Beside them, with arms folded, Yarvi smiled.
In spite of all the prayers to Mother War, it seemed Father Peace made the judgment that day.
IN THE LIGHT
Brand gave the billet a few more ringing blows with his hammer then shoved it back into the coals in a shower of sparks.
Rin gave a disgusted click of her tongue. “You’ve not got what they call a gentle touch, have you?”
“That’s what you’re here for.” Brand grinned at her. “Got to make you feel special, don’t I?”
But she was looking past him, toward the door. “You’ve a visitor.”
“Father Yarvi, what an honor.” Brand set down his hammer and wiped his forehead on his forearm. “Come to buy a blade?”
“A minister should stand for Father Peace,” said Yarvi as he stepped into the forge.
“A good one stays friendly with Mother War too,” said Rin.
“Wise words. And now more than ever.”
Brand swallowed. “It’s going to be war, then?”
“The High King will take time gathering his warriors. But I think it will be war. Still. War is a fine thing for a swordsmith’s business.”
Rin raised her brows at Brand. “We’d settle for a poorer peace, I reckon. I hear King Uthil’s on the mend, at least.”
“His strength rushes back,” said Yarvi. “Soon he will be terrorizing his warriors once again at sword practice, and using your fine steel to do it.”
“Father Peace be praised,” said Rin.
“Father Peace and your skills,” said Brand.
Yarvi humbly bowed. “I do what I can. And how do the gods treat you, Brand?”
“Well enough.” He nodded at his sister. “If it wasn’t for my tyrant of a master I’d be enjoying the job. Turns out I like working with metal a lot more than I remembered.”
“Easier than working with people.”
“Steel is honest,” said Brand.
Father Yarvi looked sideways at him. “Is there somewhere we can speak alone?”
Brand looked over at Rin, already pounding at the bellows. She shrugged. “Steel is patient too.”
“You’re not, though.”
“Go have your talk.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Before I change my mind.”
Brand pulled his gloves off and led Yarvi out into the little yard, noisy with the sound of running water. He sat on the bench Koll had carved for them in the dappled shade of the tree, breeze cool on his sweat-sheened face, and offered Father Yarvi the place beside him.
“A pleasant spot.” The minister smiled up at Mother Sun, flashing and flickering through the leaves. “It’s a fine life you and your sister have made for yourselves.”
“She made it. I just happened along.”
“You’ve always played your part. I remember you taking the weight of the South Wind across your shoulders.” Yarvi looked down at the scars snaking up Brand’s forearms. “There was a feat to sing of.”
“I find I care less for songs than I used to.”
“You are learning. How is Thorn?”
“Already back to training three-quarters of every day.”
“She is carved from wood, that one.”
“No woman firmer touched by Mother War.”
“And yet she has been the needle that stitched two great alliances together. Perhaps she was touched by Father Peace too.”
“Don’t tell her that.”
“The two of you are still … together?”
“Aye.” Brand had a sense the minister knew these answers, but that every question had another hidden in it. “You could call it that.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“I suppose so,” he said, thinking of the screaming argument they’d had that morning.
“It’s not good?”
“It’s good,” he said, thinking of how they’d made up afterward. “It’s just … I always thought of being together as the end of the work. Turns out it’s where the work starts.”
“No road worth traveling is easy,” said Father Yarvi. “Each of you has strengths the other lacks, weaknesses the other makes up for. It is a fine thing, a rare thing, to find someone who …” He frowned up at the shifting branches, as though he thought of something far away, and the thought was painful. “Makes you whole.”
Took a little while for Brand to gather the courage to speak. “I’ve been thinking about melting down that coin Prince Varoslaf gave me.”
“To make a key?”
Brand pushed a couple of fallen leaves around with the side of his boot. “Probably she’d prefer a dagger but … a key’s traditional. What do you think Queen Laithlin would think of it?”
“The queen has had three sons and no daughters. I think she is becoming very much attached to her Chosen Shield. But I’m sure she could be persuaded.”
Brand gave those leaves another push. “No doubt folk think I’m the one should wear the key. I’m none too popular in Thorlby.”
“The king’s warriors are not all admirers of yours, it is true. Master Hunnan in particular. But I have heard it said enemies are the price of success. Perhaps they are the price of conviction too.”
“The price of cowardice, maybe.”
“Only a fool would reckon you a coward, Brand. To stand up before the warriors of Gettland and speak as you did?” Father Yarvi put his lips together and gave a faint whistle. “People may sing no hero’s songs of it, but that was rare courage.”
“You think so?”
“I do, and courage is not your only admirable quality.”
Brand hardly knew what to say to that, so he said nothing.
“Did you know Rulf melted down his earnings from our voyage and made a key of his own?”
“For who?”
“Thorn’s mother. They are being married in the Godshall next week.”
Brand blinked. “Oh.”
“Rulf is getting old. He would never say so, but he is keen to step back.” Yarvi looked sideways. “I think you would do well in his place.”
Brand blinked again. “Me?”
“I told you once that I might need a man beside me who thinks of doing good. I think so more than ever.”
“Oh.” Brand couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“You could join Safrit, and Koll, and be part of my little family.” Every word Father Yarvi let drop was carefully weighed out and these did not fall by accident. He knew just what to offer. “You would be close to me. Close to the queen. Close to the queen’s Chosen Shield. The helmsman of a minister’s ship.” He remembered that day on the steering platform, the crew thumping at their oars, the sunlight bright on the water of the Denied. “You would stand at the right hand of the man who stands at the right hand of the king.”
Brand paused, rubbing at his fingertips with his thumbs. No doubt he should’ve leapt at the chance. A man like him couldn’t expect too many like it. Yet something held him back. “You’re a deep-cunning man, Father Yarvi, and I’m not known for my wits.”
“You could be, if you used them. But it’s your strong arm and your strong heart I want you for.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“You can ask. But make sure you want the answer.”
“How long had you planned for Thorn to fight a duel with Grom-gil-Gorm?”
Yarvi narrowed his pale eyes a little. “A minister must deal in likelihoods, in chances, in possibilities. That one occurred to me long ago.”
“When I came to you in the Godshall?”
“I told you then the good thing is a different thing for every man. I considered the possibility that a woman who could use a sword might one day find a way to challenge Gorm. Great and storied warrior that he is, he would not be able to turn down a woman’s challenge. And yet he would fear one. More than any man.”
“You believe that prophecy?”
“I believe that he believes it.”
“That was why you had Skifr train her.”
“
One reason. The Empress Theofora loved rare things, and also loved to watch blood spilled, and I thought a fighting girl from the far north might excite her curiosity long enough for me to speak to her, and present my gift. Death ushered Theofora through the Last Door before I got the chance.” Yarvi gave a sigh. “A good minister strives to look ahead, but the future is a land wrapped in fog. Events do not always flow down the channel you dig for them.”
“Like your deal with Mother Scaer.”
“Another hope. Another gamble.” Father Yarvi sat back against the trunk of the tree. “I needed an alliance with the Vanstermen, but Mother Isriun spoiled that notion. She gave the challenge, though, and a duel was better than a battle.” He spoke calmly, coldly, as though he spoke of pieces on a board rather than people he knew.
Brand’s mouth felt very dry. “If Thorn had died, what then?”
“Then we would have sung sad songs over her howe, and happy songs over her high deeds.” Yarvi’s were the eyes of a butcher who looks at livestock, judging where the profit is. “But we and the Vanstermen would not have wasted our strength fighting each other. Queen Laithlin and I would have prostrated ourselves at the feet of Grandmother Wexen and made golden apologies. King Uthil would have recovered, free of dishonor. In time we might have thrown the dice again.”
Something in Father Yarvi’s words niggled at Brand, like a hook in his head, tickling, tickling. “We all thought King Uthil was at the Last Door. How could you be sure he’d recover?”
Yarvi paused for a moment, his mouth half-open, then carefully shut it. He looked toward the doorway, the clanging of Rin’s hammer echoing from beyond, and back to Brand. “I think you are a more cunning man than you pretend.”
Brand had a feeling he stood on spring ice, cracks spreading beneath his boots, but there was no going back, only forward. “If I’m to stand at your shoulder I should know the truth.”
“I told you once that the truth is like the good thing, each man has his own. My truth is that King Uthil is a man of iron, and iron is strong, and holds a fine edge. But iron can be brittle. And sometimes we must bend.”
“He would never have made peace with the Vanstermen.”
“And we had to make peace with the Vanstermen. Without them we stand alone against half the world.”
Brand slowly nodded, seeing the pieces of it slide into place. “Uthil would have accepted Gorm’s duel.”
“He would have fought Gorm in the square, for he is proud, and he would have lost, for each year leaves him weaker. I must protect my king from harm. For his good, and the good of the land. We needed allies. We went seeking allies. I found allies.”
Brand thought of the minister bent over the fire, throwing dried leaves into the brew. “You poisoned him. Your own uncle.”
“I have no uncle, Brand. I gave my family up when I joined the Ministry.” Yarvi’s voice held no guilt. No doubt. No regret. “Sometimes great rights must be stitched from little wrongs. A minister does not have the luxury of doing what is simply good. A minister must weigh the greater good. A minister must choose the lesser evil.”
“Power means having one shoulder always in the shadows,” muttered Brand.
“It does. It must.”
“I understand. I don’t doubt you, but …”
Father Yarvi blinked, and Brand wondered whether he’d ever seen him look surprised before. “You refuse me?”
“My mother told me to stand in the light.”
They sat there for a moment, looking at one another, then Father Yarvi slowly began to smile. “I admire you for it, I truly do.” He stood up, laying his good hand on Brand’s shoulder. “But when Mother War spreads her wings, she may cast the whole Shattered Sea into darkness.”
“I hope not,” said Brand.
“Well.” Father Yarvi turned away. “You know how it goes, with hopes.” And he walked into the house, and left Brand sitting in the shade of the tree, wondering, as ever, if he’d done a good thing or a bad.
“A little help here!” came his sister’s voice.
Brand started up. “On my way!”
A STORM COMING
Thorn strode across the sand with her stool on her shoulder. The tide was far out and the wind blew hard over the flats, tattered clouds chasing each other across a bruised sky.
They were packed in tight about the training square, the shouts turning to grunts as she pushed through the warriors, the grunts to silence as she set her stool next to the spear that marked one corner. Even the two lads who were meant to be sparring came to an uncertain halt, staring at her as she stepped over her stool and planted her arse on it.
Master Hunnan frowned over. “I see the queen’s Chosen Shield is among us.”
Thorn held up one hand. “Don’t worry, you needn’t all applaud.”
“The training square is for warriors of Gettland, and for those who would be warriors.”
“Aye, but there’s probably some half-decent fighters down here even so. Don’t let me stop you.”
“You won’t,” snapped Hunnan. “Heirod, you’re next.” It was a great big lad that stood, pink blotches on his fat cheeks. “And you, Edni.” She was maybe twelve years old, and a skinny scrap, but she sprang up bravely enough, her chin thrust out as she took her mark, even though the shield was way too big for her and wobbled in her hand.
“Begin!”
There was no art to it at all. The boy went charging in, puffing like a bull, shrugged Edni’s sword off his thick shoulder, barrelled into her and sent her sprawling, the shield coming off her arm and rolling away on its edge.
The boy looked at Hunnan, waiting for him to call the bout, but the master-at-arms only stared back. Heirod swallowed, and stepped forward, and gave Edni a couple of reluctant kicks before Hunnan raised his hand for a halt.
Thorn watched the girl clamber up, wiping blood from under her nose, clinging tight to her brave face, and thought of all the beatings she’d taken in this square. Thought of all the kicks and the scorn and the sand she’d eaten. Thought of that last day, and Edwal with her wooden sword through his neck. No doubt nudging her memory had been what Master Hunnan had in mind.
He gave a rare, thin little smile. “What did you think of that?”
“I think the boy’s a clumsy thug.” She pressed her thumb on one side of her nose and blew snot onto the sand. “But it’s not his fault. He learned from one, and so did she. The one who got shamed in that bout was their teacher.”
A muttering went through the warriors, and Hunnan’s smile sprang back into a frown. “If you think you know better, why don’t you give a lesson?”
“That’s why I’m here, Master Hunnan. I’ve nothing to learn from you, after all.” She pointed to Edni. “I’ll take her,” Then she pointed out an older girl, big and solemn. “And her.” And then another with pale, pale eyes. “And her. I’ll give them a lesson. I’ll give them one a day, and in a month we’ll come back, and we’ll see what we’ll see.”
“You can’t just come here and take my pupils where you please!”
“Yet here I am, and with King Uthil’s blessing.”
Hunnan licked his lips, wrong-footed, but he soon rallied, and fixed on attack. “Hild Bathu,” his lip curled with disgust. “You failed your test in this square. You failed to become a warrior. You lost to the Breaker of Swords—”
“I lost to Gorm, true.” Thorn rubbed at one scarred cheek as she grinned up at him. “But he never broke my sword.” She stood, one hand slack on the pommel. “And you’re not Gorm.” She stepped across the sand toward him. “Reckon you’re better than me?” And she stepped so close she almost planted her boots on his. “Fight me.” She leaned in, so their noses were near touching, and hissed it over and over. “Fight me. Fight me. Fight me. Fight me. Fight me. Fight me. Fight me.”
Hunnan flinched each time she said it, but he kept his silence.
“Good choice,” she said. “I’d snap you like an old twig.”
She shouldered past him, cal
ling out to the rest of the warriors. “Maybe you’re thinking that wasn’t fair. The battlefield isn’t fair, but I’ll grant you old Hunnan’s a few years past his best. So anyone thinks he can fill Gorm’s boots, I’ll fight him. I’ll fight any of you.” She swaggered in a circle, taking in each side of the square, staring the warriors in their eyes one after another.
Silence. Only the wind sighing across the beach.
“No one?” She snorted. “Look at you, sulking because you didn’t get a battle. There’ll be more battle than you know what to do with soon enough. I hear the High King gathers his warriors. Lowlanders, and Islanders, and Inglings. Thousands of them. There’s a storm coming, and Gettland will need every man. Every man and every woman. You three, come with me. We’ll be back in a month.” She lifted her arm to point at Hunnan. “And your boys better be ready.”
Thorn swung the stool up onto her shoulder and stalked from the square, off across the sand toward Thorlby. She didn’t look back.
But she heard the footsteps of the girls behind her.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, four people without whom:
Bren Abercrombie, whose eyes are sore from reading it.
Nick Abercrombie, whose ears are sore from hearing about it.
Rob Abercrombie, whose fingers are sore from turning the pages.
Lou Abercrombie, whose arms are sore from holding me up.
Then, because no man is an island, especially this one, my heartfelt thanks:
For planting the seed of this idea: Nick Lake.
For making sure the sprout grew to a tree: Robert Kirby.
For making sure the tree bore golden fruit: Jane Johnson.
Then, because the fruit metaphor has run its course, all those who’ve helped make, market, publish, publicize, illustrate, translate and above all sell my books wherever they may be around the world but, in particular: Natasha Bardon, Emma Coode, Ben North, Jaime Frost, Tricia Narwani, Jonathan Lyons, and Ginger Clark.
To the artists and designers somehow rising to the impossible challenge of making me look classy: Nicolette and Terence Caven, Mike Bryan and Dominic Forbes.
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