I laugh, reaching for a practice sword and we begin a series of drills, warming up our muscles with blocks, thrusts and jabs. Agnes wanders in, reaching for her own practice sword, and copies the series of steps, and then Merryam and Pearl join us. I notice a few women and girls gathered in the doorway, watching us. Agnes beckons to them, but they shy away. I wonder if this is too much, too soon, after the events of that night on Rosevear, if the trauma of that night is still too raw, if I’m expecting too much of them.
But then Grier, a girl who is now one of the seven on Rosevear, strides from the doorway, determination in her features as she grabs a practice sword from the rack. She watches Agnes closely, mimicking her footwork. She stumbles a couple of times, but keeps trying. And Caden pretends not to notice her presence, focusing on my footwork, my jabs and thrusts, but I notice theslight flush in his cheeks, the smile ghosting on his lips that he can’t shift. Hewantsto train them. He wants us all to be strong.
A lump forms in my throat as the first woman steps forward, reaching for a practice sword and moving to the edge of the courtyard. Then more join us, gradually at first, until, an hour later, we’re a full courtyard of women and girls. Some from Ennor, many from Rosevear and Penrith, all prepared to fight for our isles, our home. I blink quickly, willing tears of pride not to leak from my eyes as I move through the steps, staring straight ahead. One of the women of Penrith begins a work song – she starts the words and we repeat them in a call back to her. My chest tightens as I sing with everyone, our voices steady and sure, just as they are when we mend the nets on Rosevear, when we clean a catch, when we rake over the slender fields.
Caden wanders among us all as we train, fifty or so of us: fisherfolk, bakers, farmers, mothers, daughters. He occasionally adjusts someone’s stance, corrects a move, or footwork, sowing encouragement among us. And under the spring sun we prepare the only way we know how, with a song in our throats and a will in our hearts.
This is who we are. Survivors. A people that faces every disaster head on and gets back up to begin again. I catch the eye of a woman from Rosevear, the mother who had the cottage next to my father’s. The woman whose child we rescued that terrible night when the watch first torched our homes. She winks at me and Ifeel the tears spill over, tracking down my cheeks. I’ve never felt so fiercely proud of my people, so sure of my place in this world as one of them. There’s an ache in my chest, my fractured heart mending.
I may be siren, I may be my mother’s daughter, but I’m also my father’s.
I’m a daughter of Rosevear.
Eli waits for me in the kitchen at lunchtime, arms crossed, leaning against the wall as Amma chats to him. She’s a flitting bird, first at the hearth, then the larder, then at the table, and I barely catch her movements between blinks.
‘Are you up for a little spying, Mira?’
I grin at him, reach up and press my lips to his. Sparks warm my veins as he brushes a stray thread of hair behind my left ear, and that small gesture fills me with sunlight.
‘What did you have in mind?’
‘A trip to the mainland,’ he says, leaning in closer so I can see the flecks of starlight in his eyes. I want nothing more than to kiss him properly, to align my body with his and feel his arms round me, but then more people pile in, laughing and talking, and I clear my throat, hiding the flare of colour in my cheeks.
‘You want to know what they’re up to, don’t you?’
He shrugs. ‘Since you escaped the Trials, there’s been nothing. No sign of the watch, no retribution. I know they’re gathering their forces, but Joby and Mer havefound no vessels in the water surrounding Ennor. And unless you have sensed something in the sea …’
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘It’s eerily quiet.’
He nods, as though that’s made his decision. ‘We’ll leave at dawn for Port Graine.’
brielle presses her lips together,taking in the three witches, the fletch of their arrows, the wyvern hide of their boots and vests, and the way the other patrons regard them, their eyes shining with nothing but respect. And she makes an educated guess. ‘You know who I am.’
‘Brielle Tresillian of Coven Septern.’ The words are a guttural snarl from the witch on the left. ‘One of the covens that works with your ruling council.’
Brielle’s shoulders drop almost imperceptibly. ‘IamBrielle Tresillian. I am hunter, witch, but not of that coven. The first time I was here, I defeated a horde of wyvern. Killed them for murdering my mother for sport, further up north. The last time was ridding frost sprites from a village, where a child had been taken. I found the child and reunited him with his family. This is Dreska and Inesh. Tell them what coven you belong to, witches.’
‘Coven Ennor,’ Dreska says, and Brielle glances over to see her chin raised, staring down these three fierce witches of the Spines like she could take themall. Brielle’s heart swells with fierce pride. ‘Brielle and Lowri Tresillian’s coven.’
The witch in the middle blinks, then says a word that Brielle doesn’t catch. The three of them lower their bows, but do not put away their arrows. ‘And you plan to hunt here?’
‘I’m looking for a woman who my friend, Mira Boscawen, made an alliance with in the Trials. Who made her a promise of aid, if it was sought. She goes by the name of Fey, a drake rider.’
The witch on the right smiles, the ice in her eyes melting into a soothing blue. ‘We know Fey. And we have heard tales of your friend Mira, girl of the islands. Storm bringer and siren. Defier of the ruling council.’
Brielle loosens a taut breath. ‘That is she.’
The witch on the right smiles then, finally, they put away their arrows, their bows, and the witch in the middle calls the barkeep over. ‘Three chillvain brews, if you will. My friends here have had a long journey.’
The patrons around them turn back to their gossip and their drinks as Brielle steps forward to a table the witches commandeer by the fireside. Inesh and Dreska stay huddled in their travel cloaks, not yet thawed from the voyage. But Brielle tips her chin, throws back her cloak and eyes the nearest witch. ‘And what of your coven? You hunt wyvern too?’
‘As you see,’ the witch says, propping her booted feet up on the fire grate. ‘We all ride drakes too. Fey is one of our hunters.’
Brielle raises her eyebrows. ‘So she’s witch? You sent a witch as your champion in the Trials?’
‘There’s no rule against it. Fey didn’t use her magic in the Trials. She was careful. Discreet,’ the witch says, as the barkeep hurries over with a tray of steaming mugs. ‘Thank you. Creatures will only allow creatures to ride them. Never a human. If you were from the Spines, you’d know that. Soturi was not witch … but he did have witch blood in his veins, through his mother, a fearsome hunter in her time. Enough that his drake bonded with and claimed him.’
‘Huh,’ Brielle says. If Mira’s account of their arrival is anything to go by, the contenders from the Spines made it pretty obvious.‘And I suppose if any of the territories on the continent were paying attention to more than their own squabbles over trade routes and profit, they would have known that too.’
