Half the World (Shattered Sea #2)(89)

“That’s not it,” he said, even though he wondered if it was part of it. Just get some room to breathe. Just get some time to think.

“Sometimes I wish I’d stayed in the First of Cities,” she said.

“You’d never have bedded me then.”

“When I died rich and storied that could’ve been my life’s one great regret.”

“Just give me a week,” he said, strapping on Odda’s sword. “I’m not thinking better of anything, but I have to do this. I might never get another chance.”

She curled her lips back and made a long hiss. “One week. Then I go after the next man I find who can lift a ship.”

“Done.” And he kissed her one more time. Her lips were scummy, and her mouth was sour, and he didn’t care. He slung his shield over his shoulder, and hefted the little bundle he’d made with his blanket, and he took a long breath, and headed off to the iron embrace of Mother War.

Something stopped him in the doorway, though, and he took one last look back. As if to make sure she was really there. She was, and smiling at him. They were rare, her smiles, but that made them precious. Precious as gold, it seemed, and he was mightily pleased with himself for being the cause of it.





THE CHOSEN SHIELD


The citadel of Thorlby had not been happy ground for Thorn. The last time she visited it had been as a murderer, herded in chains to the cells. The time before it had been to see her father laid out in the Godshall, pale and cold beneath the dome, her mother sobbing beside her, and she’d looked up at the hard faces of the tall gods and known her prayers had all been wasted. She had to swallow a shadow of the anger she’d felt then, the anger that had burned at her ever since, gripping at the pouch that held her father’s fingerbones as she frowned toward the great doors of the Godshall.

There were boys training in the yard, beneath the ancient cedar. Training in the square, the way Thorn used to, their master-at-arms barking out orders as they scrambled into a rickety shield wall. They seemed so young now. So slow and so clumsy. She could hardly believe she had ever been one of them as Koll led her past.

“You are Thorn Bathu?”

An old man sat at the corner of the square, swathed in a thick black fur in spite of the warmth, a drawn sword cradled in his arms. He seemed so withered, and hunched, and pale, that even with the golden circle on his brow it took Thorn a moment to recognize him.

She wobbled down onto one knee beside Koll, staring at the grass. “I am, my king.”

King Uthil cleared his throat. “I hear unarmed you killed seven men, and forged an alliance with the Empress of the South. I did not believe it.” He narrowed his watery eyes as he looked her up and down. “Now I begin to.”

Thorn swallowed. “It was only five men, my king.”

“Only five, she says!” And he gave a throaty chuckle to the old warriors about him. A couple just about cracked smiles. The faces of the others grew more dour with every word. No deed would ever be high enough to raise her in their estimation: she was as much an object of contempt as ever. “I like you, girl!” said the king. “We should practice together.”

So she could practice with him, as long as she didn’t presume to fight for him. Thorn lowered her eyes in case she let her anger show and ended up visiting the citadel’s dungeons for a second time. “That would be a high honor,” she managed to say.

Uthil broke into a coughing fit, and drew his cloak tight about his shoulders. “Once my minister’s potions have worked their magic and I am past this illness. I swear those dung-tasting brews only make me weaker.”

“Father Yarvi is a deep-cunning healer, my king,” said Thorn. “I would have died without his wisdom.”

“Aye,” murmured Uthil, staring off into the distance. “I hope his wisdom works soon for me. I must go north, and teach these Vanstermen a lesson. The Breaker of Swords has questions for us.” His voice had withered to a crackling wheeze. “What should be our answer?”

“Steel!” hissed Thorn, and the other warriors about the king murmured the word as one.

Uthil’s pale hand trembled as he clutched his drawn sword close, and Thorn did not think she would be practicing with the king any time soon. “Steel,” he breathed, and settled slowly into his fur, wet eyes fixed on the boys in the square, as if he had forgotten Thorn was there.

“Father Yarvi’s waiting,” murmured Koll. He led her away across the grass, into a shadowy hall and up a long flight of steps, the scraping of their boots echoing in the darkness, the shouts of the training boys fading behind them.

“Is Brand all right?”

“How the hell should I know?” Thorn snapped, and felt guilty right away. “I’m sorry. I hope he is.”

“Are you and him …” Koll peered at her sideways. “You know.”

“I don’t know what me and him are,” she snapped, another wave of temper and another slow wash of guilt. “Sorry.”

“You’re bored.”

“I’m idle,” she growled, “while high deeds are being done.”

Her mood had been filthy for days and the scorn of Uthil’s warriors hadn’t helped. She had nothing to do but worry. Worry that Brand wouldn’t want her when he came back or that she wouldn’t want him when he came back or that he wouldn’t come back at all. She had more doubts and frustrations spinning faster around her head than before she’d bedded him and there was nothing she could do about any of it.