Half the World (Shattered Sea #2)(18)

“I have suffered many indignities on behalf of Father Peace.” The flush had spread to King Fynn’s cheeks. “Once the High King was the first among brothers. Now he gives a father’s commands. How men should fight. How women should trade. How all should pray. Temples to the One God spring up across Throvenland like mushrooms after the rains, and I have held my tongue!”

“You were wise to do so,” said Mother Kyre, “and would be wise to—”

“Now Grandmother Wexen sends assassins to my land?”

“My king, we have no proof at all—”

Fynn bellowed over his minister, doughy face heating from pink to blazing crimson. “To my very house? To poison my guests?” He stabbed at the corpse with one sausage of a finger. “Beneath my own roof and under my protection?”

“I would counsel caution—”

“You always do, Mother Kyre, but there is a limit on my forbearance, and the High King has stepped over it!” With face now fully purple he seized Father Yarvi’s good hand. “Tell my beloved niece Queen Laithlin and her honored husband that they have a friend in me. A friend whatever the costs! I swear it!”

Mother Kyre had no smile ready for this moment, but Father Yarvi certainly did. “Your friendship is all they ask for.” And he lifted King Fynn’s hand high.

The guards cheered this unexpected alliance between Throvenland and Gettland with some surprise, the South Wind’s crew with great relief, and Thorn Bathu should no doubt have applauded loudest of all. Killing a man by accident had made her a villain. Killing another on purpose had made her a hero.

But all she could do was frown at the body as they dragged it out, and feel there was something very odd in all this.





LOST AND FOUND


Brand was proper drunk.

He often had been, lately.

Lifting on the docks was the best work he could find, and a day of that was thirsty work indeed. So he’d started drinking, and found he’d a real gift for it. Seemed he’d inherited something from his father after all.

The raid had been a mighty success. The Islanders were so sure the High King’s favor would protect them they were taken unawares, half their ships captured and half the rest burned. Brand had watched the warriors of Gettland swagger up through the twisting streets of Thorlby when they landed, laden with booty and covered in glory and cheered from every window. He heard Rauk took two slaves, and Sordaf got himself a silver arm-ring. He heard Uthil dragged old King Styr naked from his hall, made him kneel and swear a sun-oath and a moon-oath never to draw a blade against another Gettlander.

All heroes’ news, like something from the songs, but there’s nothing like others’ successes to make your own failures sting the worse.

Brand walked the crooked walk down some alley or other, between some houses or other, and shouted at the stars. Someone shouted back. Maybe the stars, maybe from a window. He didn’t care. He didn’t know where he was going. Didn’t seem to matter anymore.

He was lost.

“I’m worried,” Rin had said.

“Try having all your dreams stolen,” he’d spat at her.

What could she say to that?

He tried to give her the dagger back. “I don’t need it and I don’t deserve it.”

“I made it for you,” she’d said. “I’m proud of you whatever.” Nothing made her cry but she had tears in her eyes then, and they hurt worse than any beating he’d ever taken and he’d taken plenty.

So he asked Fridlif to fill his cup again. And again. And again. And Fridlif shook her gray head to see a young life wasted and all, but it was hardly the first time. Filling cups was what she did.

At least when he was drunk Brand could pretend other people were to blame. Hunnan, Thorn, Rauk, Father Yarvi, the gods, the stars above, the stones under his feet. Sober, he got to thinking he’d brought this on himself.

He blundered into a wall in the darkness and it spun him about, the anger flared up hot and he roared, “I did good!” He threw a punch at the wall and missed, which was lucky, and fell in the gutter, which wasn’t.

Then he was sick on his hands.

“Are you Brand?”

“I was,” he said, rocking back on his knees and seeing the outline of a man, or maybe two.

“The same Brand who trained with Thorn Bathu?”

He snorted at that, but his snorting tasted of sick and nearly made him spew again. “Sadly.”

“Then this is for you.”

Cold water slapped him in the face and he spluttered on it, tried to scramble up and slipped over in the gutter. An empty bucket skittered away across the cobbles. Brand scraped the wet hair out of his eyes, saw a strip of lamplight across an old face, creased and lined, scarred and bearded.

“I should hit you for that, you old bastard,” he said, but getting up hardly seemed worth the effort.

“But then I’d hit you back, and a broken face won’t mend your troubles. I know. I’ve tried it.” The old man put hands on knees and leaned down close. “Thorn said you were the best she used to train with. You don’t look like the best of anything to me, boy.”

“Time hasn’t been kind.”

“Time never is. A fighter keeps fighting even so. Thought you were a fighter?”