The horses nickered uneasily in their stalls as they entered the stable. Ana’s eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, the warm scent of hay and horse manure tickling her nostrils.

“So… what do yew think?” she asked softly.

Mara only stared and Ana wondered if she even understood. Hepsie had asked her if she would be so kind as to play with Lady Inbar’s ward and she could never refuse dear Hepsie anything. And they were of a similar age. She had been desperate to get away from her bratty little sisters anyway, and jealous of Elere who was allowed to help Hepsie with her work since she was a big girl now. Ana thought she was pretty grown up now that she was nine but apparently it wasn’t enough to help with the babies. And Dessy, well she was never to be found these days. So she spent her time with Mara, who was even shyer than she. It was an awkward sort of friendship. Most of the time they barely spoke and when they did oftentimes they could not understand one another anyway.

At least the other girl had princess hair. That went a long way to earning Ana’s respect. And she could do the prettiest braids, more pretty than Ana had imagined in all of her daydreams. Ana had a secret hope that one day Mara might braid her hair for her, but it seemed only the Lady Inbar was granted that favour.

But that could be all about to change since she had found the secret hideout, in the back of the stables where nobody every came. Creeping behind the boxes she could almost pretend she was indeed a Princess, holed up in a fortress waiting for her Prince to come. She just had to make Mara understand.

“It’s being a place fer us, fer me and yew. We can hide here an’ no one will be finding us. Nobody ever comes here but Kel an’ he won’t tell our secret. It’s perfect.”

The other girl raised her dark eyebrows and stared at Ana, a look of vast concentration on her pale face. Ana thought her rather beautiful, her flawless skin and trailing raven locks. Ana’s face was always ruddy and freckled. Hepsie called it a healthy glow but Ana hated it.

She tried again, more slowly sounding out the words carefully, “Yew know Mara… secret. A secret. Just fer yew an’ me. To play here.”

“Secret?” Mara asked her brown wrinkling in confusion.

How was she going to explain?

She was saved the need when the door to the stables clicked open and two small shapes flitted in. It was Jabari, the medicine man’s dark-skinned son and one of the Manasa boys. She could never remember all their names. They both seemed so strange and foreign to her. Jabari most of all, who had heavy dreadlocks, coiling out from his head like snakes and birthright tattoos covering his face. And the Manasa boy slinking in, cat-like, his pale eyes glowing. They said his father had been a Talmasian from the great deserts of the West, where the nomadic tribes lived out their short and violent lives under stretched canvas and the stars.

“Greetings,” Jabari said in his strange accent while the Manasa boy scowled at them from beneath his wild, ruffled hair.

“What the hell are yew doing in here?” the Manasa boy growled at them, “This is our place. No girls allowed.”

She glared back, noting that his bare feet were dirty and his clothes were torn. Her own clothes had been neatly patched by her own hand. Hepsie had even complimented her on the skill of the stitching. Her feeling of smug satisfaction fled when she remember Mara’s many fine dresses.

“No no my kaibigan. Do not be rude to ladies. I am Jab, please to meet you,” the other boy said carefully.

“We met before, on the ship” Ana mumbled and Mara just stared.

“Yew can’t be here,” the Manasa boy said belligerently, ignoring his friend’s plea for courtesy, “this is our place. Boys only. We found it first.”

“But Lemeki friend, kaibigan. Surely can we not share?” Jabari asked congenially.

“No… no girls,” the other boy scowled, “Girls are stupid. They only want to do their hair and they cry all the time.”

“We don’t cry all the time!” Ana responded unable to refute the hair claim.

Suddenly, unaccountably Mara began to giggle beside her. She was a little shocked. The girl scarcely spoke and now she was laughing.

“Why she laugh?” Jab asked, confused.

“Oh, please excuse my friend Mara, she’s not speaking much common. I don’t know if she’s understanding,” Ana sent a sidelong glance to her friend who was tittering into her hand.

“I see… I also speak not good common,” Jab said with a solemn look on his face.

He bowed deeply, “I am pleased to meeting you Mara.”

Mara giggled even more, her shoulders shaking, her scrawny arms folded over her chest. The situation was getting out of hand. Ana mustered all of her faltering courage.

“We were here first an’ it’s no boys allowed. So yew’d better just scram if yew know what’s good fer yew.”

“Scram,” Mara repeated with a grin waggling her finger at them.

“No way!” Lemeki said, glowering at them, “We was here first!”

The stable door swung open and their argument was forgotten as a small scruffy figure burst in and barrelled into Lemeki poking at him with an outstretched finger.

“Now yer dead Leki. Dead. I’s killed yew I does,” the small boy squeaked in delight.

“Mori! What the hell! Get out! Leave us alone yew stupid runt.”

“I wanna play too… pwease Leki I’s big enough I is,” the boy whined. He was another Manasa but this time of a smaller variety. Same scruffy hair and torn trousers.

“Only grown ups can play here Mori,” Lemeki growled at his younger brother, “Yew have to be at least eight to play here.”

“Yeah,” Ana chimed in.

The only thing more awful than boys were little brothers and sisters.

They had stayed too long at Hepsie’s getting a tonic for Rowan and now the sun had already set below the hulking mountains. The night had descended with its orchestra of insects, their ratcheting screech echoing through the trees. The days were starting to grow shorter and Varda had been too preoccupied to notice. And now they were caught out in the dark.

She and Mara hurried through the gloomy market square where the smell of fish too long in the hot, midday sun was just starting to fade. The rowdy sounds of the tavern carried over the square, men downing foaming tankards of ale at the close of the day.

“What is smell?” Mara asked, her small nostrils flaring as she breathed in the scents wafting on the breeze.

“It’s the fish Mara, it smells pretty awful doesn’t it,” Varda replied hurrying on.

“No… no… not fish… it smells… blood… death,” the young girl’s reply made the blood in Varda’s veins turn icy.

One of the pigs suddenly gave a frightened squeal. In the darkness Varda could see they were all huddled in one corner but one. One was lying on its side. A dark shape flitted over it and the other pigs grunted and whined, pushing each other, scraping up against the fence.

A warm breeze carried the salty tang of the sea but with it the unmistakable metallic scent of blood.

“Oh God,” she murmured, but the thing was already rising to its feet.

And Mara was tiptoeing toward it.

“Mara,” she hissed, “come here. Come here right now.”

They could make a run for the tavern. Inside would be men who could protect them.

But Mara would not come.

“Hej, hej,” the little girl was crooning, one hand outstretched toward the monster that was shambling toward her, “Kom hit, kom hit.”

The creature was limping, dragging one foot behind, its limbs twisted into impossible angles. Drag, thump, drag thump, it was coming closer and Mara was just standing there murmuring to it in her strange, lilting language.

Varda could see in the light of the full moon that the skin on its face was drooping, dragging down in rotting jowls as though the connective tissue had died and the skin was no longer attached. Blood drooled from the corner of its sagging mouth.

“Mara, mara, come away from there. Please, come here,” she almost shrieked, frozen to the spot in the abject terror of all animals when they sense an approaching predator. She could not get her trembling legs to work.

It shuffled over to stand before the little girl, staring down at her, its head lolling listlessly on its neck. The pigs were screaming in horror. Inside Varda’s head she was doing the same but all she could do was whimper Mara’s name over and over, begging God to spare her.

The rotting stench of it filled her nostrils as she gasped in fear. She retched at the thick rancid smell of something that had been long dead, her body crying out at the dreadful wrongness of it.

“Sitt,” Mara murmured and the monster fell to its knees before the girl.

From where Varda stood it almost seemed to be trembling.

“Duktig, duktig valp,” Mara said softly in an indulgent voice.

Then, to Varda’s utter horror, the girl reached out and began to stroke the beast, her delicate hands patting his head, and his terrible drooping face.

The monster seemed almost as terrified as Varda was, its hands clasped as though in prayer as it shuddered away from Mara’s touch.

“Så duktig, så söt, vilken sötnos,” Mara crooned, patting at its pallid hands, “Jag ska inte skada dig, det är okej, det är okej.”

The creature was panting in what could only be fear, the whites of its eyes rolling frantically in its head. It tried to speak but all the came out was a garbled, wet groan.

“Det är okej,” Mara murmured, “Du kan gå nu. Du kan gå. Spring hem.”

The creature rose gratefully and unsteadily to its feet. It shuffled away, arms flapping uselessly at its side, head flopping this way and that. At the edge of the clearing it peered back at them, its eyes glinting in the darkness and then it was gone.

Varda gulped in the fresh air that was carried from the sea, the pungent stink of the beast dissipating though the ripe smell of blood was still in the air.

She swallowed and tried to steady herself, her head thick and buzzing like she might pass out.

“Mara! You come here this instant,” she cried angrily and the girl sauntered towards her.

“Thank God its gone,” she mumbled as she swept Mara into her arms, “what where you thinking?! What were you thinking?! It could have killed you! Stupid, stupid girl.”

She had not realised how much she cared for the girl until this moment and now she could only be dizzyingly grateful that she had not been hurt.

“It is okay Varda. Do not you worry. It is okay,” the girl murmured as she clung to Varda.

“Det är okej, det är okej,” she whispered and pressed her cold cheek against Varda’s.

The room was messier than Lekha had ever seen it. A half-finished bottle of wine was propped up against the bed leg along with a host of used plates and cutlery. Barely visible, tucked amongst the black lace of Varda’s mourning dress was baby Rowan, silent and still while Himani squirmed and mewed in her own arms. The bed was strewn with barely begun embroidery, picked up for a moment and then flung discarded onto the growing pile. There was a large basket filled with piles of bread, stale and hard with spots of green here and there.

“We come in, yes?” she asked at the door and Varda nodded a silent consent.

She tiptoed in, shushing the wriggling baby pressed against her breast.

“Oh, I did not see you Mara,” she cried in surprise as the small birdlike girl was revealed sitting behind Varda, her hands in the woman’s hair. Varda’s hair had been woven into three complex braids, though it was greasy and unwashed it was a thing of beauty to behold. The thick braids hung heavily down her back like carefully wound rope. As a sea captain’s wife it had always been the only thing she liked about life on the sea, the intricately woven rope, the deft sailor’s knots, the webbing of the sails all strung out above. It was as beautiful as the hair she modestly covered and hid from the world.

Mara gazed at her calmly, tying off the final braid with her nimble fingers. Baby Rowan watched her movements with interest. Mara’s hair was braided too, a long silky plait sliding down over her shoulder. Lekha had only ever seen it messy and ruffled, pulled into a scruffy tail at her back. She wondered if Mara had finally allowed Varda to touch her hair.

“I see you have very much bread my friend,” Lekha murmured.

Varda did not look up, her eyes dull and fixed, her hands pulling at a thread that had come loose from the lacework. The more she tugged the more it unravelled. Lekha felt a pang at her friend’s pain, the Varda she knew would have straight away pulled out a needle and thread and patched up the problem.

“Did you make this hair Mara,” Mara looked up at her struggling to understand her words.

They had that in common, Lekha still had so much trouble with the language. She had heard that many women learned from their husbands, whispering sweet nothings on the pillow before they slept. But not her husband. Not him.

Lekha gestured toward the braids, “You make?”

Mara nodded quickly, a look of pride flitting across her pale features.

“It is very beautiful.”

If Mara did not understand from the words Lekha hoped that she understood from her smile.

“Varda my friend. I have brought my baby, Himani, she would like to meet with you,” she murmured softly and Varda started as though suddenly awakened.

She slowly uncurled from the bed and came towards Lekha with a brittle smile, “Oh Lekha, of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so rude.”

Varda peered down at Himani who was kicking her fat feet inside her swaddling and blowing bubbles with her small, pink mouth. Lekha thought she was the most beautiful thing that the Gods had seen fit to make but she was afraid her friend would not agree.

“Oh Lekha, isn’t she the prettiest thing? What a sweet little face she has!”

“You think so?” Lekha glowed with pride.

Her daughter was beautiful, fine pale features, dark eyes and the most delicious rosebud mouth imaginable. She had a daughter! A tiny friend to whisper her sorrows to in the darkness and share her joys with. A daughter who would grow long hair that she could carefully braid, a daughter to secretly teach the ways of her people that were in danger of being all but forgotten. A little piece of herself that she could hang her failed hopes and dreams on.

“Yes, I do!” Varda cried reaching out to stroke her daughter’s soft head, “I’m so happy for you Lekha.”

Lekha saw that it was true. Despite her friends great sadness she truly felt joy with her. Her friend, her only friend was happy for her. It was a good feeling.

She glanced over at Mara who was staring at them, dark eyes large in her pale face, her lips pressed into a thin line. Lekha wondered if she was trying to follow the conversation. Or did she understand more than she let on? She did not know what to make of the strange, small girl but her friend, Varda had taken her in and so it was Lekha’s duty to understand her.

“And how Rowan is?” she asked Varda who was staring at her snuffling daughter.

“Oh Rowan,” Varda exclaimed a fleeting look of surprise passing over her face.

She reached around and carefully picked up the small boy from the bed, cradling him lovingly in her arms. She stared down at his squashy face as he stared up at her with his sea-green eyes.

“He is just fine,” she replied softly, pain twisting her features for a moment before they relaxed again.

“He has got so big already!” Lekha exclaimed.

“Yes, he’s a strong boy,” Varda murmured proudly.

Rowan was staring at Himani, his mouth opening and closing like a small, pink fish. Himani squirmed in her arms.

“Look,” Lekha chuckled, “he is looking at Himani. Perhaps they will also be friends.”

She winked at Varda but her friend was not looking at her, gazing down at her son with a heart-rending look on her face.

Lekha hastily looked away. It was not polite to gaze too long on such pain as it took something away from the person that was not for sharing.

She hoisted Himani up to give her a big kiss on the forehead. The girl wriggled and mewed, perhaps expecting a feeding.

“Now you. You must stop making eyes at that boy. You, you are too young for that.”

Rowan gurgled in dismay. Varda gave a short laugh swinging him up to her shoulder and patting his swaddled back.

“Poor Rowan. Already unlucky in love,” she cooed, snuggling th baby against her neck.

“Perhaps they will be lucky. They are so very small. So much life ahead. Perhaps they will be lucky,” it was all she hoped for her baby, her Himani.

Conall had been so very unlucky, taken from this world so soon. Taken from her arms so soon and spirited away to the other side. Perhaps her daughter would be more lucky.

“Perhaps,” Varda muttered into the folds of Rowan’s swaddling.

Sigurd gazed down at his spent body. His cheeks were grey and bloodless, his closed eyes and trembling lashes sunk into the dark hollow of his bony sockets. Blood. That’s all it was. All these years of scraped knees as a child, the tiny cuts and scratches, the paper cuts and nicks of his life. Squeezing blood from a small wound, fascinated as it beaded on his skin then sucking it frantically in some primal response to not let any drop escape his body. He now understood his animal fear of being bled when struck with a fever. This was life. Blood. Life, pumping and rushing through his veins, feeding his body. Now it had all drained away he wondered what it was that kept his stuttering heart whispering in his chest. It was all that was left and he longed for it to stop now because it ached so.

The door softly clicked open, tiptoeing footsteps on the wooden floor, a slight intake of breath and a sigh.

This was what kept his heart beating, the woman who walked proudly to his bedside, her head held high. A tiny bundle was clutched in her arm, the other dangling loose at her side. He saw the tension in that hand, the fingers clenched into a half fist and for the first time he understood that it was so because if it was not her hand would have trembled uncontrollably. If only he could take it now between his strong fingers and hold it there until it need tremble no longer. But it was too late for that. It was too late for so very many things.

She stared down at him, her eyes wide, lips firmly pressed into a pale line. Her hair dangled down her back in sweaty curls, her face flushed and pink, her eyes circled with dark rings of exhaustion.

“Sigurd,” she murmured and her voice cracked and faltered.

She took a deep shuddering breath and calmer now, a hint of fierce pride, “This is your son. Rowan. I named him for your father”

His son. His longed for child. The butterfly baby. Rowan. He peeked around the curtain of Varda’s tangled hair and the boy peered out at him, with wide defiant eyes. Varda’s eyes.

Why now? It seemed so unfair. But so it was and he understood now why his wasted body had waited.

The body on the bed began to suck in breath, a harsh ratcheting noise that scraped at his ears. Varda shuddered, hoisting the baby high on her shoulder, pressing his tiny face into the warm curve of her neck. In the last months, Sigurd had been allowed to lay his head there, his lips against the soft skin. He envied his son. He envied Varda. But only a moment, for he was thankful they had each other. He only wished he could stay.

“Sigurd…” Varda whispered, almost muffled by swaddling as she clutched the baby tighter.

The body on the bed coughed and spluttered, and Sigurd felt the stuttering heart gasp as though squeezed in a vicelike grip.

“I never told you,” her face was hidden by tendrils of dark, soft hair, “what a good man… a good husband you were to me.”

She took a deep breath, measuring her words, “What you did. Was so brave… I’m… I’m so sorry.”

She turned away from the bed, away from his dying body as tears slid slowly down her cheeks and onto the baby’s face. It snuffled and squirmed in her arms, then grew quiet as though sensing her pain. Varda, his Varda, who had never let him see her cry, not even now. But she did not realise that the body was a lifeless husk and now she faced him full, beautiful in her grief, her trembling lips, her pink-stained face, her wrinkled brow. He had never seen such raw vulnerability from his hard, strong wife and disconcerted he longed to press that face to his chest until she felt safe again.

But he had places to go. He could not stay, much as he wished to. And besides, they needed him. They could not make it there alone. A small body bumped against his, resting her head on his arm.

The heart wrenched and twinged as the body gasped for air.

“Is it time papa?” the small boy asked.

He nodded slowy, the little girl reaching for his hand.

With a last throb the heart sputtered out and finally the residual ache subsided.

“Yes. It’s time.”

He looked at his wife and whispered, “Goodbye my love. Take good care of him. And Rowan, you take good care of your mother, ” he looked down at the children surrounding him, “Don’t worry Varda. They are all safe now. We will find the way together. Goodbye…”

And he was gone.

The snow had been melting for days so all that was left were muddy patches that sucked at Sigurd’s boots. In the valley everything was dank and wet and streaming, the rigid pine trees dripping with rain from every needle as a mist rolled up from the sea to settle at the foot of the mountains.

Sigurd was cold and uncomfortable, mud splattered up to his knee and soggy socks crammed into squeaking boots. He longed to go home to Varda, thaw out his feet in a bucket of steaming water and crawl into bed beside her hulking, warm body.

The King, who Sigurd suspected had developed a little cabin fever from the long winter cooped up inside the drafty castle, had insisted they go out to survey a new building site at the first sign of thaw. The morning had been relatively warm, a weak sun shining through a thin guaze of clouds but the day had grown progressively grimmer. Now, faced with the long trudge back to the castle, Sigurd wished they would soon turn towards home.

“See Lochan, wouldn’t this make the most perfect place for your castle?” Eallair smiled knowingly at the Duke who was looking entirely unimpressed.

“Your Majesty, if you permit me saying so, we have not even begun to finish the fortress. It is madness to even begin to consider a new phase of building. You need not be concerned on my behalf, I am quite content to remain in my lodgings in the castle. There are docks to be built, and barns to be finished. We are sorely lacking in men. We should not even be entertaining the thought now,” Lochan huffed, his face grim, “I believe Your Majesty needs to focus on more important things.”

An icy drop of rain slopped down from the branches above and trickled down the back of Sigurd’s tunic, sending an unpleasant shiver down his spine. He reached up to rub some warmth into the back of his neck and froze as he heard a soft crackle.

He swung around, eyes scanning the forest but there was nothing there. The rain was growing heavier, making pattering sounds on the mossy bracken and he turned his attention back to the King.

“But come now Lochan!” the King grinned, spreading his arms wide as thought to embrace the Duke and the surrounding forest, “look around you. Would this not be a fine place for a castle. The mountains to your back, a steep climb from the sea. Plenty of available wood. Certainly a bit damp today, but nothing a snug fire wouldn’t fix.”

Lochan stared at his cousin in trepidation, “I don’t know why you are even thinking of this now Majesty. We have not the resources nor the men. We must stay focused on defending the shoreline. Perhaps in a few years, maybe more. We just do not have the manpower.”

There was a faint rustle from the forest. The hair on the back of Sigurd’s neck stood on end as he peered into the gloom trying to determine the source.

“Did anyone else hear that?” he wavered.

“But have you not thought of the defensive possibilities Lochan?” The King went, apparantely oblivious to Sigurd’s concern, “What if the shoreside fortress were to fall. Where would we retreat to? There’s nowhere but the forest and a few scattered farms. They would have us surrounded in no time. But if we had a second line of defense, a fine, strong castle at the foot of the mountains we could make a stand. Even survive a siege. You must see the sense in it.”

It was probably just a frightened squirrel. He was just on edge because Varda’s time was so soon. Every little sound she made would wake him the night as he lay by her side, counting her breathing, terrified to hear a cry of pain.

“Well, Your Majesty. You certainly do have a point there,” Lochan gazed at the King appraisingly, “a second line of defense would certainly serve us well. But I stand by my point, there is no sense in beginning building on a second project when the first is not even near done.”

Sigurd was beginning to feel extremely uncomfortable, though he could not say why. He peered again into the forest, heart pounding, looking for the squirrel, scanning the dark surroundings. Something felt wrong, his skin was tingling with it.

“Your majesty,” he mumbled, “I really think we should be heading home…”

“What’s that Sigurd?”

The King began to turn when suddenly the bushes exploded as a dark figure launched itself towards them in a blur of black and the frightening glint of silver.

Sigurd’s ears rang with the whistle of cold steel slicing through the rain as it struck out towards them. His heart thudded, a frightened creature shuddering in the depths of his chest and without thinking he tumbled into the King, awkwardly knocking him out of the path of those terrifying blades.

With are horrifying pressure, then release the blades sliced through Sigurd’s flesh, tearing and grinding against his ribs to skewer the hysterical creature leaving it twitching and jerking.

All around him was the clamour of angry shouts, the singing of swords ripped from their sheaths, guttural words spat in a language he could not understand. And there was pain, a great gushing torrent of it that spattered against his spine and burnt up to his brain. With a sickening slither his attacker dragged the clawed weapon from his chest in a welter of his own blood.

Blurry flashes as Lochan and Cordell’s swords carved through the mist, plunging into the dark figure again and again until he sank to the ground.

Sigurd coughed, blood foaming on his lips and dribbling into his beard. He saw the dark blots dropping to form fat splots on the ground at his feet. With trembling fingers, head spinning he felt the ragged edges of the wound, the meaty flesh ripped open.

“What in the blazes?” Lochan growled, “it’s a woman!”

He knelt just clear of the pooling blood that was gushing from the fatal wounds in her body, a tide that was waning since her heart had ceased to beat. With every spasm of his own, Sigurd felt thick blood oozing out between his clasping fingers.

“What the hell is wrong with her face?!” Cordell exclaimed, peering at the hagged, rotten green of her skin.

Lochan gingerly ran a finger across the dead woman’s cheek, “It’s paint is all, see underneath. She may be pale but she’s human enough. Only human.”

Human. Only human. Sigurd was human. Sigurd was torn, Sigurd was shredded, his blood pouring out of the hole he futiley tried to stop with his slender hands.

He sank to his knees, toppling like a felled tree as everything slowly went black. Beneath him the ground was slick with rain, mingling with the oozing mess that was his blood. Above him the menacing pines peered down their, needled heads bending ominously in the rising wind.

“Lochan! Lochan! Sigurd’s been hurt. Please Lochan! Help him!” Eallair whimpered somewhere far above, where the pine trees were.

“Oh God. Please help him.”

“Hands,” Varda carefully repeated clasping her hands together with a soft clap.

She looked down at the slender, white fingers interlocking perfectly together. She had always been fond of her hands, seeing beauty in their shape and form where she could not find it in her horsey face or her boyish figure. These were functional hands, nimble hands that could design clever patterns, the needle darting furtively through the material, chain stich, tiny crosses, trails of flowers flowing out behind. They were strong hands, hands that could have swung a sword or clasped the reigns as she sat astride had she not been born the weaker sex.

Mara peered at her intently in the half-light of Varda’s room.

“Hand,” she said softly, holding up one pale hand, wiggling the fingers slightly, the hint of a smile on her intense, birdlike face.

With great concentration she clasped her hands together, “Hands. Händer.”

“Clever girl, you’re learning so fast,” Varda sighed.

She felt exhausted today, her body so heavy and uncomfortable that she could barely move. But lying still didn’t do any better, the weight of the baby pressing on her lower back, pushing her organs up against the confines of her ribcage, its foot deftly kicking her swollen bladder. She felt enormous and longed for the freedom of her previously slim figure. She wanted to walk again without swaying pendously, to see her feet which had disappeared from view altogether.

Mara stared at her intently not comprehending the words. Her face was stark white against the coal black of her hair and the dark pools of her sorrowful eyes. After recovering from her ordeal in the waves and a few days of rest Mara had been almost constantly by her side. Frightened of most of the stream of people who had tried to come and stare at her she seemed to take exception to Varda with whom, after the girl overcame her initial fear had becoming a shy but constant companion.

In the following weeks they had taken tentative steps to get to know one another. Though they spoke different languages Mara was quickly picking up words of common while Varda more slowly learned the language of the intense girl. She tried too, to understand the ways of the child who was afraid of being touched and shrunk away from any human contact. In particular she refused to let Varda anyway near her mane of sable hair, squealing and whimpering if she tried to brush it. In the end she had given up, Mara pulling her thick hair messily back, long locks falling over her shoulders to hide her pallid face.

Mara seemed particularly fascinated by Varda’s large belly, her gaze often falling there when there was a lull in their language lessons. During the times of day when her baby was moving she could barely tear her eyes from the sight, though when Varda offered that she place a hand on the belly and feel the baby move she shrank away in fear and disgust.

In many ways she didn’t know what to make of the girl with her dark stare and solemn expression. She had tried to ask her what had happened to her but could not get a response. She couldn’t tell if it was because the child didn’t understand her gestures or if she was reluctant to talk about it. In the first few days she had learned that they could communicate a great deal simply by making symbols and shapes with their hands. Gazing down at her softly clasped hands she was reminded of the shadow doves her nurse would make for her on the wall, their dark wings beating in the flickering light of the candle.

She closed her eyes picturing the nurses chapped red hands, so ugly in the light making such beautiful shadow creatures on the wall. A deep clenching pain suddenly strummed through her lower body, so intense that the breath she sucked in she could only hold for long moments until it abruptly subsided.

She edged off the bed, carefully raising her ponderous body to splash some water from the pitcher on her face.

There had been pain like this before. The throbbing pain as one by one her body emptied itself of her children. But never this bad. Was her body finally rejecting the baby after all despite all Hepsie’s assurances?

But the pain had come and gone so quickly, not the prolonged ache of miscarrying. She cupped some water in her hand drinking deep. She was desperately thirsty. Perhaps she should send for Hepsie just in case. She was shuffling towards the door when the pain came again, a resonating agony that ripped along her spine and rippled through her pelvis. She gasped, doubling over, clasping her belly with her slender hands as though if she held on tight enough she could hold the baby inside her.

As the pain dissipated she opened her eyes to see Mara hovering before her like a frightened bird.

“Varda?” she whispered, her tone questioning, “stoe-mack?”

She pointed to Varda’s heaving belly. In the absence of inspiration in the sterile room many of the words they had learned had been anatomical in nature.

“Yes, yes Mara. Stomach. Stomach hurt,” she made a grimacing face.

Mara darted forward, a nimble sparrow gaining the bravery to steal a few crumbs, and laid her hands on Varda’s belly. Her eyes were wide and frightened and Varda was disconcerted as she looked down at the ghostly hands fluttering over the swell of her abdomen. Even through the thick material and lace Varda could feel the icy chill of those hands.

“Oh!” Mara jumped back as though stung when the baby writhed beneath her hands.

Harsh pain rattled through Varda’s body, her spine on fire like a redhot poker rammed into the depths of her gut. She cried out, gasping as silent tears rolled down her cheeks.

Her dress was damp, a trickle winding its way down the inside of her leg. When she looked down she saw splotches of blood, splattering the floor like ink blots. Mara’s white face stared up at her, her dark eyes panicked.

“Mara. Help me,” she pronounced slowly between gritted teeth as the pain eased, “Go. Get Hepsie. Hepsie.”

The girl hunched her shoulders making her appear even smaller, her black hair slipping over her shoulders to hide her terrified face.

“Help me,” Varda repeated, leaning heavily on the side of the bed, her knees growing weak, “Get Hepsie.”

Without a word Mara flitted away, a silent, ghostly figure rushing out the door and she was gone.

The girl murmured in her sleep, muttering and groaning, sometimes crying out in fright. She threw her slender limbs this way and that as she squirmed away from whatever nightmare chased her through the hallways of her dreams. Her face was pale, so very pale but for the angry red welts which ripped away from her lips as though her face was twisted into the most macabre of elongate grins. Her eyes were sunken into hollow pools that made her face appear hagged and skull like. And yet she was somehow so very beautiful that Varda could not look away. The girl muttered something in her foreign tongue and rolled onto her side.

“What did they do to her Hepsie?” she asked the other woman who had just finished examining the exhausted girl.

Hepsie was lucky she was so soundly asleep, it had not been easy for Varda and Osras to bring the struggling girl inside but once they had she had grown limp and supple and it had not been difficult for Varda to pull her soaking dress from her pallid arms and wrap her in one of Varda’s own nightgowns. When Hepsie had arrived she was already dry and safe, tucked up in Varda’s bed, deeply asleep.

“Well My lady… it doesn’t seem like… like they done anything actually. I mean, they hurt her poor little wrists they did where she was tied, an’ she’s got that nasty graze on her face from the gag. But other than frightening her half to death, she ain’t been harmed. She’s very cold though, I’d put on another blanket.”

“But what about the blood?” Varda murmured.

“Oh, there’s blood alright, but it ain’t nothin’ to worry about. She’s just got her woman’s troubles is all. They ain’t… hurt her in any other way that is to say.”

“So they didn’t rape her?” Varda snarled.

“Hush now, My Lady, she might hear you. No, they ain’t hurt her like that.”

“I don’t think she can understand us Hepsie. I’m so glad they didn’t hurt her badly, but I suppose they meant to. Do you think it was pirates?”

“It would be making sense it would. Poor little mite, brave thing she is too… must have escaped and jumped into the water, swam all the way by herself. But my lady, yew don’t think it’s Faldorn’s men do yew. They haven’t found us have they?”

Hepsie’s eyes grew wide with fear, an unnerving sight to see on a face that was usually so bravely defiant.

“I don’t believe so Hepsie. I think it’s more likely that it was pirates, I can more believe that they would sally forth this far north than Faldorn could find us. We just have to hope the pirates haven’t spotted our settlement. And that they don’t come looking for her.”

“Do you think they will?”

“I don’t know. But if they do the King will bring the full force of his power against them. Don’t worry, we have nothing to fear.”

“But where did she come from, Osras was telling me he ain’t heard nothing like her tongue before… nothing. Do yew think she’s from one of the borderlands. Further than Talmasia?”

“Perhaps, I’ve only met Talmasians but they themselves claim there are other lands, past the endless deserts. How a pirate ship would get hold of a borderlander though, your guess is as good as mine.”

“My Lady, I am done with the girl now, she just needs to be resting fer a good long why. Yew can call me when she wakes up, bur fer now just let her be sleeping. But My Lady, how are yew? How’s that baby of yers? Not suffering any from all this excitement?”

Varda gently rubbed her belly with a soft smile, “No, the baby is fine. Though it’s been kicking a lot with all this running around. But… that’s good… isn’t it?”

“Yes luv,” Hepsie smiled warmly, “that’s very good. Won’t be long now an’ yew an’ yer husband will have a bonny wee baby to play with. Now I’ll be taking my leave of yew. Just let me know if anything happens or send word if she wakes. I’ll be staying on the ship this night.”

“Thank you Hepsie,” she murmured, as Hepsie closed the door behind her with a soft click.

Varda shuffled over to the bed, her swollen feet aching beneath her heavy weight. The girl mumbled in her sleep, and flung her arms over her head, her face wrinkling into a frown.

Poor thing. Varda carefully stroked her thin arms that swam in the material of Varda’s too-large nightgown.

She gently tucked the girl’s trembling arms beneath the covers. Her hand brushed bare skin and she shivered at the chill of the girl’s body. She was as cold as when they had pulled her from the water and no amount of blankets would warm her. And yet Hepsie said she was perfectly fine and she did seem alright, though exhausted.

The girl mumbled softly, her pallid lips barely opening, “Ni ska inte döda mig.”

Varda and Lekha waddled along the beach, their huge bellies swaying pendulously before them, their swollen feet crunching in the icy snow.

It was such a relief for Varda that Hepsie had finally decided she could go outside and get some fresh air. She had deemed that the baby was big enough now that it didn’t matter if it came a few weeks early. Her baby was big enough, her baby was strong enough. She had cried silently when Hepsie left, the accumulation of so many months of fear and worry. Her baby was coming. It was only a matter of time now.

And so she may walk outside again and “air the belly” as Lekha liked to say. Lekha liked to take these walks too, in her country, she had told, a woman didn’t stop walking until the baby came, even when the labour pains hit. Varda had attended enough births to know that it was very different for the women of her race who lay prostrate on the bed, writhing and screaming and falling back on the pillows over and over in exhaustion. Varda wasn’t afraid. She wouldn’t let herself be.

“Goodness me Lekha, it’s a simply beautiful day,” she smiled at her friend, licking her finger to test the direction of the wind.

The chill on the skin of her finger thrilled her, so used was she to stuffy rooms that smelt of sickly sweet breath and underneath it the sharp scent of salt and damp wood.

“A northerly if I’m not mistaken. The gentle breath of Andulas rides in from the north,” she quoted a Ulanbaat poem whose author she had long forgotten.

“Bad, boring weather,” Lekha grumbled with a scowl, “How your people live like this I am understanding not. Bad and grey. Always grey.”

“Oh but Lekha dear, don’t you realise. You have to embrace the grey. It will stay for months whether you like it or not. It makes it so much easier if you decide to like it.”

She threw her head back, opening her mouth to let tiny flakes of snow twirl onto her tongue where they melted in an icy sizzle. The wind on her face was so cold it made her teeth ache but it felt so good, so refreshing. She was more alive than she had ever been, two lives sharing her one body.

“Humpf, I do not want it, to how you say, embracing grey. It is making me happy to hate it. Bad, bad weather. Horrible, cold snow. Give me the hot desert. That is better.”

“Oh, but what is that there Varda?” Varda followed the other woman’s gaze out past the melting ice floes to the churning current between the towering cliffs on either side of the natural harbour.

“What, I don’t see anything Lekha… I don’t…” suddenly Varda saw what had caught her friend’s keen eye.

Out past the breaking waves a tangled black mess floated on the water’s surface like dark weed, bobbing around in the current. Varda squinted her eyes to try and make it out when suddenly the matted, black mass broke the surface, a pale face floundering for a few seconds before it went under again.

“Oh my God! Someone’s out there!”

She reached her shivering hands up to pull off the heavy cloak to dive in and help whoever it was, but on the way up they brushed the giant swell of her belly. She couldn’t go in. She was a strong swimmer but she simply could not risk the life of her unborn child. And how could she swim with a belly this big, she could barely walk.

“What we do… what we do?!” Lekha’s English had deteriorated to a disjointed mess in her panic.

“Call out! Someone must hear… HELP… HELP… SOMEONE HELP!!!”

“Adak! Adak! Adak!… Help!”

A large wave came submerging the struggling figure for so long that Varda held her breath sure they would not reappear. But a small arm broke the surface, then another followed by the dark head. Varda took a deep, gulping breath gazing up to the castle ready to call out again when she saw one of the guards careening across the beach towards them.

“There’s someone in the water!” she cried out and he began to pull off his heavy mail tunic, fumbling with his belt, kicking off his boots.

He stripped off his leggings and sprinted into the water, slipping and skithering over the ice floes. He must have been cutting his feet and legs on the jagged pieces but if so he did not make a sound. He waded in, surrounded by floating chunks of ice, his powerful arms pushing them aside as he dove into the frigid water.

Osras swam out past the breakers, strong arms stroking through the water until he reached the struggling figure. She saw the figure’s arms waving frantically, battering him until he hoisted them out of the water with one arm and held them tight against him.

He began to swim back towards the shore and Varda saw that the drowning person was actually a young girl, her long black hair tangled and wet, her dark eyes wide with fright.

Osras carried her struggling in his arms through the jagged ice floes and onto the beach. She kicked and scratched at him, squealing in fright as he gently lowered her to the ground. She was wearing next to nothing, her slender body clad in a thin robe which clung transparently to her skin so Varda could see the swelling bumps of her tiny breasts and the rounded forms of her thighs.

Varda rushed up to meet them.

“Don’t yew worry now lassy, yer alright now, yer alright,” Osras clucked comfortingly, reaching out towards the girl.

“Nej, nej,” she shrieked, “Rör mig inte!” she swatted Osras’ hand away.

Varda came up beside him, “It’s okay, we’re not going to hurt you. You don’t need to be frightened.

“Snälla, snälla… skada mig inte,” she whimpered, shrinking away from Varda.

Her face was obscenely pale except for two startling red marks either side of her mouth where the skin had been rubbed raw.

“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you,” she backed away trying to reassure the terrified creature.

“She doesn’t seem to speak common,” Osras murmured, “where is she from, I’ve never heard that language before?”

“What do you think happened to her?” Varda asked softly.

“I don’t know, but just look at those red marks on her face and her wrists. Someone’s trussed her up good and simple.”

The girl was gazing at them, her black eyes roving wildly like a caged animal.

“She’s bleeding too…” Varda noticed with shock the spreading stain at the front of her dress where the thin fabric clung between her legs.

“I don’t know what they’ve done to her but we’d better get her inside. And I think yew’d better send for Hepsie,” Osras added.

“It’s okay, you’re safe with us. We won’t hurt you,” Varda murmured reassuringly as she grasped the girl’s arms.

“Nej! Nej! Nej!” she shrieked, squirming and writhing but she was exhausted by her ordeal and Varda’s arms were strong.

“Help me bring her Osras, Lekha… send for Hepsie and then get word to the King. He’ll need to know about this. Don’t worry dear, everything is fine now…”

Valeriya perched unsteadily on the chair they had offered her. She felt tired and weak but at least her head was clear. Everything had been fuzzy and dull for such a long time. The air in the throne room was chill, but it was refreshingly crisp on her sweaty skin. How long had she lain in that room? They had told her it had been nigh on a year. A year. She had gone in there on a snowy morning and it had been long enough for the icy winter to melt, the seasons to march ever onwards, changing the world from white to green to gold. Now everything was white again. She had hazy memories of the colours and she knew she had not been only in the room. There had been trips outside. But all she could remember was the dark brown of the planks of wood, woven together to form a prison for her, a cage.

“Are you alright Valeriya love?” Radomir asked softly, “maybe you shouldn’t be up.”

She gazed at him. The lines of his craggy face were drawn into an expression of concern, his thick brack brows creasing. His hands were reaching out towards her, as though he wished to hold her, clutch at her. She did not know this compassionate face he wore. He had only ever shown her rage and contempt, his lips curled up into a snarl or a sneer, never drooping and trembling like this. She did not know him.

“Please Your Ladyship,” the Duke was saying, “you required an audience with the King. What have you got to tell us?”

“Be gentle with her Lochan,” the man who was her husband was saying, “she has had a tough time.”

She knew what she had to do. She cleared her throat and began, “I have been told by my lady maid of a crime committed against me. I have been told that the man who is supposed to have committed this crime is to be punished for it.”

She glanced over at Radomir, leaning forward on the edge of his chair, his entire body straining towards her, his grey eyes full of sorrow and guilt.

She turned her eyes to the King, “I am here to tell you that there was no crime committed by the Priest.”

“What are you saying Countess?” the Queen asked softly, her eyes wide.

“I am telling you that there was no crime committed. Yes, Father Harndall is the father of my baby. That much is clear to anyone who looks upon her.”

The atmosphere in the hall was like an indrawn breath, holding for long seconds. The lack of oxygen was stifling.

“But it was not without my consent.”

“No,” she heard the man, her husband’s sharp intake of breath.

She dared to peek up at him. She wished she hadn’t. For some reason she had not imagined this, the look of utter betrayal on his face. His teeth were firmly champed around his bottom lip and she could see the beginning of a trickle of blood there, so hard were they biting down. This was a face she knew. She had seen it once before but only after he had beaten his child out of her with his meaty fists.

“Valeriya, you didn’t… did you?” it was a whispered plea, a final denial.

She had to be strong. For him. For the Priest.

“I did. The crime committed was mine and it was the crime of adultery”.

He stumbled out of his chair, staggering towards her. His hands were outstretched, fumbling like a blind man. He collided with her, his heavy body knocking into her unsteady one, so that she had to spread her feet wide to stop from falling.

“Valeriya no, it isn’t true,” he sobbed, his brawny hand finding her waist where it lay heavy and unpleasantly warm.

He pressed his face against her neck and she felt the sudden warmth of wet tears on her cool skin. His breath was hot and rapid, the pant of a hungry dog the heat of it sticking the feathers of her collar down against her flesh.

His heard jerked up and he pulled her towards him, towards his hulking body. The strong metallic smell of his sweat was in her nostrils, the heady warmth of his body making her dizzy. She froze, terrified by his proximity. He tried to look her in the eyes but she would not meet his, could not meet them.

“Don’t you love me?” he murmured pitifully.

She did not answer him.

“Of course you do, of course you do silly,” he pulled her roughly towards him, so that the entire length of his sweltering body was pressed against hers. Her large breasts were crushed uncomfortably between them as he held her tightly to his muscular chest. Her heart was thrumming like a panicked bird as his crude hands squeezed her fragile body.

She felt dizzy, trying to gulp in air that was slowly being expressed from her lungs. With every breath out he would only hold her tighter so that when she gasped again there was no more space to fill. She felt her slender bones creaking with the force of his embrace. Her body hung weightless in his arms like a sparrow soaring high above the ground, gliding motionless in an updraft.

She beat feebly at him with her flapping hands but he only held on tighter. The room was starting to waver again, darkness pressing in on her from all sides, the sounds growing dull with the roaring in her ears. She didn’t want to go, to descend into that nothingness again and a guttural cry rent from her silken throat.

“Let her go Radomir,” she heard the faint sound of men’s voices and there was an unpleasant tugging sensation on her arms.

“Christ Radomir! Your hurting her. Get off her.”

Suddenly she was ripped from his grasp, floundering in the frigid air, gasping for breath. She felt herself tumbling towards the ground, careening through the air but before she could fall a pair of strong arms caught her. She dragged heavily on them, her knees collapsing from under her but they did not release her. She was not frightened because the arms held her gently but firmly so she knew she would not fall.

She heard a ragged sobbing, and she turned feebly to see her husband struggling in Sir Arwaduhn’s strong grip.

“Enough of this, all of you,” the King intoned, “it seems that the need for this trial has disappeared. The Priest has committed no crime, except that against the church which will need to be assessed. Mistress Ylder, I think you should take the Countess back to her chamber and make sure she is not injured.”

“Sir Arwaduhn, will you be sure the Earl does not follow her. I do not want you to see her for a time Radomir. And you are to stay away from the Priest. If I hear of anything different you will have to face my wrath. I am sorry for you Radomir. But for now it is for the best.”

Her husband was hunched over and gave no indication that he had heard.

“That is all. You may go.”

“Could I please have some silence,” Eallair asked, his voice barely audible above the low murmur of conversation that filled the echoing throne room. Now that outdoor building had ceased for the winter, Madlenka decided it was about time they set to paneling the hall. She knew a few men that would be up to the task.

Madlenka longed to interject, to call out in her loud, clear voice for some order. To demand the subjects show some respect for their King. But in doing so, they would only respect Eallair less. She remained silent, her fists clenched against the soft material spread across her lap.

Eallair continued resolutely, despite the fragmented ends of conversations drifting around the room.

“We are here to discuss the unfortunate matter of the Earl’s wife. I have gathered you all here because I want you to listen to the evidence that Lochan has gathered with regard to the matter. My decision will be final but I will take into account any opinions that are ventured forth here today.”

They had gone over this little speech together this morning, her head cradled in the warm nook of his shoulder, listening to him sleepily recite the sentences they had agreed on. She was glad to hear he neither stumbled nor stuttered over the words. He sounded like a man in control of his Kingdom.

“Discuss… discuss. What is there to discuss,” Radomir barked across the echoing hall, half rising from his chair, “The man raped my wife. He should be executed.”

“Radomir,” Cindra piped in softly, her voice soothing, “We must go about this in the proper way. Shouldn’t we hear the evidence first and let the King make a decision. If he is found guilty then I am sure His Majesty will decided on a just sentence.”

But Radomir was in no state to be soothed. Mostly people had spent the last week trying to stay out of his way, but there was the unfortunate servant who ended up with a swift cuff on the ear for no more indiscretion than getting in the way. Madlenka understood that he must be there, it would have been cruel to leave him out but she despaired at the idea of the King reaching a descision while he was berated and bullied by the Earl.

“A just sentence… there can be no just sentence but death for what he did. He has no right to lay a hand on another man’s wife. No right. Creeping in and taking her while she was ill. Filthy bastard.”

Lochan interjected, “Radomir, I must remind you that it was not so long ago we sat here deliberating over what your punishment she be after you drove your fist into the face of another man’s wife. Would you please be silent and allow this discussion to proceed.”

Radomir grimaced briefly as he glanced over at Sigurd and nodded briskly.

Madlenka glanced over at her husband noting his lost expression. She would have to prod him a little.

“So it seems to me that we have two issues to deal with. First, did Father Harndall actually commit this crime, what is the evidence? What is the proof? Second, if so, what should his punishment be. Your Majesty, I would like to suggest that we hear the evidence The Duke has gathered on the matter so that you can make your descision.”

Subtly, she passed the command over to him. She had prompted him and knew full well he would seize on her words and continue the line of reasoning like an actor, his prompt muttered from the wings.

“Yes indeed, Your Lordship, would you be so kind as to outline the conversations you have conducted in the previous days.”

“Of course Your Majesty. To begin with I would like to say that I do not think it is enough to condemn a man based solely on the appearance of a baby. We all know that babies look different when they are newly born, their eye colour and hair colour can change drastically. So I would like, first of all, to ask for us to be reasonable, and put the child‘s looks aside and look at the cold, hard facts.”

“First, I have a statement from Mistress Ylder, The Countess’ lady maid stating that she did not allow any men to enter the room during the specified time other than the Earl. More concerning is the statement from Lady Inbar which reveals that she did in fact allow the Priest into the room with the Countess for the period of one hour in order that he might pray by her bedside.”

“She what,” Radomir roared, half-rising in his chair “How dare she. That meddling bitch. Against my expressed wishes she let that man into the room.”

“Don’t you dare speak about my wife in that way you monster,” Sigurd was already rising from his seat, his face twisted in anger, “You have no right.”

“Silence,” barked the Duke, “Sit yourself back down Sir Inbar, I won’t allow your wife to come to any harm. And you, Your Lordship. Don’t you dare speak of Lady Inbar in that way. And if you so much as look at her funny I will have your hide. Do you hear me?”

Madlenka’s eyes slid over to Eallair, who was sitting there looking sheepish. She longed to reach his hand over and give it a reassuring squeeze but there was no way she could. She didn’t know how much longer she and the Duke could keep up this dance of covering over Eallair’s insufficiency as a ruler. She had hoped for so long that he would step up and take charge with a little encouragement, but lately he seemed to be folding in on himself. It was a desperate circumstance when the people had no one else to turn to.

“Now, as I was saying. I have also spoken to the Priest and…”

There was a hollow knock on the huge, iron doors. The King’s steward hurried over dragging them open. There standing in the rectangle of light was the Countess, her face as pale as the glimpse of snow behind her.

“The Countess of Moraghdu,” Garald solemnly intoned.