king’s words, and the thought of the raid coming, and of being a boy no more, being poor no more, being alone no more. Drunk on the thought of doing good, and standing in the light, and having a family of warriors always about him.
Brand waited as his fellows were given their places – lads he liked and lads he didn’t, good fighters and not. He waited as the markers grew fewer in the bag, and let himself wonder if he was left till last because he’d won an oar on the king’s own ship, no place more coveted. The more often Hunnan passed him over, the more he allowed himself to hope. He’d earned it, hadn’t he? Worked for it, deserved it? Done what a warrior of Gettland was supposed to?
Rauk was the last of them, forcing a smile onto his crestfallen face when Hunnan brought wood from the bag for him, not silver. Then it was just Brand left. His the only hand still out, the fingers trembling. The lads fell silent.
And Hunnan smiled. Brand had never seen him smile before, and he felt himself smile too.
‘This for you,’ said the master-at-arms as he slowly, slowly drew out his battle-scarred hand. Drew out his hand to show …
Nothing.
No glint of the king’s silver. No wood either. Only the empty bag, turned inside out to show the ragged stitching.
‘Did you think I wouldn’t know?’ said Hunnan.
Brand let his hand drop. Every eye was upon him now and he felt his cheeks burning like he’d been slapped.
‘Know what?’ he muttered, though he knew well enough.
‘That you spoke to that cripple about what happened in my training square.’
A silence, while Brand felt as if his guts dropped into his arse. ‘Thorn’s no murderer,’ he managed to say.
‘Edwal’s dead and she killed him.’
‘You set her a test she couldn’t pass.’
‘I set the tests,’ said Hunnan. ‘Passing them is up to you. And you failed this one.’
‘I did the right thing.’
Hunnan’s brows went up. Not angry. Surprised. ‘Tell yourself that if it helps. But I’ve my own right thing to look to. The right thing for the men I teach to fight. In the training square we pit you against each other, but on the battlefield you have to stand together, and Thorn Bathu fights everyone. Men would have died so she could play with swords. They’re better off without her. And they’re better off without you.’
‘Mother War picks who fights,’ said Brand.
Hunnan only shrugged. ‘She can find a ship for you, then. You’re a good fighter, Brand, but you’re not a good man. A good man stands for his shoulder-man. A good man holds the line.’
Maybe Brand should’ve snarled, ‘It isn’t fair,’ as Thorn had when Hunnan broke her hopes. But Brand wasn’t much of a talker, and he had no words then. No anger in him when he actually needed it. He didn’t make even a mouse’s squeak while Hunnan turned and walked away. Didn’t even bunch his fists while the lads followed their master-at-arms towards the sea. The lads he’d trained with these ten years.
Some looked at him with scorn, some with surprise. One or two even gave him a sorry pat on the shoulder as they passed. But they all passed. Down the beach, towards the breaking waves and their hard-won places on the ships that rocked there. Down to their oaths of loyalty and off on the raid that Brand had dreamed of all his life. It was Rauk who went last, one hand slack on the hilt of his fine new sword, grinning over his shoulder.
‘See you when we get back.’
Brand stood alone for a long time, not moving. Alone, in his borrowed mail, with the gulls crying over that vast stretch of sand, empty apart from the bootprints of the men he’d thought his brothers. Alone, long after the last ship had pushed off from the shore and out to sea, carrying Brand’s hopes away with it.
So it goes, with hopes.
She Who Sings the Wind sang one hell of a wind on the way over from Skekenhouse and they were washed leagues off-course.
They rowed like fury while Rulf roared abuse at them until his voice was hoarse and their oars were all tangled and every one of them was blowing like a fish and soaked with Mother Sea’s salt spray. Thorn was most extremely terrified but she put a brave face on. The only faces she had were brave, though this was a green one, as the thrashing of the ship like an unbroken horse soon made her sick as she’d never been sick in her life. It felt as if everything she’d ever eaten went over the side, over her oar, or over her knees, and half that through her nose.
Thorn had a fair storm blowing on the inside too. The giddy wave of gratitude at being given back her life had soon soaked away, leaving her chewing over the bitter truth that she had traded a future as a proud warrior for one as a minister’s slave, collared by her own over-hasty oath, for purposes Father Yarvi had no intention of sharing.
To make matters even worse, she could feel her blood coming and her guts were stabbed through with aches and her chest was sore and she had a rage in her even beyond the usual. The mocking laughter of the crew at her puking might’ve moved her to murder if she could’ve unpeeled her Death-gripping fingers from the oar.
So it was on wobbling legs she staggered onto the wharf at Yaletoft, the stones of Throvenland pocked with puddles from last night’s storm, twinkling in this morning’s sun. She blundered through the crowds with her shoulders hunched around her ears, every hawker’s squawk and seagull’s call, every wagon’s rattle and barrel’s clatter a knife in her, the over-hearty slaps on the back and snide chuckles of the men who were supposed to be her fellows cutting deeper still.
She knew what they were thinking. What do you expect if you put a girl in a man’s place? And she muttered curses and swore elaborate revenges, but didn’t dare lift her head in case she spewed again.
Some revenge that would be.
‘Don’t be sick in front of King Fynn,’ said Rulf, as they approached the looming hall, its mighty roof beams wonderfully carved and gilded. ‘The man’s famous for his temper.’
But it was not King Fynn but his minister, Mother Kyre, who greeted them at the dozen steps, each one cut of a different-coloured marble. She was a handsome woman, tall and slender with a ready smile that did not quite reach her eyes. She reminded Thorn of her mother, which was a dark mark against her from the off. Thorn trusted few enough people, but hardly any had ready smiles and none at all looked like her mother.
‘Greetings, Father Yarvi,’ said King Fynn’s handsome minister. ‘You are ever welcome in Yaletoft, but I fear the king cannot see you.’
‘I fear you have advised him not to see me,’ answered Father Yarvi, planting one damp boot on the lowest step. Mother Kyre did not deny it. ‘Perhaps I might see Princess Skara? She can have been no more than ten years old when we last met. We were cousins then, before I took the Minister’s Test—’
‘But you did take the test,’ said Mother Kyre, ‘and gave up all your family but the Ministry, as
