rely on us? What am I to say to the people on the borders of Bradsey: Oh, I’m sorry that you are being slaughtered by raiders, but my sister was in need of a good fucking?”
The temperature of Rose’s blood surged that Bluebell had reduced something so beautiful to something so coarse. She had sent her daughter away with strangers. And her heart was as cold and hard as steel. Rose kicked her horse and galloped off, down toward the woods. Away, for fear that if she stayed her heart would explode with hot fury.
“Rose, wait!” Ash shouted, a thrill of desperation in her voice, though Rose didn’t know why. It wasn’t the first time she and Bluebell had argued and it would hardly be the last.
Then she saw the heavy, overhanging branch of a chestnut tree barring the road. She yanked the reins. A hard, black pain shuddered across her forehead. The sun blinked out.
She was awake, but not awake. Consciousness was not lost, but shredded into incoherent pieces. She seemed to see herself from far away, Bluebell lifting her limp form onto Isern’s back. Then a long stretch of ringing darkness. Ash’s hands, close and smelling of leather from reins. Voices. Shouting. Bluebell shouting, ordering people around. Rose felt the beat of her heart as a deep ache in her head. The darkness flickered on and off. A pungent smell, choking her. She fought against it, then Ash said, “Sleep now. We are here with you.”
Then a long silence in the hum of life.
Rose’s eyes flickered open. Long shadows and a chill in the air told her it was late in the afternoon. She was somewhere soft, and her head throbbed. She took a moment to remember what had happened.
Then Ash leaned into view. “You’re awake.”
“Where are we?”
“Back in Shotley.”
“Where’s Bluebell?”
“I’m here.” A voice from the shadows in the corner of the room. Rose sat up to look around, but her neck and shoulders screamed with pain.
“Stay down,” Ash said. “You hit your head and then you had a bad fall. You need to rest.”
Rose did as she was told, reaching for her forehead where the branch had struck her. It was bandaged. “Have I been unconscious all this time?”
“I gave you something to make you sleep. I had to stitch your wound.” Ash pointed to her own forehead. “It was bleeding badly.”
Bluebell came into view. “When can she ride again?”
Ash turned to her. “Give her a day or two. She’s badly bruised.”
“This place…”
“I know.”
Rose reached for Bluebell’s hand. Her sister looked gray with tiredness and concern. “I’m so sorry.”
Bluebell shrugged. She squeezed Rose’s hand, then released it. A quick knock at the door made her head jerk up. Her sword was drawn in a second.
Ash put out a hand. “I’ll open it. Stay out of sight.”
“They’ve already seen me.”
“Please, Bluebell.”
Bluebell shrank back into the shadows. Ash opened the door. It was the alehouse husband.
“Good evening,” Ash said.
“How long are you staying?”
“It will depend very much on my sister’s recovery.”
He peered into the room, his eyes lighting on Bluebell.
“Why do you ask?” Ash said.
“I have a lot of travelers come through here,” he said gruffly. “I might need the room.”
“I’ll try to get better quickly,” Rose joked weakly.
Once again his eyes went to Bluebell. “Would you like some food sent up?”
“Thank you, but we will keep to ourselves,” Ash said.
He nodded, then backed out. Ash closed the door after him. “He knows who you are, Bluebell.”
“Good. Then he might have the sense to be afraid.” Bluebell moved the chest back in front of the door. “Well, Ash, you still have your bad feeling?”
“I do,” Ash said in a soft voice.
Rose felt such a fool. If she hadn’t stormed off like a child, she and her sisters would be far away, perhaps in another, safer village, or perhaps preparing to sleep under the stars. But she had lost her temper the way Rowan did—hot and violent. Thoughts of Rowan made her ache. Where was she now? Was she safe? A fall like the one Rose had would kill a child. Rose began to cry.
“Hush,” Ash said, grasping her hands. “All will be well. The best thing you can do now is rest so we can leave tomorrow.”
“But if you’re not up to it, we can wait another day,” Bluebell said, sitting on the chest with her knees folded up under her chin.
Rose knew what an effort it must have taken Bluebell to appear calm as she said those words. Bluebell was in a hurry—to get out of Shotley, to save Father’s life. Rose’s stomach clutched with guilt. She spent too much time in her own head, consumed with her own feelings. She blamed her heart: Surely it experienced love and fear and desire and guilt more steeply than anyone else’s. That could be the only explanation for her selfishness.
She felt woozy and disconnected. Perhaps sleep was all she needed. She turned on her side—gingerly, trying to find a spot that wasn’t bruised—and promised herself that, no matter how she felt, she would ride tomorrow. She had already caused her sisters too much trouble.
A rush of cold water in Ash’s veins made her startle awake.
She sat up, heart thudding, and looked around the room. Rose was asleep next to her, face soft, lips slightly parted. Bluebell was curled on her side on the floor in front of the door. As she tried to focus on Bluebell, a scream behind her eyes began to vibrate through her skull.
Something very bad was coming. Coming for Bluebell.
“Up!” she cried, leaping out of bed. “We need to go now.”
Bluebell was on her feet in a second, not a trace of sleepiness or confusion in her expression. “What’s coming, Ash?”
“I don’t know. But it’s coming for you,” Ash said. She leaned over Rose, who was struggling to wake up. The tonic Ash had given her the day before had made her brain sluggish. She was blue with bruises from shoulders to hips, and Ash knew it was going to be painful for her to move. “Rosie, I’m sorry. But we have to go. Right now.”
Rose lifted her head and palmed her eyes. “Yes, yes,” she managed. “Help me with my cloak.”
Bluebell had cracked open the door and was peering out. “How far away, Ash?”
Ash shook her head, stomach clenching with frustration. “I don’t know.”
Bluebell hoisted her pack to her shoulder. “Can you walk, Rose?”
Rose was on her feet, leaning heavily on Ash. “Yes,” she said, though Ash could tell she was lying.
Then they were outside in the cool, early-morning air. Dawn-gold sunlight lay on low mist down the valley and across the river. The stable door was closed and bolted. Bluebell’s dogs barked madly inside.
“Where’s the stable hand?” Rose said, alarmed.
Bluebell gave Ash a grim look, her mouth a hard line. “They’ve locked our dogs and horses in. We are to be served to these enemies on a plate.”
“Do you want me to try to pick the lock?”
“There’s no time. Leave it,” Bluebell said. “We run. We can come back for the horses and dogs later. And the revenge.” She put her hand out for Rose, who winced as Bluebell tugged her forward. They began to run down the hill and out the front gate of the town.
Ash saw them a heartbeat before Bluebell did.
“Raiders!” Bluebell shouted, skidding to a halt. Four of them on the road, clearly heading straight toward Shotley. She turned and ushered her sisters ahead of her—poor stumbling Rose, and Ash—with her heart thumping. They skidded off the main road and onto a worn track through grass, then dangerously vertical down a grassy slope. Rose cried out in pain and Bluebell stopped and turned.
Ash stopped, too. “Bluebell?” Her sister’s long fair hair was lifted by the wind. The raiders were a hundred yards away, just beyond the dirty white ruins of an ancient building.
Bluebell waved to them with both arms, and shouted, “Sansorthinn!”
“What did you say to them?” Ash asked.
“I called them cocksuckers in their own language.” Bluebell smiled grimly. “Go. Take Rose.”
“What? Where?”
“They’ll kill you both. Hide in the woods and if I don’t come for you, head back toward Almissia. I’ll draw them away from you. Here.” She pushed Rose into Ash’s arms, and then before Ash could say another word she was off, heading down toward the grassy banks of the river.
Ash put her arm around Rose’s waist and headed around the curve of the town perimeter, then up the hill toward the road home. Then she stopped to watch Bluebell, in her light mail, pushing her helm down on her head. Alone. No dogs. Four men came for her, down the same grassy slope. She couldn’t win this one. Ash felt the foreshadow of death across her skin.
Bluebell stood, silent and tall, between the river and an oak tree. Her sword was drawn and her round shield was on her left arm as they closed in on her. Ash’s heart galloped. Rose clutched her hand.
“There are four of them,” Rose said. “We must do something.”
But neither of them was trained in arms, and to go down there now would probably make matters worse. Ash could only sit and watch as the thrill of premonition was made solid. The pale morning sky watched the fates of kingdoms impassively, as it always did.
Ash’s skin prickled. But she could do something, couldn’t she?
“Go back over there, near the town wall,” Ash said, giving Rose a gentle push.
“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere. But I need to concentrate.”
Rose did as she was told, sitting heavily on the sparse grass. Ash moved a few feet up the rise so she had the best open view of the happenings below. Stilling her thundering pulse, she opened up her second sight.
Shadows and shimmers, escaping from her vision left and right. Elementals in the water, the tree, the rocks, the earth. She fixed her attention on one with her mind. Hear me, she said in her head. It stopped moving and glared at her across the distance, its chalky, cragged face set hard and cruel.
Ash licked her lips. She didn’t know what to say next. A distant roar as Bluebell lifted her sword, the first two raiders running at her. Then Ash realized she didn’t have to say anything. Her eyes went to the elemental, then the gravelly ground beneath it. A thought, barely formed, left her mind, and then the ground trembled. Small stones jumped. The other two raiders skidded over, fell on top of each other. Bluebell had already finished off one of the others and was fending off the blows of the second. The fallen pair climbed to their feet, and Bluebell was pushed back toward the river, three men closing on her.
“Into the river, Bluebell,” Ash whispered under her breath.
Bluebell’s head snapped up, as though she had heard. She turned and clambered over the rocky bank, waded in up to her calves. The three raiders advanced.
Ash focused her energy, her power, drawing it up from the ground and down from the sky. Little hands reached out of the water, shadows slithered over the rocks.
Then a spout of water shot from the river between Bluebell and the raiders. Bluebell took a step back, alarmed. The rocks along the riverside shook in their places and one large flat one, bigger than a man’s head, jumped and slammed between the shoulders of a raider. He fell forward. The waterspout opened up and dragged him under. Bluebell took advantage of the confusion, dealing a blow to another man. His severed arm fell into the water, which ran red with blood. Ash couldn’t watch, closed her eyes. She was sickened, her body ached and yet…Her veins thrummed with something that felt dangerously like excitement. She had tasted the first thrill of her power.
When she opened her eyes again, the rocks were still, the water was red, and two bodies floated downstream. Bluebell had another body under her arm, dragging it out of the river. She thrust the raider’s body, limp as a doll, facedown on the ground by the river and crouched next to it, searching it.
“Wait there,” Ash said to Rose, hurrying down the grassy slope toward her sister.
Bluebell was wet, smeared with blood, and lifted off her helm to cast it aside. She pulled aside the raider’s long, wet hair and revealed a raven tattoo on the back of his neck.
“Explain this, Ash?” she said, panting.
“You want me to touch it?”
Bluebell nodded, sitting back on her haunches.
Ash reached for the raven. She was already sick and aching from the magic, but found that opening up again was easy. All her inner sight focused down on the man’s cold skin.
His father had tattooed this on him, in a stone house with a grass roof, north and west and over the sea. Hakon is our king, now. The Crow King, alive and hidden on a birdshit-stained island far from his twin brother who had imprisoned him because Hakon so zealously believed in war on the Southlanders, not trade and treaties. Hakon who was in love with battle and believed himself the rightful ruler of all of Thyrsland. On that island, he drew his followers to him: the hard, the bitter, the cruel. Third sons and murderers and failed farmers. Hakon stirred hate in their hearts—hate for Blickstow and everyone in it, but especially the woman who had brought him so low. He sent them in bands south, but not to raid: to assassinate Bluebell.
“The alehouse husband alerted them,” Ash said. “Hakon is alive and he has gold on your head, Bluebell. The Crow King’s followers won’t rest until you’re dead.”
Bluebell sniffed, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “Fuckers.” She picked up her sword and touched Ash’s shoulder. “I want you two to head for the woods. I’m going to get our horses and my dogs. And I’m going to pay a visit to the alehouse husband. It’s best you don’t see.”
Ash nodded.
“And tonight,” Bluebell said with a slight narrowing of her pale eyes, “we will talk about what happened.”
“I don’t know what happened. Not really,” Ash said.
Bluebell stood, nodded once, and strode off.
Bluebell sat on a rock, sharpening her sword. The rhythm of the simple task soothed her. Today she had seen many strange things and she needed to speak to Ash about it. But Ash looked tired and shaken.
They had traveled a long way today, mostly through gloomy yew woods, picking their way over fallen branches on the road: It seemed few people came this route to and from Bradsey. Except, of course, the raiders who were paying good coin for information on her whereabouts. Assassins. She wasn’t afraid of them, but Bluebell missed her hearthband. Even jumpy Ricbert and mouth-breathing Gytha. But mostly Sighere. People who could wield a blade.
They’d emerged from the woods into cleared, stone-scattered land. Nobody could farm here, so Bluebell didn’t understand why the trees had been felled. But there was a steep incline, a rocky overhang, and a perfect place to sleep. Enough shelter to be safe, and a clear view of what was coming from the woods. Bluebell had built the fire and Ash soaked it in fire oil and lit it. The warm glow chased away the shadows under the overhang, but it could do little about the shadows that gathered around Ash in Bluebell’s mind.
She watched as Ash gently cleaned Rose’s wound. Rose had grown paler and weaker throughout the journey, her eyes great pools of dark pain.
“Is it feeling any better?” Ash asked.
“The stitches sting and my skull still aches.”
“It was quite a blow,” Bluebell said, passing the whetstone back and forth over the blade.
Ash touched Rose’s cheek. “There, Rosie. All clean. I’ll leave the bandage off it now. Some air might make it heal faster.”
Rose looked up, touched the wound gingerly.
Ash leaned away, but Rose caught her hand. “Ash, can you tell me if Rowan’s well?”
Bluebell glanced over. “I don’t know that we should be asking her to use her second sight for—”
“Hush, Bluebell,” Rose said. “I know you ask her to use it often.”
“Rowan is fine,” Ash said, quickly. “I have no feeling otherwise.”
Rose curled on her side.
Bluebell sheathed her sword and shifted closer, so she sat with Ash and Rose on the spread-out blanket. Her eyes returned to Ash’s face. “And can you tell me if Ash is well?” Bluebell asked.
Ash smiled weakly. “Yes, I am healthy as a horse.”
“But you did something today that frightened you,” Bluebell said. “Perhaps you can tell me what happened.”
Ash took a deep breath and her slight shoulders heaved upward, as though warding off a blow. “It seems I have some power over nature.”
Rose looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“Can you show her?” Bluebell asked.
Ash shook her head. “I won’t do it if I don’t have to. It hurts me. It bruises me from the inside.”
Bluebell’s heart clenched. Ash’s voice seemed so thin, so frightened.
Bluebell turned to Rose. “When the raiders were closing on me, Ash saved me. She made the rocks and water move.” She rubbed her chin with the back of her hand, fighting off the small shiver of uncanniness. “I swear for a moment I thought I saw watery hands and fingers.”
“How is this possible?” Rose asked.
Ash shrugged. “I have…abilities growing within me. I barely understand them. But today, I was desperate and I called on the elements…” She lapsed into silence, staring at her hands.
Bluebell considered Ash in the firelight. Her long dark hair was neatly plaited off her small oval face. She remembered Ash as a child, her bonny sweetness. She never made demands, had tantrums, or said hurtful things out of spite. Her face had barely changed since childhood, but the sunniness was missing from her eyes. “You look unhappy,” she said simply.
Ash nodded. “I am unhappy.”
“Many wouldn’t be, with such ability at their disposal.”
“I am not in control of it,” Ash said. “I don’t know when the sight will come and when it won’t. If I try to focus it, it bends me as I bend it. I’m frightened by it.”
Bluebell pushed her feet hard into the ground. It bends me as I bend it. What kind of power did her sister possess? For a cold instant, Ash seemed unfamiliar, a chill stranger who belonged to the shadows. But then the feeling passed.
“Don’t be frightened,” Rose said. “When the Great Mother made you, she made you this way. Nothing that comes from her is wrong; it only seems so until it is understood.”
“But who can help me understand? The Thridstow elders disapprove. Even Byrta was afraid and unsympathetic.”
“Perhaps Eldra can help you understand,” Bluebell said. “It is probably from her you draw this talent.”
Ash dropped her eyes to the fire. “I would give anything for good advice,” she said.
“I can only give you a sister’s advice,” Rose said, “and that is to worry less. It will be fine. You will see.”
Ash nodded, but her eyes darted away.
Bluebell shifted her position, her gaze going to the edge of the woods, a mile in the distance. “Ash, you know we are being followed, don’t you?”
Ash nodded. “Yes. We’ve been followed since we left Shotley.”
“It isn’t raiders. I’ve listened to the hoof-falls. Somebody light, somebody alone.”
“I haven’t been able to focus my mind on it, Bluebell. Whether it’s because I’m tired or because…the somebody doesn’t want me to focus my mind.”
“Do you think it’s human?”
Ash spread her palms. “I can’t tell. It is horsed, so probably human.”
Rose’s eyes were wide. “Are we safe?”
“I can’t tell,” Ash said again. “I’m sorry.”
Bluebell returned to sharpening her sword. “You are safe as long as I still draw breath,” she said, knowing that, among the undermagicians, sharp steel was not necessarily a ward against danger.