The Waiting Usurper

By A. M. Vivian

When the dead don't play fair, love is a blessing and a curse

My throat hurts as I sing the death song. It's not the perfect tune the official mourners will sing at the True Prince's funeral. Mine is the song of a real mourner, a real lover, and it's the one he deserves. 'The king will pay for what he's done to you, this land, my ancestors. For what he's taken from me. I promise that. And I promise you, I will love you forever.' I place these words on his cold lips and with blood, he seals my vows.

All Niah's ever wanted is to see the king pay for massacring her ancestors, banning her religion, and stealing the throne. When the True Prince fell in love with her it seemed her future was assured. Now he's dead, killed in another of the king's pointless battles, and Niah must risk everything to fulfil her promises.

Raen, the king's disowned son, is back from exile. A man as bitter and ruthless as Niah, he's determined to have everything that was his half-brother's. Including Niah. Drawn together by shared trauma and a desperate need for revenge, they find themselves embroiled in a scheme bigger than themselves. And the dead aren't playing fair.

They'll face the ultimate test: can they let go of the past and embrace love?

The Waiting Usurper is a heartbreaking love story with gothic tones. It explores forgiveness, loss, and our obligations to the dead.

If you want a complex love story with no guarantee of a happy ending then purchase The Waiting Usurper today.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Walter's Writing Emporium
• Release date: Oct 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781916216815

Book preview

A.M. Vivian

Copyright

British English is used throughout this book. Please note that some spelling, grammar, and word usage will vary from US English.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relation to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the written consent of the author, except for a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.

The Waiting Usurper by A.M. Vivian

Copyright © 2019 A Head

ISBN:978-1-9162168-0-8

Cover designer: Fiona Jayde Media

Published by Walter’s Writing Emporium

www.walterswritingemporium.com

For E.V

PART ONE

KINDLING

Chapter 1

THE FLAMES HAD SHOWN ME EVERYTHING exactly as it is now. The dead tangled in heaps across the desolate valley, no longer writhing, no longer screaming, no longer bleeding. Their dried blood like rust splattered over the mud. Despite this knowledge, I still watched the battle unfold. I had to. I had to be a witness for my unborn baby.

From the abandoned cliffs, I saw the shield wall break as bewildered villagers faced enemies charging on horses. Enemies with cloaks billowing like the wings of battle birds. The first smell of fear had seeped into the night. A scramble of sounds followed: swords scraping, axes thudding, arrows hissing, weapons finding their mark, and cries, once arrogant and proud, became full of regret. The echoes have stopped now, and the silence has an ominous presence. For years, we’ve been fighting our neighbours, the Aralltirs. Pieces of this land have been lost, regained, lost. Again and again and again. And this time, King Onnachild has sacrificed his son, my love, for nothing. I was a child when this conflict started but even then I knew it was a waste of men. Yet the King sleeps with his hopes of victory, just as the villagers do. In that, they are still the same.

I creep from my hiding place though there is no need to; the survivors ran and the dead don’t care. One hand covers my nose against the stench of shit, blood, and mud, and the other holds my woollen skirts up from the surrounding carnage as I head towards where my love waits for me. I’ll cradle him through one last sunrise; it’s my right. He should clasp a lock of my hair in his clenched fist as castle wives do their husbands’. I’ll make a crown for him using the trampled grass, and it will rival the daisy one I made him in happier times.

A breeze chills my ankles and bare feet as I step over broken swords, shattered arrows, crushed limbs. When a splinter stabs my toe, I sit on the stump of the Legacy Yew to pull it out. The wind whips my dark hair across my face with the punishment I deserve; I should have made him stay, told him what the fire showed me. He wouldn’t have believed me, though. Aelius would have said he couldn’t die: he was a king’s son.

He did die. First, he fell onto his knees, then his hands, then his face. Even as he dragged himself through the mud, he still wouldn’t have believed he could die. I howled his name only for it to be lost in the cacophony of war. Love was not welcome here. How I wished I’d been kinder and not teased him, not made him grin and show his dimple so often the mark remained. I should have given him lines and hard angles so he’d have the face of a warrior. He was too beautiful and too indulged for fighting.

Ravens and eagles circle above the valley, whispering for their spoils of war. I rise; I must reach him before the birds do. And so it is back amongst the dead I go. There’s no time to pause and close their eyes. All I can do for them is murmur prayers to gods they no longer believe in. Smoke from smouldering fires mixes with the mist of souls escaping to a better place, where kings don’t rule. My breath, a white puff in the morning chill, joins them. To my left, there’s movement. Someone’s alive. He grabs my foot as I lift it to take another step. His voice is a gurgle. I try to shake him off but he lunges for my skirt, causing me to stumble and almost fall onto a dead horse. I yell at him. I yell an Aegnian curse, kick at him. It makes no difference. He tugs harder. His bloody fingers dig into my thigh. He keeps gurgling words I don’t understand as he tries to raise himself up on me. A dagger protrudes from his shoulder, knocking against my hip. Using both hands, I yank it out and I stab him. I stab him for my unborn son. I stab him for all the people his kind killed. And then, when he grabs me no more, I walk on.

My love, my Aelius, is on the outskirts of the battle, alone and special even in death. He’s face down, arms splayed as if the ground is his mother. My sob startles me, reminding me I’m alive. I dash over to him, drop onto the frozen ground and gather him up.

There’s so little dawn left.

‘Stay, stay,’ I plead onto his frozen cheek though I know he’s gone already; he always was so impatient. ‘I’m here. Aelius, it’s Niah.’ His pale skin is as smooth as a catkin. There’s a blue tinge to his lips, and his nose is broken. Mud smudges from him onto me as if I’ll be going into battle. Perhaps I will. His promises return: I’d be free of fear, of hunger, of the threats from villagers who said I used the tricks of the Aegni women to entice him. They never realised love is simpler than that.

‘Don’t forget me.’ I press my forehead to his. ‘Don’t forget how you’d sneak into my hut.’ On his skin he’d carry the aroma of castle life: spices and sandalwood. Away from his father’s influence, he’d unlace his tunic and take off his boots to be like me. Lying across my lap, he’d twirl my long hair around his ring finger. His blue eyes, as trusting as a baby’s, would close and his blond lashes would flutter while I lavished him with kisses, making him giggle until his eyes watered. His eyes will never water again, and his mouth will never make another sound.

I create a fire using wood from arrows and bows, and throw my herbs into its centre: wormwood, sage, fennel, and dried yew berries to call the Aegni women. My ancestors’ figures are twisting smoke, denser than the morning mist. Their green eyes are florid dots. I beg them: Please. Please take Aelius with you; keep him for me so when I die he’ll be there waiting. Please. Don’t let him go to Onnachild’s god. My tears anoint him.

The horizon stretches red and gold. I can’t hold back the sun. My throat hurts as I sing the death song. It’s not the perfect tune the official mourners will sing at his funeral. Mine is the song of a real mourner, a real lover, and it’s the one he deserves. The village shall know. His father shall know about me and my baby. And I shall have my promises.

‘Onnachild will pay for what he’s done to you, this land, the Aegni women. For what he’s taken from me. I promise that. And I will … my Aelius, I promise you, I will love you forever.’ I place these words on his lips, and with blood, he seals my vows.

Chapter 2

‘YOU MUST EAT,’ NESSIA SAYS. Her bones creak as she bends to place a wooden bowl beside me on the earthen floor of our hut.

‘Yes,’ I say and nod, though I must fast for seven days as was customary before Onnachild imposed his new god. My stomach growls. The pain of hunger gives me something else to focus on as I lie on the floor, watching for changes of light across the thatched roof. My love’s boots and sword, rescued from the battlefield, rest against the wall, waiting for him to return. Inside the castle, people will be lining up to view his death face, to weep over him. Someone will have cleaned him and changed his clothes. The soot I used to bring him into the Adfyr faith will be gone from his cheeks. He’ll look so young.

I don’t want to think of him like that, still and stiff. Instead, I picture the undulations of his body, remembering how they’d entice me to grab him, smell him, kiss him. Demanding, he called me, though his grin showed he enjoyed it.

When night comes, Nessia takes away the bowl and throws the contents into the gnarly thicket that separates us from the villagers.

‘You must eat,’ Nessia says as another dawn arrives. ‘For the baby, so he’ll grow strong.’

‘Yes,’ I say. But I want to say no. No, to everything. It doesn’t feel like there’s a baby inside me. It’s as though Aelius never came here, never held me, never teased me. Nothing is real, not even time though the creeping chill of night comes day after day, and winter wants to settle in.

Nessia’s calloused hand strokes my cheek. ‘I know.’

But she doesn’t. She continues: she rises with the sun, she brushes the floor, she poaches, she cooks. Sometimes, when leaves crunch under someone’s feet, I catch her cocking her ear towards the door. She expects him to appear like I do. How I fooled you, he’d say, standing in the doorway waiting for adoration.

He doesn’t come back.

If only I could call him into the smoke and see his face again. If only I could call my ancestors, but I can’t as they must help escort him to his new land, and I don’t want him to be unsafe.

‘You must eat,’ Nessia says.

‘Yes,’ I say. I yearn to be embraced, to be pulled into arms that will block out everything: the morning sun, the cold, my hunger. I want Aelius to do it. Nessia tries but her arms are too thin and the aged skin yields too much to my grip. She smells of the village. Her greying hair is lank against my face and doesn’t tickle.

‘A man has been asking about you. A castle man. Stunning he was, like someone went into my dreams and made him.’ She smiles, waiting for me to show interest.

I don’t.

At night I cry at another day passing without Aelius. Each day makes it more permanent: he isn’t coming back. He really isn’t coming back. Hunger makes me weak. It brings fitful dreams that are more real than morning is with its sparse bird songs and rustling of villagers heading out to work Onnachild’s fields.

‘You must eat,’ Nessia says.

‘Yes,’ I say.

She wraps her arms around me, and I rest against her bosom. She cries, and I’m grateful for her tears because mine have dried, as if my eyes are clogged up with mud from the battlefield. When I shiver, she tucks the blanket around my shoulders, but it’s not the cold affecting me. It’s the dead. They whisper their tales of Onnachild’s offences: invasion, famine, murder. The Aegni women visit in these late hours to remind me where I come from: a race of female rulers gifted this land and fire by the gods. Their eyes, green and upturned like mine, flash with the sparks of that first fire, and their dark skin has a burnished red hue. They tell me to be strong, that fate is harsh and never liked by its children. I don’t want to see my grandmother and the First Queen. It isn’t right that they come when I want Aelius.

‘You must eat,’ Nessia says, but there’s no command left in her voice.

‘Yes,’ I say because language has deserted me. Even the language my grandmother taught me, the language of the Aegni, has gone. This loss debases me because it makes me like the villagers.

I hear them gossiping as they return from the fields.

‘Maybe she won’t be so stuck up now,’ they say.

‘Who’d have her now?’

‘Not me,’ the men say.

I don’t care. I was never meant for a feeble village man.

‘You must eat,’ Nessia says.

‘No,’ I say.

The word makes her pause, and she smiles at me. I don’t understand why. She pats my head. ‘How long left?’

‘He’s been gone forever.’

She counts on her fingers and then holds up six.

‘One left,’ I mumble. Surely, I’ve forgotten how to chew, how to swallow, and my stomach will rebel at the indignation of being forced to continue living. Nessia sits beside me. I nestle against her for comfort and warmth.

‘Onnachild’s erected a statue of Aelius,’ she tells me.

‘Where?’

‘In the square. The likeness is amazing, everyone says so.’

I struggle to my feet. My head spins. My eyelids flutter.

‘Wait until morning,’ she says.

I can’t wait.

In the statue’s shadow is a village girl, hunched over and sobbing. She must have been placed there by the villagers in deference to Onnachild. She stops and swivels to face me. Her expression is one of pity, spiteful pity: I brought this on myself. She takes in my matted hair, my stained dress, and the dirty woollen blanket wrapped around me. I mutter my grandmother’s words for strength and the carried sound scares the girl, as I predicted it would. Frantically, she searches around: there’s no one but me. She scrambles up and runs away.

Alone now, I step closer to the statue. The gold doesn’t catch the winter moonlight the same way my prince’s hair did. It looks majestic, a future self he’ll never be. The face should be grinning, cheeks plump and dimpled, but instead he’s challenging the clouds. I lower myself onto my knees to touch the gold feet. They’re hard and flat. The statue has no smell: not of meat cooked in its own fat, not of castle flowers, and not that scent I found in his armpit, behind his knee, and under his hair. It’s not him and I can’t mourn to a statue. I call out his name to feel it on my lips. My mouth tastes of his blood: copper and bitter.

‘If you come back,’ I whisper onto the toes, ‘I’ll be better, kinder. I will. I won’t pester you to make me your wife, won’t take pleasure from annoying you, even though it makes you look so beautiful … and I won’t call you beautiful again, I won’t. I’ll call you handsome. If you don’t come back …’ I gulp, wrap my arms around the gold ankles. ‘I will stop loving you … I will. I’ll make myself forget you, your face, your voice and it will be your own fault and … to spite you, I will. Aelius … just come back.’

‘He should be begging for your forgiveness, leaving you in this cesspit,’ a man says. The voice has a clipped castle accent and my body spasms with unrealistic hope. ‘Now, do get up from the dirt.’

‘No one tells me what to do.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

Chapter 3

AS I TURN TOWARDS THE VOICE, a svelte man, draped in castle finery, steps out from the darkness and into a fuzz of moonlight. He’s another statue, one chiselled from silver, because his features are too perfect, too evenly matched, and his white skin is too sleek. He saunters towards me, his blond hair swishing around his slim shoulders. Up close, he’s even more arresting. His lips look swollen, almost too large for his angular face. Their down-turned shape and his narrow eyes give him a haughty air as he poses before me.

‘Who are you?’ I ask.

‘Vill Hartnell.’ He bows and then presents his hand, palm down like I’m an animal. It’s cluttered with silver rings of different shapes and sizes. The nails are clipped, neat, and clean. It isn’t the hand of a warrior or a man used to hard work.

‘And I should know who that is?’

‘Aelius …’ He addresses the statue, shaking his head and tutting. ‘You never mentioned me? Well, I suppose you did have more interesting things to occupy your time.’

‘You were close to him?’

‘You could say I was his adviser, his friend. I assisted him on his nightly jaunts to you.’ He wafts out his cloak and draws it up to stop it touching the dirt as he crouches beside me. Moonlight glints across the brooch clasping the edges of his cloak together under his pointy chin. It’s a gold hawk: Onnachild’s bird. I shuffle back, searching for the quickest escape route.

‘Don’t be scared,’ he says.

‘I’m not scared.’

‘Of course not. I forget you aren’t like the weak castle women, are you, Niah?’ He leans closer. ‘I’m well aware of who your grandmother was. Who you are.’ His self-satisfied smile implies that he’s expecting my guard to lower from that confession, but he’ll have to wait through many dawns for that. ‘We can’t talk here.’

‘You think I don’t know that? I’m not going anywhere with you, though.’

‘Wise. Here, perhaps this will persuade you.’ He lifts a chunky silver chain out from under his embroidered tunic and leaves it dangling. The green pendant bumps against his chest. He watches it. ‘My father’s. Go on, take it.’

When I don’t move, his fingers fiddle to release the chain from around his long neck. He holds it out towards me, an end wrapped around each forefinger. I reach, tentatively, for the pendant. It’s too worn for me to tell if the Aegnian word for fire is there but I can sense my ancestors’ presence radiating from it. It’s the same charge as in the Legacy Yew. ‘A council seal,’ he says.

‘I know what it is. Why do you have it?’

‘It was my father’s.’

‘You said that. I don’t mean that. I mean … Adfyrism was stamped out. The Aegni women are dead. Onnachild would have you killed for wearing this.’

‘And yet I’m still alive.’ He puts the necklace back on and then smooths his blond hair. With a flourish, he offers his hand again. ‘And you are still alive. There’s so much to tell you. But not here.’

Reluctantly, I stand, though I avoid touching him. He mumbles to himself, but then his charming smile returns. ‘The church yard?’ he suggests.

I nod. As we walk across the village square, his steps shorten and his pace slows to match mine. I’m unsteady on my feet, still weak from hunger, and I find myself leaning on him. We slip in and out of the round shadows the huts make, careful to avoid the mulch tossed out into the narrow passageways.

‘What’s wrong with these people?’ he snaps when he almost slides into a fresh pile steaming in the winter chill. I stifle my amusement as he blocks his nostrils against the stench of it and tuts. A rat, disturbed by the toe of Vill’s boots, scurries past and disappears into the shell of the old inn. Bursting from it is the drunken rambling of men huddled around a noxious fire. At traitor’s row, Vill ducks to the left but his shoulder still knocks the decomposing feet of a castle man hanging from a hook. The carrion birds have plucked the face raw.

‘Lianev.’ Vill bows as if they’re meeting in the castle hallways. ‘Didn’t I tell you to be careful when speaking out against Onnachild, even if it was your mine he lost?’

The volume of the drunkards’ mumblings rises as though they’re answering Vill.

‘There are more castle people displeased with Onnachild. Followers too.’ His whisper is almost drowned out by the noise of the drunkards.

‘Followers?’ I stop, forcing him to a standstill. ‘Followers?’

His smug smile returns, and he’s nodding.

‘By the gods, Followers?’ My laugh is bitter and short. ‘Where were they when my mother starved to death? When Onnachild hanged my grandmother? When the children threw stones at me and tried to drown me?’ My fingers run over the dent in my forehead. ‘Pledging fealty to Onnachild to save their own hides, that’s where they were. So don’t talk to me about Followers.’

‘I’m glad to see anger in your eyes—reminds me so much of the False Queen’s when Onnachild hanged her.’ His cold hand cups my chin and tilts my head towards the firelight splaying from the inn.

‘Don’t.’ I jerk away.

‘Forgive me. It’s just been so long since I’ve seen eyes like yours.’ He saunters off towards the church, his boots scuffing up frost and dirt. I stare up at the castle man, hanging, his belly split and skin turning a black-green. If I want to learn more about the castle then I have no choice but to follow Vill. Whether I’ll believe him is a different matter.

He’s waiting for me at the graveyard’s imposing gates, lounging against them as he plays with his rings. The dance of his white fingers is mesmerising. He glances up at me. ‘Ready?’

I nod but don’t step forwards. I’ve not been here since Onnachild’s man tried to force me to convert, and the memory of Arnoson’s biting hands and grisly smile has me shuddering. The yew tree is a forlorn sight with its boughs stretched low and long, searching for the companions who stood with it before the church was built for Onnachild’s second queen.

The click from the gates opening makes me jump.

‘After you,’ Vill says.

Hitching my blanket up over my shoulders, I step into the grounds. The path is uneven and broken, showing nature asserting its greater authority over Onnachild’s god, and that makes me smile.

‘Don’t you wish we could return to the way things were before Onnachild invaded?’ Vill looks back at the church, his nose rumpled and his lips pursed. Its shadow spikes towards rows and rows of gravestones, patchy with lichen and bird droppings. ‘I want to bring those days back.’

‘And how are you going to do that?’ I ask.

‘With you.’

My laugh comes out as a snort. Vill’s lips pinch together again and he twists the ring on his index finger around. ‘If I may.’ He smiles but I’m not sure if it’s real because his eyes don’t crinkle at the edges.

I nod. He ushers me further into the graveyard, stopping by Arnoson’s headstone.

‘You’re the last Aegni woman. The last of the first rulers.’ He draws me around to face him, takes both my hands in his. The white of his skin glows compared to the brown of mine. ‘You’re too young to remember, but your grandmother must have told you about the Golden Years when the Aegni women ruled. Food was plentiful. The land was abundant and lush. The Aralltir were our allies.’ He doesn’t look much older than me, though, and so I don’t trust his recollections. ‘No? How about before Onnachild married that second queen, the True Queen as we’re meant to call her. Before … ’ With a flick of his wrist, he gestures towards the church. ‘Shut your eyes. Go on. That memory must be inside you.’

But it’s too painful to remember when my grandmother was alive and so my eyes remain open. His sparkle like jewels. The pale-blue irises are almost violet in the moonlight.

‘The bouquet of meadows, yew forests, overripe fruit returning to the earth because there was too much for us to pick and we were too full. Fields so plentiful and plush they waved for our attention. The sun warming your face. And colours, do you remember the colours that used to be here? The flowers? I do. Don’t you want those things back?’ he asks.

‘I want to live.’

‘Is this living? Here? Hunger? Fear of what the villagers might do to you? Fear you’re going to starve like your mother did? I know the villagers chase you from the fields. I know you have no land of your own anymore. Within the castle walls are all the things Aelius promised you. Finery you can’t imagine: velvets, silks, lace. All the hare you can eat—venison, pork, and boar too.’

I snatch back my hands. ‘They’re the dreams of a child.’

‘Not dreams. With the support of the right people—’

‘Why now?’

‘That’s a fair question, I suppose.’ He brushes a leaf off the arch of the headstone and then perches against it. His slim legs stretch out and cross at the ankles. He taps the space beside him.

I cross my arms and shake my head.

‘What? This man doesn’t deserve your respect, does he? Arnoson Martison.’ One of his elegant fingers trails over the name. ‘Keeper of the new faith. It should read traitor, murderer. What do you care for the bones of a traitor?’

‘Nothing.’ My feet rub over the gritty mud, and I can’t help picturing my grandmother’s dirty soles swaying as Arnoson hanged her for refusing to denounce Adfyrism. I, too, am swaying and there’s nothing to steady myself with, nothing but the headstone. It’s slimy beneath my palm.

‘I appreciate it may be sudden to you, but I have been working in the background. I was relying on you, as Aelius’s wife, as his queen to persuade Aelius to restore Adfyrism. The old tales enthralled him. You enthralled him, I made sure of that. But with him … shall we say … gone … he can’t make you queen. And so we need to … exploit certain situations. The merchants are tired of these costly wars and continually loaning money on the promise of victory. Yet we have no victories. The castle men are sick of being ruled by a tyrant. The King is weak, and a weak king is easy to deceive.’

‘He’s weak?’

Vill nods and smiles, seeming to take my question is a sign of agreement. ‘Insensible with grief, crying for all he has lost. He’s even called back his first son, suddenly remembering he has one. Well, back that son may be, but loved he isn’t.’

I spit on my palm and then wipe it clean on my dress. ‘Aelius didn’t have a brother.’

‘You don’t remember Raen? Who his mother is? That adulterous False Queen. Please don’t look at me like that; I only say what they call her in the castle, and you’ll have to endure much more than that once you join me there.’ His gaze lowers to my belly. ‘You can earn the King’s trust by giving him something no one else can: a piece of his son.’

I pull my blanket tighter around me. ‘I’m not giving Onnachild anything.’ I glare up at the sky, the clouds jagged and grey like the cliffs we used to own before Onnachild lost them to Aralltir. ‘He’s taken enough of mine.’

‘A travesty and I fully intend to make it up to you, if you will let me. Please understand, we’ve had problems of our own. Why do you think Onnachild continues with these battles? It isn’t just pride.’ He moves closer, so close that his cloak brushes my wrist. The lining is the softest fur. I grip my blanket to stop my fingers reaching for another touch. ‘There are more of us in Aralltir. They’re waiting for you: the last Aegni woman returned to the castle, ready to restore peace, prosperity, and Adfyrism. I’m waiting for you. For you to say yes. Say yes and I’ll take you to the castle. Say yes, and I’ll convince the merchants to support us, the Followers to return. Together we can overthrow Onnachild. Say yes and I will help you become queen.’ His lips quirk. ‘Queen Niah. How does that sound?’

His tone is lulling and the words are tempting with the punch of the Q, the elongated vowels, and my name so much more enchanting when spoken with a castle accent. His smile shows teeth as white as the jewels I always dreamt of wearing. The combination almost convinces me that I could, that I should. I force my attention away from him, and out beyond the church to the forgotten graves where I scattered my grandmother’s ashes, where she scattered the First Queen’s ashes. That False Queen, as Vill called her, was Aegnian like I am and she went into the castle. She went in as Onnachild’s bride, a gift to bind native and invader, and Onnachild murdered her so he could marry his foreign whore. I imagine my son disturbing the dust to find a trace of me once Onnachild has killed me too.

A breeze carries the perfume of the castle from Vill to me, and I shiver.

‘I saw you on the battlefield,’ he says.

‘You were there?’

‘I couldn’t save Aelius. But I can save you … if you say yes.’

But I have survived without his help, without the castle, and I have done this by remaining hidden from Onnachild. Vill grips my shoulders. ‘You owe it to Aelius. You owe it to your child.’ His voice rises. ‘You owe it to your ancestors.’

‘I owe it to my child to live.’

‘What about revenge then? Do it for revenge.’

How familiar that emotion is, like an often-patched blanket covering all hurts and pains. I think back to the day the final pieces were stitched together. Villagers dragged my grandmother from our hut. Her feet scrabbled in the mud. Her dress rode up. Men, women, children shouted, laughed, clapped as Arnoson carried out Onnachild’s orders. Nessia and I hid in the bushes. The prickles had dug into my arm, making my skin itch.

I scratch my arm, and as I do, fear swells from my guts as strong as it was that day. Nessia had to hold me back, clasping her hand over my mouth to stop me from screaming curses at them. Later, she cut my grandmother down, staggering when the body dropped into her arms. All I’ve wanted since that moment was to make Onnachild pay—the desire is stronger than any other emotion, even love. ‘The villagers won’t accept me.’

‘We’ll make them.’ Vill’s fingertips dig into my shoulder. ‘Say yes.’

Yet as I keep staring at the forgotten graves, I can’t. The promises I made on the battlefield return and have me bristling at my cowardice. But it was easy to make such vows when I held Aelius, when it seemed I’d already crossed into the land of the dead. My hand curves around my belly, heavy with new life. I have something, someone, to live for: my son. Besides, Vill told me there are Followers of Adfyrism. I could go to Aralltir and live there, live without fear. That is if I believe him. Do I?

I shake my head. ‘No.’

‘You’ll change your mind.’

I watch him saunter off and in the moonlight he looks like a memorial come to life.

Chapter 4

THE VILLAGERS HAVE GATHERED by the statue for the funeral procession: stunted children with snotty noses and chapped lips, women with sleeves black as burnt fields, and men bent from defeat. The groans of hungry bellies add an underlying dirge to their chatter. Nessia and I huddle together, our dresses still damp from her trying to dye them last night. The wool hasn’t fully taken the colour and so they’re as patchy as the winter sky.

‘You’ve some nerve coming here, you hedge-born heathen,’ a woman snarls at me, yanking her gangly daughter away.

‘You not dead yet?’ a stringy man snipes. His wife kicks me in the shin with her bare and muddy foot. A laugh turns into a hacking cough. Their gaunt son jostles me and Nessia, pushing us to the edge of the gathering. ‘Here. Here’s another one of them fire-fuckers,’ he calls out.

I hiss my grandmother’s words at him. His face blanches, and he barges his way into the thick of the crowd to hide. I straighten my shoulders, lift my chin, and focus on the procession. At the front is Aelius’s coffin, his momentary chance to lead at last. The surface has been buffed and shined to show off the golden threads in the laburnum. Surely, it’s far too small to contain his body? The white horses bearing his weight are eager to move, churning up dust and dirtying their legs as they fidget. Onnachild is next, proud and corpulent on a black stallion. He’s bulked out in dark fur the same colour as his hair and eyes. He doesn’t appear weak or overcome by grief as he stares out, ignoring the villagers’ awe-filled gapes. I’m glad I didn’t believe Vill.

‘A real ruler wouldn’t keep sending men to their death,’ Nessia moans.

Onnachild is flanked by two grey men who are as watchful and thin as starved wolves. The castle people are behind, each one blond and white-skinned. The weak sun tries to glint off them and the jewels displayed against black clothes, but the people don’t need its help to dazzle. Vill is amongst them, poised and perfect. He turns his head left, right, and left again, searching the crowd until he spots me. There’s no recognition in his face when our eyes meet. Hopefully, that’s a sign he won’t seek me out and try to change my mind.

‘That him?’ Nessia asks. It’s not Vill she’s pointing at though; it’s the man next to him. One who is stockier and taller than the castle men surrounding him. Compared to them he’s an ancient oak in a forest of saplings. His colours are vivid against their paleness: honey-coloured skin, dark hair with mahogany tones loose around his broad shoulders, and eyes a deep brown. He doesn’t belong with the castle people, bred for beauty and dancing, but down here with us who toil and feel the mud between our toes.

‘Raen,’ Nessia mumbles in my ear.

‘Must be.’

The young women are whispering, appreciatively, about the size of his thighs encased in breeches instead of baggy hose like the village men wear. His hair sweeps across his wide shoulders as he surveys the square, the people gathered, and then raises his head to peer up at the statue. What he sees makes him frown. The wind blows a lock of hair over his face but he doesn’t brush it away.

At the command of the wolfish men, the procession moves and, like an afterthought, the villagers tag along. Together, Nessia and I struggle through the crowd, pushing and ducking to get nearer to Aelius. The village men have a desire for revenge set in the lines of their faces, forgetting the fear that made them run.

Sons grumble insults: ‘Thieving cross-eyed limp-dicked pig-riding Aralltirs.’

Shuffling footsteps are in time with the steady boom of the castle drums but they have none of the power. The village women clutch at their clothes as they groan death songs that are drowned out by the crisp voices of the official mourners. Nessia sings along with tears in her eyes. I’ve already sung my song.

The procession leads us to the church where it’s as misty as the battlefield was, giving the place a nightmarish echo. The air is thick and damp, carrying a sickly blend of decaying leaves and out-of-season flowers. As I enter the gates, Nessia’s fingers slip from mine.

Fresh humps dot the graveyard like the shells of beetles. The castle people are dismounting their horses and merging into a blur of black and white. I elbow my way through them, startled when they tut because I feel as insubstantial as a spirit. I’m not sure I’m even breathing. Deeper I go amongst the shafts of light and shadow their bodies create, pushing against their satin, their furs, their silk, until … until …

Before me is a gaping hole in the ground, a headstone new and pale. My stomach lurches and my heart hurts as I read Aelius’s name, the date of his birth, and the date of his death. But he doesn’t belong there, not in the mud, not in the dark. He’s as golden as the sun. A wailing cuts through the harmony of the mourners’ song.

It’s me. I try to stop but I can’t. Onto my knees I fall. Onto the mud, churned up by horses just as the battlefield was. A woman gasps. The taste of Aelius’s blood is in my mouth. Rain starts, thin, quick drops. The sky has darkened and thunder rumbles as though it’s competing with me. I can’t stop my body from heaving as I claw at the mud, needing to clasp something solid, but it oozes through my fingers. Snot and tears mix with the rain on my face. I’m gasping, head turned skywards as if I can call him back.

‘For the love of God, help her!’ Has the voice come from the earth? It’s deep enough, gruff like it’s made of stones. Lightning brightens the sky; the gods are angry because Aelius’s body should be given to them in fire. An arm goes around my waist and sweeps me up into the air. My legs kick out. I must stay close to the earth, to where my love is going. Another arm reaches around me, and I’m pulled under the shelter of the last yew, the branches scraping across my skin.

The man holding me curses when his back jolts against the trunk and he almost drops me. He sits and settles me in his lap like I’m a child, then he takes off his cloak and covers my head with it to keep me dry. ‘Shhh … shhh … shhh.’ The sound mimics the whisper of a tree. He rocks me. He strokes my back with sweeps as languid as those shhhs. His scent is soothing: fresh sap, autumn forests, and castle life. I take deep gulps of it as I cling to him; he’s solid and broad, everything the mud wasn’t. Warmth emanates from him like a well-established hearth fire. I yawn onto his chest.

He hums a song my grandmother used to sing, one I’ve not heard since childhood, and it piques my curiosity so I ease the cloak off my head. Rain drops onto my forehead as I lean back and its chill tingles. His arms tense to bear my weight but his eyes remain fixed over my head, staring off into the distance as though he’s lost in a daydream. Under his left eye is a scar shaped like a drop of rain and I almost try brushing it away. His gaze lowers, first to my hand hovering near his cheek and then to meet mine. Raen.

His parents have left their marks in the colours of his eyes: conker brown with three green dots in both. The same green as mine. The same green as his mother’s, only the colour shouldn’t pass from mother to son. I crane my neck up, lean in to take a better look. He seems as bewildered as I am, with his forehead furrowing as he hunches closer. The shape of his eyes is so similar to Aelius’s, but that is the only similarity because Raen’s lashes are darker and thicker, the eyebrows heavier, and his eyes deeper set. There’s pain in them, an uncertainty. He blinks and his emotions vanish.

‘What’s your name?’ His accent is strange: a hint of the village, the castle, and somewhere else, somewhere I can’t place.

‘Niah.’

‘Ah, so you’re Niah. It makes sense now.’ He shifts beneath me. ‘I’m sure your little display will have been noted.’

‘Display?’

He shoves me from his lap and I bump onto the damp ground, dragging his cloak with me.

‘Yes, display.’

‘I love him.’

‘Of course you do. They all do. Look at them there.’ He points towards the castle people but his scowl remains fixed on me. ‘And now, they must pretend to love me. You know who I am?’

I nod, words lost at his sudden change from kindness to disgust.

‘Good. With the way things have turned out I bet Onnachild’s glad he didn’t kill me, but I doubt you’d agree. It would make things easier for you if I was dead, wouldn’t it?’ The green in his eyes is vibrant. His breath is hot on my nose. ‘Well, I’m back, the second-best son … the forgotten son … the disowned son, take your pick. I won’t be those things for long. Trust me, I mean to have everything that was Aelius’s.’

‘He promised it to me,’ I manage to spit out.

‘I’m sure he did, but it wasn’t his to promise.’ Then he’s standing, looming over me. A sardonic smile is on his face. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll leave you something for your pains.’ He chucks his purse at me.

‘I don’t care about coins,’ I say, though I know I’ll snatch up that purse the moment he’s gone.

‘We’ll see. It’s a hard life for a dead prince’s whore, even if she is with child.’

Whore. The word prickles like a thistle in the foot, and I go to defend myself, throw his cloak back at him, only he seems to want that reaction, and so instead I stifle it, swallow his insult. After all, it’s no different to those the villagers throw my way. Inwardly though, I curse him in both the languages I know.

As he marches away, I hear a village man warn him, ‘You want to be careful of that one, suck your soul out she will.’

Chapter 5

THE PASSAGE OF TIME CAN BE MEASURED by the changes to my body: belly and breasts swelling, my face rounding, and my irises which Nessia says have gone as dark as damp moss. Little else has changed and I’m impatient for it to. Every morning I linger by the battlefield and stare out at Aralltir, my arms cradling my heavy belly. I rock back and forth on my heels with the winter wind as it howls AE-LI-US, AE-LI-US through the valley. The sun shines yellower over Aralltir, and I imagine another woman there, standing as I do, expecting me. She resembles my mother, though I’m not sure I really remember my mother’s face. Her hair was lighter than mine and her eyes more hazel than green, I think. The cold wind numbs my cheeks and makes my nose run but I don’t turn away. We’ll find safety there, I tell my baby. I repeat this to Nessia when she returns, a poached hare draped over her shoulder.

‘What are you most looking forward to?’ I ask her. ‘When we get to Aralltir?’

‘Seeing the sea again, watching the ships come in with tasty things to eat.’ She butts my shoulder with hers. ‘Getting fat. So many things. Watching you become the artisan you wanted to be when you were a little girl.’

I smile as I remember carving disjointed shapes into my grandmother’s chairs and table and trunk. They were meant to be phoenixes, the gods, Aegnian letters over-spilling with berries. ‘We can keep bees again?’ I ask.

‘We can keep bees if that’s what you want.’ She settles the hare over my shoulder and then plods off to scavenge for wood.

While she’s occupied, I wander to the jagged shadow of the castle and stare up at it. The black towers jab into the grey clouds, which never move or change shape. I wear Aelius’s boots and the ground beneath the soles is crisp with frost. My toes wiggle to find the dents his left. I gather Raen’s cloak under my chin with one hand. The pin of the hawk brooch digs into my neck. My other hand brushes up the soft fur lining, and I can’t help daydreaming about being in the castle. The spirits I might see. Aelius. My stomach rumbles as I imagine the food Vill mentioned.

My dreams are haunted by his face, even more like chiselled silver, and in them I say yes to him. The ancient forests have returned and I’m encircled by yews, our gift from the gods. My dress is green velvet as lush as a summer meadow, though it smells of decay and the taste of it coats my back teeth. Around me are mirrors. Reflected in one I see myself, lean and hungry, eyes weary and narrowed. In another, I’m the First Queen, mature and stately with an expression that gives nothing away. In another, I’m my grandmother, hair streaked with grey and eyes lacklustre. Another, I’m my mother, the image faded as if water has tarnished the mirror. Every morning when I wake, I grab Nessia and make her tell me my name.

‘Do you think he’ll return? Vill, I mean,’ I ask her when she comes to lead me home.

‘What does it matter if he does?’ She smiles at me. ‘We’re going to Aralltir once the baby’s born, aren’t we?’

‘Do you think I was right to say no?’

‘It wasn’t an easy decision.’

‘That’s not an answer.’

She tips some logs from her arms into mine. Bark catches in the cloak’s material and releases an intoxicating earthy scent. ‘I don’t know what answer to give. I wish I did.’

‘I thought Aelius would be able to keep us safe.’ I whisper the words towards the wood because speaking them seems a betrayal. ‘But he’s gone, and I can’t help thinking … I can’t help thinking he was right. Raen.’

‘It’s always a hard life here.’

‘But will it be easier in Aralltir? They might have the same land laws, the same hatred of the Aegni.’

‘They might.’

‘You think I should have said yes?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

She turns me around and we trudge home, my gaze drifting over my shoulder to the castle.

This dream is different. In it I’m becoming part of the forest, twisting with the creeping vines up trunks, across boughs, delving deep into the ground with the roots where it’s warm and moist. Red berries burst against my cheeks. My scent is one of sensual excitement and it mixes so erotically with the forest’s own musk.

When I wake the perfume is there in the crook of my arm, and I breathe deeply to take it into my body, that sensation of comfort, of calm. Beside me, Nessia stirs and her bones creak. My son fidgets, making me groan. She reaches around, stained fingers fanned, and tests my belly. ‘It’ll be today. Gods willing.’

‘And then we can leave.’

She nods. ‘And then we can leave. But, I’ve been thinking …’

‘Go on.’

‘Why didn’t your grandmother tell us? Why not mention the Followers and … why didn’t she leave?’

‘You don’t believe Vill?’

‘Do you?’

‘I want to.’

She nods again as she removes her hands. ‘We’ll leave if that’s what you wish.’

I nestle into the blanket and cloak where it’s still warm and the aroma of my dream has mixed with the hint of castle in the fur lining. Nessia starts the day, throwing together pottage and then placing the pan over the fire in the centre of our hut. A stabbing pain comes, once, deep between my hips. I moan.

‘How long will it take before he’s born?’ I ask once the pain has passed.

‘Baby will be here as soon as he’s ready, no sooner, no later; it’s the way they assert their authority.’ Nessia returns to comfort me with a pat of my head. ‘Your own birth was easy and quick. All your ancestors had good birthing hips.’

‘That was twenty-odd years ago—how can you remember that?’

‘That’s what happens as you get older; the past is easier to remember than yesterday.’

‘Yesterday was the past, too.’

‘True.’ Her lips quirk. ‘Here.’ She gestures towards some reeds she has brushed into a corner. ‘It will collect the birthing liquid.’

I nod, push aside the blanket and cloak, and use the wall to leverage myself up. Nessia guides me to the reeds and eases me onto them before removing the pan of pottage and adding one of water. The odour of food is sickening this morning and I turn my head when she offers me some.

‘It may be a long day,’ she warns, but I notice she doesn’t eat either. The pan remains there, emitting a tangy steam. She opens the door and leans out to check the weather. ‘The sky is the same blue as Aelius’s eyes. It’s a good omen.’

‘Let me see.’ I struggle up, desperate to see something like him. It’s a relief to be off those scratchy reeds. Nessia holds the door open for me and I duck under her arm.

‘You’re right,’ I say. The sun has risen early, and it reflects off his statue, creating patches of light across the village that show his approval. ‘I hope our child has eyes the exact same shade.’ My hand caresses my belly as I speak to my son. ‘I can’t wait to see what you look like.’ At the sound of my voice, he causes a deep spasm, and I crouch there until the pain passes.

Nessia squeezes my shoulder then she returns to the fire, throwing a bundle of white sage into it to chase away evil spirits. The scent fills the hut, calming, and making me yawn. I whisper my love’s name so low only my unborn child and I can hear it. Soon, there’ll be a part of Aelius alive again; the thought helps me to bear the pain.

‘Are the spasms getting nearer?’ Nessia asks.

‘Yes.’ I rest my cheek against the door, enjoying the air cooling my skin. Even my palms are sweating. My thoughts drift to the mothers who never got to hold their baby, terrifying me with all the things that could go wrong: baby the wrong way, baby malformed, bright-yellow skin, pale-blue skin. Tears come. Nessia rushes to my side. I grab her rough hand. ‘What if something’s wrong?’

‘Baby will be fine.’ She strokes my hair from my clammy forehead, tucks it behind my ears and down the neck of my nightdress. ‘He’s meant to be born, and you’re meant to survive. It’s fate. Why else did Aelius come to you, love you, if not to give you a child? So dry your tears.’ She dabs my cheeks with her sleeve. ‘The gods wouldn’t have it any other way. Your ancestors won’t let it. Today is a happy day.’ She kisses my cheek. ‘Do you remember the chant?’

I nod and recite it like a good girl as she leads me to the reeds. The words match the pulse of pain spreading to my lower back, into my thighs. I concentrate on the twitching of my belly, counting between the spasms, counting how long they last. There’s a strange popping sensation inside, my eyes widen, and liquid trickles down my leg. It’s less than I expected but it doesn’t seem to faze Nessia, who looks up from beside the fire and smiles at the straw-coloured stain on my nightdress. ‘Baby will be on his way.’

My son can’t wait; I can’t wait. My skin is tighter. My belly is heavier. The urge to bear down is growing and I fidget there, scattering the reeds across the floor. I kneel, struggle onto all fours, the tip of a reed digs into my palm, and pant. It feels good to pant. In more prosperous times, I saw animals give birth: cows, pigs, and even a horse. They were quick. They made it look easy.

I stand. I waddle. I sit. Kneel. Crouch. Nothing helps the pain. Nessia takes up the chant as she washes her hands and then me. She lifts my nightdress and checks me again. ‘Not long now.’

It’s impossible to remain quiet, but I don’t care if the whole village hears me. I mew and growl. Please. I plead to the gods, to my ancestors, to my love. Give me the strength. Aelius’s scent wafts throughout the hut, and my grandmother’s features appear in the fire’s smoke. My head rises. My lungs open. I take a deep breath before pushing, pushing down long and hard. Once. Twice against the pain between my hips, between my thighs. Does my child mean to split me in two? My face screws up with the effort. I expect to hear a rip. This is my punishment. My punishment for catching a prince, for thinking I could birth a future king. The spasms don’t get easier to bear. My legs tremble. My head lolls against Nessia’s chest. She dabs at my forehead with a warm, wet cloth as she hums songs from my childhood. I moan at her, push her away when she tries to check the progress of my baby.

I want to see my son.

‘Push. Push,’ she urges.

I do. I do.

His head slides out, then his shoulders, slowly; he’s commanding all the time in the world. Then, at last, he’s fully out, and I’m breathless from the effort. Nessia holds him and she’s laughing. I laugh too.

‘You’ve done it.’

‘We’ve done it.’

He doesn’t join in with our noise. My heart drops. I feel sick. Please. Nessia doesn’t look worried. The fire crackles. A goldfinch sings; isn’t it too soon for him to be back?

My son cries, finally, and it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard, more beautiful than any bird song, more beautiful than Aelius whispering my name. Nessia wraps a thin fur around my son and places him on my chest. He’s far too small, too delicate for me to keep safe from the villagers, from Onnachild, from hunger. His face is scrunched up with indignation at the world he finds himself in—maybe it’s the smell of the pottage— and that makes me chuckle as I run a finger over his damp, red skin. It will fade to pink and there will be no trace of the village. His eyes are a cloudy blue, unfocused, and he has a thin patch of wet hair that will be blond when it dries.

‘Niah …’ Nessia crouches beside me.

I don’t like the hesitation in her voice. My baby’s face shows no sign of disfavour. He has ten chubby toes and ten chubby fingers, and his grip is strong. Already his lips are pursing for my nipple. ‘What? What is it? What’s wrong?’

She lifts a corner of the fur. ‘He is a she.’

‘Is that all? It’s perfect. A girl. A queen. It’ll go from me to her as it did in the Golden Years when the Aegni ruled. As it should.’

Nessia’s index finger tickles over my baby’s cheek. ‘But we’ll not be here.’

Chapter 6

SOMEONE HAS LAID PURPLE AND GOLD FLOWERS on Aelius’s grave, flowers so bright and luscious they must have come from the castle. Their perfume is delicate in the still night. Bound against my chest is my daughter, and clutched under my arm is a bundle of birch wood which Nessia and I saved for this occasion. I drop the twigs onto his grave, and then caress the mound, imagining it is his chest beneath my palm and that the slight shift of mud is his twitching response.

‘Are you ready to see your daughter?’ I say onto his headstone.

It’s difficult to coax a fire in this dampness. It starts as a flickering flame that teases and toys with me, darting up and then shrinking. I’d chastise it for threatening to go out only I’m too happy. Keeping my daughter pressed to my breast, I murmur my ancestors’ words into the flames. With me is a bag of ground herbs: lemon balm, yew berries, rosemary, and wormwood. I put a small clump of the herbs into my baby’s tiny hand, close mine around hers, and together we trickle them into the fire. It consumes the offering with a joyful crackle. Blue and green licks curl together as the smoke sweetens.

‘Now wish for your father, wish really hard and he’ll come for you.’

I picture him lying on my floor with his hair splayed out like shavings of gold. A waft of smoke tickles my cheek; he’s here. My heart speeds, swells. I crane my neck. Above us, next to the half-moon, smoke is collecting and darkening to create his features. The oval outline of his face ripples and stretches. I want to reach out, clutch at the intangible smoke, and grab a piece to keep with me always. Instead I hug our daughter, my living, breathing part of him. Smoke splutters from his mouth when he tries to talk. I lean closer to the fire but only hear the wood burning. The image contracts into a ball. It spins, getting denser and darker.

‘Aelius!’ I scrub away my tears with the edge of my cloak but more come. They’re ruining my vision. ‘By the gods, Niah, concentrate. Concentrate.’ I inhale deeply, pulling in the smoke, and holding it until my chest hurts. Then I exhale through pursed lips. My daughter tugs the ends of my hair. ‘Please.’ My voice trembles. ‘Please.’ The ball is still spinning, spinning, spewing out wisps as it tries. ‘Trying isn’t good enough. Try harder. Please. It’s our daughter’s naming day. She wants to see you.’ The dead can’t be called with guilt, I know this, but I keep pressing him. ‘Aelius, I need to see you. I miss you. You can’t let us down.’

Desperately, I blow on the fire, lob more wood, more herbs at it until the flame is almost smothered. Please. Please.

‘Don’t cry.’ My grandmother’s voice comes from between the fire’s crackles.

‘Then make him come. Make him. I miss him. I want him. Help. Please? Can’t you?’

A great plume of smoke spurts out from the fire, blocking the moon. It thins, curves, bulges, ripples until his features emerge: each blond eyelash, the dimple in his cheek, his eyes full of sky. He’s grinning, proud of himself, as he looks down at us. He puffs out smoke and our daughter tries to catch it, but she’s too late and so he puffs more. The balls turn in the drizzle, taking on the glint of falling stars. They settle on my face, damp as a kiss from an open mouth. My daughter’s blanket collects beads.

Then he’s gone.

‘What happened to me?’ His voice comes from the fire. A gold spark leaps out, dies on the wet mud of his grave.

‘You—’

‘But … But … I don’t understand. I remember …’ The pitch of his voice rises, almost breaks. ‘Everything white, the sky, the ground blinding like when someone holds a candle too close to my face. I shouldn’t have been scared … but I was. I wanted you. And I saw myself, and I was … muddy … blood … and you, you were there.’

‘I will always—’

‘And we have a daughter? I don’t understand the future. I don’t understand now. I was meant to be king, wasn’t I?’

‘Yes, my love. Yes, you were meant to be king.’

‘But I’m not. She’ll have it, the throne. Make sure, to you and then her. My daughter. You promise. You will, I know you