Free Daughters Of The Storm by Kim Wilkins

I’ll pay you when we get there. I have a —’
    â€˜No need,’ he said, with a wave of his hand. He smiled, and his lips pulled back over his teeth. ‘A lady travelling alone is always welcome on my ship.’
    She was shoved out of the way roughly by a man backing into her with a large barrel. She sidestepped and moved back onto the thoroughfare to see if the old woman was still watching her. She was.
    Ash moved closer, curious. The old woman was in the middle of a working, muttering her charms onto coloured stones and handing them to the sailor who kneeled in front of her. And yet, through half-closed eyes, her focus was fixed on Ash.
    The sailor took his charms and moved off. The old woman beckoned Ash with her eyes.
    â€˜You’re watching me,’ Ash said, approaching.
    â€˜Because you’re not watching yourself, counsellor,’ the old woman said.
    Ash realised she was still in her green counsellor’s cloak. Perhaps that was why Alchfrid was happy to have her on his ship. Some sailors thought it was good luck to have a representative of the common faith aboard.
    â€˜No,’ said the old woman, picking up the thread of her thought, ‘Alchfrid wants something quite different from luck. Make no mistake, little counsellor, you will pay many times over for a journey with him.’
    Ash thought about that thud at her throat and knew the woman was telling the truth. She was too remote from her own prescience, had spent too much energy holding back the tide that threatened to drown her. ‘I have to get to Blicstowe,’ she said.
    â€˜Four hundred yards in, there is a vessel taking donkeys upriver. They will take you.’ The old woman spread her knotted hands. ‘Though it won’t be as nice as Alchfrid’s ship.’
    Ash nodded. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
    But before she could turn to leave, the old woman took a knotted hand off her staff and reached slowly for Ash’s fingers. Ash offered her hand warily.
    The old woman’s touch was cold. ‘What are you trying not to see?’ she said.
    Ash’s vision tunnelled. A tap to her heart. The question felt like falling, and the sharp tip of the dream needled her. Colours of fire and blood. ‘I don’t know,’ Ash whispered, though she suspected she did know. She suspected the dream told her something of her own life to come, something that would change her until she no longer knew herself.
    The old woman narrowed her eyes and tilted her head to the side, a crow sizing up a worm. ‘The greatest dishonesty is that which we serve to ourselves,’ she said. ‘Your Becoming belongs to no other woman, little counsellor. What use is it not to look upon it?’
    Despite the bright sun and blue sky, a dread like winter-death fell upon Ash. Her skin prickled into gooseflesh.
    â€˜Come on, you’ve had long enough,’ a gruff voice said.
    Ash turned to see a sea-bitten sailor waiting for a journey charm. She stepped aside and finally the old woman’s gaze released her. Ash was free to go.
    She made her way down the dock, carefully avoiding Alchfrid’s ship, though she still longed for the cover of the sturdy canopy. The ships grew less and less impressive the further she walked down the dock, until she found a low, wide vessel being loaded with donkeys. She guessed, with a sinking heart, this was the boat the old woman spoke of. No canopy, no carved hawk, no bright sail. Just a tattered oilskin, crudely hewn wood, a dun-coloured sailcloth. It smelled of pitch and donkey shit. She paused on the dock, contemplating two days on the vessel.
    A grey-faced man herding donkeys saw her and stopped beside her. ‘You need passage?’
    She nodded. ‘To Blicstowe.’
    â€˜You can pay me?’
    â€˜At the other end. I can pay you well.’
    He looked her up and down, rubbed his beard with cracked fingers. ‘I trust you. Climb on board. There’s a