You should know that.’ And Isriun pulled out a cloth and dabbed the blood from the corner of Yarvi’s mouth. Gentle, her touch, but the look in her eye was anything but. ‘Now we are all one family, once again.’
‘She passed the test three months ago without one question wrong,’ said Grandmother Wexen. ‘She is already greatly knowledgeable on the subject of elf-relics.’
Yarvi swallowed. ‘Fancy that.’
‘It is the Ministry’s most solemn duty to protect them,’ said Isriun. ‘And to protect the world from a second breaking.’ Her thin hands fussed one with the other. ‘Do you know the thief and killer, Skifr?’
Yarvi blinked as though he scarcely understood the question. ‘I may have heard the name …’
‘She is wanted by the Ministry.’ Isriun’s expression had grown even deadlier. ‘She entered the elf-ruins of Strokom, and brought out relics from within.’
A gasp hissed around the chamber, a fearful whispering echoed among the balconies. Folk made holy signs upon their chests, murmured prayers, shook their heads in horror.
‘What times are we living in?’ whispered Father Yarvi. ‘You have my solemn word, if I hear but the breath of this Skifr’s passing, my doves will be with you upon the instant.’
‘Such a relief,’ said Isriun. ‘Because if anyone were to strike a deal with her, I would have to see them burned alive.’ She twisted her fingers together, gripping eagerly until the knuckles were white. ‘And you know how much I would hate to see you burn.’
‘So we have that in common too,’ said Yarvi. ‘May I now depart, oh, greatest of men?’
The High King appeared to have nodded sideways, quite possibly off to sleep.
‘I will take that as a yes.’ Yarvi stood, and Rulf and his crew stood with him, and Thorn struggled up last. She seemed always to be kneeling when she had better stand and standing when she had better kneel.
‘It is not too late to make of the fist an open hand, Father Yarvi.’ Grandmother Wexen sadly shook her head. ‘I once had high hopes for you.’
‘Alas, as Sister Isriun can tell you, I have often been a sore disappointment.’ There was just the slightest iron in Yarvi’s voice as he turned. ‘I struggle daily to improve.’
Outside the rain was falling hard, still making grey ghosts of Skekenhouse.
‘Who was that woman, Isriun?’ Thorn asked as she hurried to catch up.
‘She was once my cousin.’ The muscles worked on the gaunt side of Yarvi’s face. ‘Then we were betrothed. Then she swore to see me dead.’
Thorn raised her brows at that. ‘You must be quite a lover.’
‘We cannot all have your gentle touch.’ He frowned sideways at her. ‘Next time you might think before leaping to my defence.’
‘The moment you pause will be the moment you die,’ she muttered.
‘The moment you didn’t pause you nearly killed the lot of us.’
She knew he was right, but it still nettled her. ‘It might not have come to that if you’d told them the Islanders have attacked us, and the Vanstermen too, that they’ve given us no choice but to—’
‘They know that well enough. It was Grandmother Wexen set them on.’
‘How do you—’
‘She spoke thunderously in the words she did not say. She means to crush us, and I can put her off no longer.’
Thorn rubbed at her temples. Ministers seemed never to mean quite what they said. ‘If she’s our enemy, why didn’t she just kill us where we knelt?’
‘Because Grandmother Wexen does not want her children dead. She wants them to obey. First she sends the Islanders against us, then the Vanstermen. She hopes to lure us into rash action and King Uthil is about to oblige her. It will take time for her to gather her forces, but only because she has so many to call on. In time, she will send half the world against us. If we are to resist her, we need allies.’
‘Where do we find allies?’
Father Yarvi smiled. ‘Among our enemies, where else?’
The boys were gathered.
The men were gathered, Brand realized. There might not be much beard among them, but if they weren’t men now they’d passed their tests and were about to swear their oaths, when would they be?
They were gathered one last time with Master Hunnan, who’d taught them, and tested them, and hammered them into shape like Brand used to hammer iron at Gaden’s forge. They were gathered on the beach where they’d trained so often, but the blades weren’t wooden now.
They were gathered in their new war-gear, bright-eyed and breathless at the thought of sailing on their first raid. Of leaving Father Peace at their backs and giving themselves guts and sinew to his red-mouthed wife, Mother War. Of winning fame and glory, a place at the king’s table and in the warriors’ songs.
Oh, and coming back rich.
Some were buckled up prettily as heroes already, blessed with family who’d bought them fine mail, and good swords, and new gear all aglitter. Though he counted her more blessing than he deserved, Brand had only Rin, so he’d loaned his mail from Gaden in return for a tenth share of aught he took – dead man’s mail, tarnished with use, hastily resized and still loose under the arms. But his axe was good and true and polished sharp as a razor, and his shield that he’d saved a year for was fresh painted by Rin with a dragon’s head and looked well as anyone’s.
‘Why a dragon?’ Rauk asked him, one mocking eyebrow high.
Brand laughed it off. ‘Why not a dragon?’ It’d take more than that fool’s scorn to spoil the day of his first raid.
And it wasn’t just any raid. It was the biggest in living memory. Bigger even than the one King Uthrik led to Sagenmark. Brand went up on tiptoe again to see the gathered men stretched far off down the shore, metal twinkling in the sun and the smoke from their fires smudging the sky. Five thousand, Hunnan had said, and Brand stared at his fingers, trying to reckon each a thousand men. It made him dizzy as looking down a long drop.
Five thousand. Gods, how big the world must be.
There were men well-funded by tradesmen or merchants and ragged brotherhoods spilled down from the mountains. There were proud-faced men with silvered sword-hilts and dirty-faced men with spears of flint. There were men with a lifetime of scars and men who’d never shed blood in their lives.
It was a sight you didn’t see often, and half of Thorlby was gathered on the slopes outside the city walls to watch. Mothers and fathers, wives and children, there to see off their boys and husbands and pray for their safe and enriched return. Brand’s family would be there too, no doubt. Which meant Rin, on her own. He bunched his fists, staring up into the wind.
He’d make her proud. He swore he would.
The feeling was more of wedding-feast than war, the air thick with smoke and excitement, the clamour of songs, and jests, and arguments. Prayer-Weavers wove their own paths through the throng speaking blessings for a payment, and merchants too, spinning lies about how all great warriors carried an extra belt to war. It wasn’t just warriors hoping to turn a coin from King Uthil’s raid.
‘For a copper I’ll bring you weaponluck,’ said a beggar-woman, selling lucky kisses, ‘for another I’ll bring you weatherluck too. For a third—’
‘Shut up,’ snapped Master Hunnan, shooing her off. ‘The king speaks.’
There