Free Daughters Of The Storm by Kim Wilkins Page A

seat under the oilskin and blankets behind if it gets cold.’ His eyes went to the sky to scrutinise it. ‘At least it doesn’t look like rain.’

    The storm blew in after dark. Murky raindrops fell on the oilskin, rolling underneath until Ash felt damp spreading across the broad boards beneath her feet and seeping into her shoes. The donkeys brayed in protest. Ash would have, too, had she not been concentrating so hard on trying to keep her hands warm. Misery upon misery. The idea of her father’s impending death burrowed intoher mind like a dank worm. Mortal, we are all mortal. If Æthlric could die, then anyone could die.
    But she couldn’t sit here under a blanket of fear and sorrow all night, so she tried to cheer herself with memories of him. He had been away at war or council for much of her childhood, and when home he was more concerned with Bluebell than his other daughters. An image came to her mind: Bluebell had been fitted for her first set of armour at twelve. Ash had been six, and jealous of her sister. She had found her father’s sword and dragged it behind her to the hall where he was briefing his hearthband before heading out. He’d looked up, momentary anger crossing his brow at the interruption. But then he’d laughed and swung her up in his lap, let her sit there while he talked. She’d listened to his voice rumbling in his chest and had played with his long fair hair until she started to doze. He’d lifted her up and taken her to the bower she shared with Bluebell and Rose, and let her sleep with his sword under her mattress, just as Bluebell slept with a sword under hers.
    The memory made her smile, chasing away the mouldering shadow of death a little while. She wondered again how her father fared now, what kind of illness troubled him. Quietly, she closed her eyes and reached out with her mind ... But before she could find him, something dark and hooked intervened. An image from the dream. Immediately, she backed away, opened her eyes. Rejoined the sodden boat and the stinking donkeys.
    Ash pulled her feet up onto the seat, wrapped her arms around her knees and kept her head down. Sleep wouldn’t come, but it was probably better that way. If she didn’t sleep, she couldn’t dream.

    Rowan wouldn’t stop fidgeting. Rose grew more and more exasperated as the little girl wriggled and twisted in the saddle, slippery as a fish.
    â€˜Will you please sit still?’ Rose asked her for the eleventh time, tightening her elbows to stop Rowan from slipping off the saddle altogether. They were on a long, straight stretch of muddy road that cut between large flat fields. The sun was high in heaven’s hollow, sparkling off the previous night’s rain and lifting green brightness out of the mossy rocks lining the road.
    â€˜I’m tired ,’ Rowan declared, bouncing angrily against her embrace, getting her hair caught in the row of beads pinned to Rose’s dress.
    â€˜But if you keep wriggling, you’ll fall off and hurt yourself.’ As it was, they had slowed to a walk. The effort of trying to keep hold of the reins and Rowan at the same time was taxing her. Heath, in good grace, slowed his pace.
    â€˜Can’t we stop?’ Rowan whined.
    Rose grimaced. She too wanted to rest. She had divided the night between mourning that she and Heath could never be together, and imagining in detail they were. The world had cooled past midnight before she slept.
    Heath reined his horse in and stilled Rose’s with a gesture. She looked at him curiously. He turned his attention to Rowan, who shrank a little under his gaze.
    â€˜Rowan,’ he said, ‘would you like to come and sit on my saddle with me?’
    She shook her head, but slowly.
    â€˜Go on, Rowan,’ Rose said. ‘I’m exhausted.’
    Rowan looked up at her with big eyes. ‘I don’t know that man.’
    â€˜It’s Papa’s