Sisters of the Fire Page 5

  Sighere kept pace with her. When the town gates were a long way behind them, he finally asked, ‘What do you think has happened to Blackstan? Raiders?’

  ‘It ought not be. Not through Merkhinton unless the world is ending. But I almost wish it were raiders – I know what to do with them. I always fear worse the thing I cannot see, the thing I cannot predict.’

  ‘I suppose we will find out soon enough.’

  ‘That we will,’ she said, then shouted to her hearthband, ‘North!’

  Four

  Rose woke to the sound of rain, and groaned before even opening her eyes. Not rain. Not today.

  Beside her, Linden stirred. She put her hand on his little shoulder and smiled. She could smell the smoke from Yldra’s fire next door and knew that meant there was porridge cooking.

  Rose sat up from among the blankets, and reached up to open the shutter a crack. Grey daylight. ‘Linden,’ she said. ‘Time to get up.’

  His little brow furrowed, but he didn’t open his eyes. He would take his time. He always did.

  Rose got to her feet and pinned on her best dress and her grey cloak with amber beads. Today, it actually mattered what she wore. Though she liked to think of herself as having left the life of a privileged princess happily behind her, she did miss the fabrics and the beads and the shoes.

  Curse the rain.

  She made herself ready for the day, then opened the little door that divided her bowerhouse from Yldra’s one-room home. Clutter and chaos in the tiny space. For months, Rose had lived in here with her, so close that her stomach couldn’t rumble without Yldra hearing. Then it had become clear another baby was on its way, and Bluebell sent money for somebody to build a bowerhouse. Well, Bluebell had first sent many messages demanding she come home and be with her family, but Rose would not. She would be subject to rumour and gossip, as would her new boy. She didn’t know how long she could live up here in the wilds of Bradsey with Yldra, but for now she was happy. Not blissful bright yellow happiness, more of a muted sunset colour, but happiness nonetheless.

  ‘Good morning,’ Rose said, picking up the ladle and stirring the porridge. ‘This smells good.’

  Yldra looked up from where she sat on the little stone bench that ran halfway around the room. She was grinding chalk and herbs and oils together. ‘We chose a poor day for you to go to town. Would you like to wait until the weather clears?’

  ‘No, no. I have Linden all prepared for my absence now. You know how he can be if his plans are upset.’ Besides, she wanted to go. She wanted to be away in the world so badly. Once every few months she made this trip, a full day’s ride to the nearest village on the border of Lyteldyke for supplies. She took their ageing cart and their equally ageing horse and was gone a night, sometimes two.

  Linden emerged, dark curls messy, eyes puffy with sleep.

  ‘Good morning, my darling,’ Yldra said, and Linden made a beeline for the porridge pot.

  Linden didn’t speak. Ever. Not a single ‘Mama’, or ‘I want …’ In every other way he was a normal little boy of nearly four years; if anything, he seemed exceptionally bright. His greatest joy was to help Yldra with her potions and powders, and he knew where every tiny jar of each ingredient was kept, even in the chaos of her cluttered walls. He recognised them by some detail invisible to everyone else. Yldra openly adored her silent little companion. Rose found love easy, of course; he was her son. But his heart was something of a stranger to hers, in a way that Rowan’s had never been at this age.

  An old pain flared up in her blood. She breathed a moment, then got on.

  Rose made Linden a bowl of porridge and sat him down with it, then crouched in front of him, hands on his knees. ‘Now, remember, Mama is going away today.’

  He nodded solemnly.

  ‘Yldra will take care of you and sleep with you in your bed tonight.’

  He dipped his spoon in his porridge despondently, hanging his head.

  ‘I’ll be back as quick as I can. With honey for your porridge.’

  This promise failed to cheer him up, but then it was difficult to tell – he did not often smile or laugh. Rather, he had two notable moods: sharply focussed, or anxiously distracted. This morning’s withdrawn neutrality was normal, and not alarming. It simply told her nothing more about him than the little she already knew.

  ‘We will be fine,’ Yldra said, rising and limping over to him. ‘We will keep very busy and I will make your favourite soup for dinner and some new bread, then tell you stories of the old magicians until you fall asleep.’

  This reassurance must have worked, because he began to eat.

  Yldra held out a small rough pouch to Rose. ‘Here.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Blinding powder.’

  ‘Why would I need –’

  ‘Better than the sleeping stones,’ Yldra said with a smirk.

  Every time Rose went to town, Yldra made her some new charm or another that was expressly for protection. Last week she’d presented Rose with sleeping stones, meant to be thrown directly at whomever was threatening her. Yldra had her practise in the garden, but when she’d been unable to hit the target with the stone even once, Yldra had harrumphed about trying something different.

  ‘I don’t have to get it in their eyes?’ Rose asked.

  ‘Just throw a handful of the powder on the ground with as much force as you can. The impact will set it off.’

  ‘Will it blind me?’

  The corner of Yldra’s mouth twisted up. ‘No. I’m a better magician than that, Rose.’

  Rose pinned the pouch to the inside of her cloak. She’d never needed one of Yldra’s protection spells, but she was grateful all the same. She pulled up her hood and picked up the bag she had packed last night. ‘I’ll go and hitch Sunny to the cart and be on my way, then,’ she said.

  ‘Ride safe. We will see you tomorrow afternoon.’

  Rose bent and kissed Linden’s cheek. ‘Goodbye, my love,’ she said.

  He waved goodbye then returned to his porridge.

  Out in the stable – bigger than their house – she shooed spiders off the old cart. Up on the ledge she could see the almost empty bags of oats and millet. Sunny looked at her mournfully. She didn’t like the rain either, and could probably sense it in her old bones. But she was a sturdy mare who had served them well, and would enjoy the exercise once they were on the move.

  ‘Come on, old girl,’ she said, approaching with the bridle. ‘The weather might be better off the moors.’

  Then she was away, out into the world – damp and misty as it was – for her small adventure.

  As afternoon approached and the clouds lifted, the moors began to gentle and slope downwards, and farmland came into view. Rose was cheered by the small signs of civilisation. Roofs and chimneys, hedegrows and wide paths, the sound of sheep bleating in fields, blackbirds circling over crops. Sometimes, out in the wilds of Bradsey, it felt as though they were the only three people in the world. On clear nights, she couldn’t bear to look at the stars because of the horrible sensation that she lived at the furthest edge of the night sky, and was falling and falling ever backwards into it.

  Even Sunny’s pace lightened, as she picked up new scents. They crossed the narrow bridge into Arbury in the full heat of the afternoon. The clang of the smithy swelled and receded on the wind. She took Sunny directly to the stables, and paid a very thin man a coin to unhitch the cart, walk Sunny and water her. Then she paid his equally thin son – about Rowan’s age, she always noticed – another coin to watch her cart, and she straightened her cloak and walked into town to see which merchants had supplies for her. A woman herded a flock of geese ahead of her, and she thought of taking home a goose to roast … they hadn’t eaten anything so delicate in a long time. They ate wild stringy rabbits or carp from the stream a mile’s walk from the house, served with sage and rosemary and roots from their little patch, and flatcakes made with whatever grain was left in the stable. Yes, she would buy a goose.
And honey. And cheese. Her mouth watered at the thought of it, and she realised she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She saw the alehouse, and decided to treat herself to a cooked dinner and a cup of ale.

  Rose shut out the hot sun and stood in the steamy alehouse a moment, waiting for her eyes to adjust. Only two other customers, both men, sat at a rough wooden table by the wall, concentrating on their food, not conversing.

  The alehouse wife greeted her merrily. ‘Is it not a day to sing for?’ she said.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Rose. ‘I left the moors behind in mist and drizzle this morning.’

  A light went on in the woman’s eyes and she blinked rapidly. ‘The moors?’

  Rose wasn’t sure if the woman was asking this question of Rose or of herself, so she remained silent, curious.

  ‘Is your name Rose?’ the woman asked, but she was already bustling past, to the long wooden counter that divided the alehouse from the brewery.

  ‘Yes, it is. Why?’

  The woman bent over and pulled out a woven basket, which she tipped onto the counter, spreading objects everywhere. Bent spoons and knife handles and bits of broken pottery and objects Rose didn’t recognise, but supposed belonged in the brewery.

  ‘Now where is it?’

  Rose was aware her heart had started thudding a little harder.

  ‘Ah, here.’ The woman’s hand closed on a folded piece of parchment. She handed it to Rose. ‘A young man named Cardew was here, not quite a month past. He said you would come eventually, that he had seen you here before and knew you. Rose. From the moors. With the long dark hair and the hazel eyes.’ The woman nodded at her. ‘He left you this message. Said I was to give it to you if I ever saw you.’

  Rose unfolded the note. It was covered in writing, but she couldn’t read. Ash was the only one among her sisters who could read, and she had disappeared four years ago. ‘What does it say?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ the alehouse wife said, frowning. ‘But if you need somebody who can read, there’s a trimartyr chapel at the southern end of town. Those preachers can all read.’

  It was true. In fact, King Wengest’s preacher, Nyll, had tried to teach her, a long time ago. She could make out a few of the letters, but one word she was certain of: Heath.

  ‘The southern end of town, you say?’ The circle of her vision seemed very bright.

  The woman nodded and Rose was outside a moment later, hurrying, trying not to run lest she stumble. Heath. She’d had to give him and Rowan up at the same time, and she had never expected to hear of him again. In the last year or so, she had even wondered if perhaps she had finally stopped loving him. While Rowan always seemed close to her thoughts, sometimes whole days would pass without her mind turning to Heath. But seeing his name had felt like someone poking a bruise: a dull ache, almost sweet. Who was Cardew, and why was he leaving her a message about Heath?

  She pushed her way through the crowds in the market and headed down between crooked timber houses, the smell of nightsoil in her nostrils. She could see the little stone building, its roof a perfect triangle, standing off from the other buildings almost as if it were disdaining them. Low elm branches shaded its front door. Rose knocked loudly, and waited.

  In time, the door opened, and she found herself looking at a handsome, clean-shaven, impossibly young man, who smiled at her. ‘Good day, my lady.’

  ‘I …’ She scoured her mind for trimartyr phrases. ‘Maava be with you, my lord. I need your help.’

  He opened the door wide. He was dressed entirely in grey, and his little chapel was as she remembered her own, back in Folcenham when she was a queen. Bare. Stone. Space for nothing except thoughts of Maava. She quickly knelt on the ground as would be expected and he knelt with her.

  She handed him the note. ‘This bears news of an old friend,’ she said. ‘I cannot read it.’ It occurred to her briefly to wonder if the message would reveal to the preacher some dark truth about her, but her need to know overrode her fear.

  He unfolded it and glanced at it briefly, then back at her. ‘You are Rose?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I’m Urdi.’ He smiled.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she managed, then licked her lips. ‘The note?’

  ‘For Rose, who comes in from the moors to Arbury, from Cardew, north of Llyr’s Hollow. I write to you as somebody who shares love for Heath, who has been in exile in Llyr’s Hollow for the last four years.’

  ‘Llyr’s Hollow?’ Rose said. ‘Llyr’s Hollow is only ten miles from here.’ All the while, he’d been so close. So close.

  ‘More like fifteen,’ he answered. ‘I shall continue?’

  Rose nodded.

  ‘Our friend is very ill and cannot be expected to live much longer.’ Here the preacher paused, and said, ‘I am very sorry. Maava be with you.’

  Her heart fell like a stone in a cold pond.

  ‘He has not asked me to contact you. In fact, he has asked me expressly not to contact you, but I know from our many long conversations that you are the only woman who has ever had claim on his heart and so I pass on this news to you, that you may know it and do with it what your own heart dictates.’

  Silence followed his words. Rose remained kneeling, the ground cold through her dress. Outside, birds chirped and peeped in the elms, and a soft wind sighed through their branches. Inside felt airless, cold as a tomb.

  ‘One of the lessons Maava has for us –’ the preacher began.

  ‘Maava has nothing for me,’ she spat, climbing to her feet and snatching the note. Dimly, she was aware that she was behaving cruelly, but was unable to stop herself.

  The young preacher stood, too, and rather than rise to her anger, his voice became more quiet, more measured. ‘Your pain is very human,’ he said. ‘And it will not kill you.’

  ‘He’s dying,’ she said, and a sob bubbled out of her.

  ‘But not yet dead, perhaps.’

  ‘The letter’s been sitting there for nearly a month.’

  ‘Perhaps you should go to him. If he has already passed into the Sunlands, then you and his friend Cardew can pray together, or maybe simply share some small memories that will bring you peace.’

  Go to him. Go to him.

  All along, he had been so close. Would she have already sought him out, had she known? He hadn’t sought her out. His friend Cardew knew who she was, knew she came to Arbury regularly enough. Had it been difficult for Heath not to come for her? They might have been happy together …

  The preacher folded the note and grasped her hand, slid it into her palm and folded her fingers over it. His touch was warm. ‘Maava be with you,’ he said.

  She wondered if he would be so kind if she told him her history with Heath. Taking him as a lover while married to his uncle, bearing his daughter and passing her off as the king’s, then being discovered as unfaithful and making the choice not to name her lover, and by that choice losing her daughter. No, even this young trimartyr hadn’t enough peace and mercy in his heart for someone like Rose.

  ‘May all the gods forgive me,’ she said under her breath. ‘I will go to him.’

  Good sense told her to eat and drink and make sure Sunny was rested before setting out, so she did. Better sense would have made her to stay overnight in Arbury, but that she ignored, certain that she could be in Llyr’s Hollow by dark. The stablemaster refused to mind her cart for the night, so she had to hitch Sunny to it again before she headed north. It was only ten miles or so. She could be there in three hours.

  After four hours, she wondered if she were lost.

  And as the long shadows spread across the fields, she told herself she’d ride for just one more hour.

  But then twilight was upon her, and Sunny needed a rest and a walk, and they were near a stream so Rose resigned herself to sleeping in the cart that night and finding Heath’s friend Cardew in the morning.

  Heath’s friend. Not Heath, for surely if he was near death a month ago, he was gone by now. She told herse
lf this over and over again, as she wrapped herself in blankets and curled up in the cart, so that her heart could get used to it. Heath was dead. He must be. It didn’t matter; she had already resigned herself to never seeing him again; the folly of her youth was well behind her.

  And yet, it did matter, because love didn’t come to an end. It stretched out towards ever-receding horizons: growing thin, perhaps, but never snapping cleanly. She still loved him, and if he really was dead then grief would storm down on her and nothing she said to herself now could protect her tired heart from that.

  At length, she slept, waking a few hours later to the dew of dawn. Sunny was already awake, muzzle in the grass. The sun sat low, gold illuminating the dewfall and outlining Sunny’s shining mane. Rose hadn’t brought anything to eat, and her stomach rumbled as she took a drink from the stream. She felt mildly nauseous. Expectant and sorrowful. She took her time, hitching up Sunny and climbing into the wooden seat at the front of the cart, then she headed back the way she came, hoping to see a waypoint she may have missed in the dusk. She thought about Linden, waking up without her; about Yldra, expecting her to be on her way with a cartful of food and grain. Rose, the wayward sister, doing the wrong thing again. What would Bluebell say?

  In the distance, Rose could see a horse approaching and she slowed and waved an arm. Perhaps the rider would know where the waypoint to Llyr’s Hollow was.

  ‘Stop!’ she cried, as he was bearing down on her at great speed.

  He saw her and slowed. He was an older man, rough faced but well dressed. Her hand went instinctively to her cloak, pulling it close to hide the pouch Yldra had given her.

  ‘My lady?’ he said, with a deep nod of his head.

  ‘I’m trying to get to Llyr’s Hollow. I think I may be lost.’

  He moved his horse closer and Rose leaned back in her seat, but he rode past her and around her cart. ‘What have you in the cart?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing. As you see.’ Her senses prickled. She found herself wondering why this traveller was roving around on the edges of the day, cursing herself for not asking that before now. ‘Walk on,’ she said to Sunny.