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 did I. In any case, the princess is away.’
‘I fear you sent her away when you heard I was coming.’
Mother Kyre did not deny that either. ‘Grandmother Wexen has sent me an eagle, and I know why you are here. I am not without sympathy.’
‘Your sympathy is sweet, Mother Kyre, but King Fynn’s help in the trouble that comes would be far sweeter yet. It might prevent the trouble altogether.’
Mother Kyre winced the way someone does who has no intention of helping. The way Thorn’s mother used to wince when Thorn spoke of her hero’s hopes.
‘You know my master loves you and his niece Queen Laithlin,’ she said. ‘You know he would stand against half the world to stand with you. But you know he cannot stand against the wishes of the High King.’ A sea of words, this woman, but that was ministers for you. Father Yarvi was hardly a straight talker. ‘So he sends me, wretched with regret, to deny you audience, but to humbly offer you all food, warmth, and shelter beneath his roof.’
Which, apart from the food, sounded well enough to Thorn.
King Fynn’s hall was called the Forest for it was filled with a thicket of grand columns, said to have been floated down the Divine River from Kalyiv, beautifully carved and painted with scenes from the history of Throvenland. Somewhat less beautiful were the many, many guards, closely watching the South Wind’s dishevelled crew as they shuffled past, Thorn most dishevelled of all, one hand clutched to her aching belly.
‘Our reception in Skekenhouse was … not warm.’ Yarvi leaned close to Mother Kyre and Thorn heard his whisper. ‘If I didn’t know better I might say I am in danger.’
‘No danger will find you here, Father Yarvi, I assure you.’ Mother Kyre gestured at two of the most unreassuring guards Thorn had ever seen, flanking the door to a common room that stank of stale smoke.
‘Here you have water.’ She pointed out a barrel as if it was the highest of gifts. ‘Slaves will bring food and ale. A room for your crew to sleep in is made ready. No doubt you will wish to be away with the first glimpse of Mother Sun, to catch the tide and carry your news to King Uthil.’
Yarvi scrubbed unhappily at his pale hair with the heel of his twisted hand. ‘It seems you have thought of everything.’
‘A good minister is always prepared.’ And Mother Kyre shut the door as she left them, lacking only the turning of a key to mark them out as prisoners.
‘As warm a welcome as you thought we’d get,’ grunted Rulf.
‘Fynn and his minister are predictable as Father Moon. They are cautious. They live in the shadow of the High King’s power, after all.’
‘A long shadow, that,’ said Rulf.
‘Lengthening all the time. You look a little green, Thorn Bathu.’
‘I’m sick with disappointment to find no allies in Throvenland,’ she said.
Father Yarvi had the slightest smile. ‘We shall see.’
Thorn’s eyes snapped open in the fizzing darkness.
She was chilly with sweat under her blanket, kicked it off, felt the sticky wetness of blood between her legs and hissed a curse.
Beside her Rulf gave a particularly ripping snore then rolled over. She could hear the rest of the crew breathing, wriggling, muttering in their sleep, squashed in close together on dirty mats, tight as the fresh catch on market day.
They had made no special arrangements for her and she had asked for none. She wanted none. None except a fresh cloth down her trousers, anyway.
She stumbled down the corridor, hair in a tangle and guts in an aching knot, her belt undone with the buckle slapping at her thighs and one hand shoved down her trousers to feel how bad the bleeding was. All she needed to stop the mocking was a great stain around her crotch, and she cursed He Who Sprouts the Seed for inflicting this stupid business on her, and she cursed the stupid women who thought it was something to celebrate, her stupid mother first among them, and she cursed—
There was a man in the shadows of the common room.
He was dressed in black and standing near the water butt. In one hand he held its lid. In the other a little jar. As if he’d just poured something in. The place was lit by only one guttering candle and he had a bad squint, but Thorn got the distinct feeling he was staring right at her.
They stood unmoving, he with his jar over the water, she with her hand down her trousers, then the