Half the World (Shattered Sea #2)(81)

“I’ll miss all of you.” Brand looked toward Thorlby, the way that Thorn had gone, and had to swallow the lump in his throat. To walk off with scarcely a word that way, as if he was nothing and nobody. That hurt.

“Don’t worry.” Safrit put her hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “There are plenty of other girls about.”

“Not many like her.”

“That’s a bad thing?” asked Mother Scaer. “I know of a dozen back in Vulsgard who’d tear each other’s eyes out for a lad like you.”

“That’s a good thing?” asked Brand. “On balance, I’d prefer a wife with eyes.”

Mother Scaer narrowed hers, which made him more nervous still. “That’s why you pick the winner.”

“Always sensible,” said Father Yarvi. “It is time you left us, Mother Scaer.” He frowned toward the warriors standing at the city’s gate. “Vanstermen are less popular even than usual in Thorlby, I think.”

She growled in her throat. “The Mother of Crows dances on the border once again.”

“Then it is our task as ministers to speak for the Father of Doves, and make of the fist an open hand.”

“This alliance you plan.” Scaer scrubbed unhappily at her shaved head. “To sponge away a thousand years of blood is no small deed.”

“But one that will be worth singing of.”

“Men prefer to sing of the making of wounds, fools that they are.” Her eyes were blue slits as she stared into Yarvi’s. “And I fear you stitch one wound so you can carve a deeper. But I gave my word, and will do what I can.”

“What else can any of us do?” The elf-bangles rattled on Mother Scaer’s long arm as Yarvi clasped her hand in farewell. Then his eyes moved to Brand, cool and level. “My thanks for all your help, Brand.”

“Just doing what you paid me for.”

“More than that, I think.”

“Just trying to do good, then, maybe.”

“The time may come when I need a man who is not so concerned about the greater good, but just the good. Perhaps I can call on you?”

“It’d be my honor, Father Yarvi. I owe you for this. For giving me a place.”

“No, Brand, I owe you.” The minister smiled. “And I hope soon enough to pay.”

BRAND HEADED ACROSS THE hillside, threading between the tents and shacks and ill-made hovels sprouted up outside the gates like mushrooms after the rains. Many more than there used to be. There was war with the Vanstermen, and folk had fled homes near the border to huddle against Thorlby’s walls.

Lamplight gleamed through chinks in wattle, voices drifting into the evening, a fragment of a sad song echoing from somewhere. He passed a great bonfire, pinched faces of the very old and very young lit by whirling sparks. The air smelled strong of smoke and dung and unwashed bodies. The sour stink of his childhood, but it smelled sweet to him then. He knew this wouldn’t be his home much longer.

As he walked he felt the pouch shifting underneath his shirt. Heavy it was, now. Red gold from Prince Varoslaf and yellow gold from the Empress Vialine and good silver with the face of Queen Laithlin stamped upon it. Enough for a fine house in the shadow of the citadel. Enough that Rin would never want for anything again. He was smiling as he shoved the door of their shack rattling open.

“Rin, I’m—”

He found himself staring at a clutch of strangers. A man, a woman, and how many children? Five? Six? All crushed tight about the firepit where he used to warm his aching feet and no sign of Rin among them.

“Who the hell are you?” Fear clutched at him, and he put his hand on his dagger.

“It’s all right!” The man held up his palms. “You’re Brand?”

“Damn right I am. Where’s my sister?”

“You don’t know?”

“If I knew would I be asking? Where’s Rin?”

IT WAS A FINE HOUSE in the shadow of the citadel.

A rich woman’s house of good cut stone with a full second floor and a dragon’s head carved into its roof beam. A homely house with welcoming firelight spilling around its shutters and into the evening. A handsome house with a stream gurgling through a steep channel beside it and under a narrow bridge. A well-kept house with a door new-painted green, and hanging over the door a shingle in the shape of a sword, swinging gently with the breeze.

“Here?” Brand had labored up the steep lanes with crates and barrels to the homes of the wealthy often enough, and he knew the street. But he’d never been to this house, had no notion why his sister might be inside.

“Here,” answered the man, and gave the door a beating with his knuckles.

Brand stood there wondering what sort of pose to strike, and was caught by surprise halfway between two when the door jerked open.

Rin was changed. Even more than he was, maybe. A woman grown, she seemed now, taller, and her face leaner, dark hair cut short. She wore a fine tunic, clever stitching about the collar, like a wealthy merchant might.

“You all right, Hale?” she asked.

“Better,” said the man. “We had a visitor.” And he stepped out of the way so the light fell across Brand’s face.

“Rin …” he croaked, hardly knowing what to say, “I’m—”