Raith heard laughter. Skara’s big, wild laughter, and the sound alone made him smile.
He peered from the dripping doorway and saw her walking, fine cloak flapping with the hood up against the drizzle, Mother Owd beside her, guards and thralls around her, an entourage fit for the queen she was. He waited until they were passing before he eased out, scraping back his wet hair.
‘My queen.’ He’d meant it to sound light-hearted. It came out a needy bleat.
Her head snapped around and he felt the same breathless shock as when he first saw her face, only stronger than ever and, soon enough, with a bitter edge too. She cracked no delighted smile of recognition, no look of haunted guilt even, only a pained grimace. Like he reminded her of something she’d much rather forget.
‘One moment,’ she said to Mother Owd, who was frowning at Raith as if he was a barrow full of plague corpses. The queen stepped away from her servants, glancing both ways down the wet street. ‘I can’t speak to you like this.’
‘Maybe later—’
‘No. Never.’ She’d told him once words can cut deeper than blades, and he’d laughed, but that never was a dagger in him. ‘I’m sorry, Raith. I can’t have you near me.’
He felt like his belly was ripped open and he was pouring blood all over the street. ‘Wouldn’t be proper, eh?’ he croaked.
‘Damn “proper”!’ she hissed. ‘It wouldn’t be right. Not for my land. Not for my people.’
His voice was a desperate whisper. ‘What about for you?’
She winced. Sadness. Or maybe just guilt. ‘Not for me either.’ She leaned close, looking up from under her brows, but her words came iron-hard and, however eager he was to trick himself, they left no room for doubts. ‘Best we think of our time together as a dream. A pleasant dream. But it’s time to wake.’
He would’ve liked to say something clever. Something noble. Something spiteful. Something, anyway. But talk had never been Raith’s battlefield. He’d no idea how to bind all this up into a few words. So in helpless silence he watched her turn. In helpless silence he watched her sweep away. Back to her thralls, and her guards, and her disapproving minister.
He saw how it was, now. Should’ve known how it was all along. She’d liked his warmth well enough in winter, but now summer came she’d shrugged him off like an old coat. And he could hardly blame her. She was a queen, after all, and he was a killer. It wasn’t right for anyone but him. He would’ve felt lucky to have got what he had, if it hadn’t left him so raw and hurting, and with no idea how he could ever feel any other way.
Maybe he should’ve made some vengeful scene. Maybe he should’ve airily strode off, as if he’d a hundred better women begging for his attentions. But the sorry fact was he loved her too much to do either one. Loved her too much to do anything but stand, nursing his aching hand and his broken nose and staring hungrily after her like a dog shut out in the cold. Hoping she’d stop. Hoping she’d change her mind. Hoping she’d just so much as look back.
But she didn’t.
‘What happened between the two of you?’ Raith turned to see Blue Jenner at his shoulder. ‘And don’t tell me nothing, boy.’
‘Nothing, old man.’ Raith tried to smile, but he didn’t have it in him. ‘Thanks.’
‘For what?’
‘Giving me a chance to be better. More’n I deserve, I reckon.’
And he hunched his shoulders and pressed on into the rain.
Raith stood across the street from the forge, watching the light spill around the shutters, listening to the anvil music clattering from inside, wondering if it was Rin that swung the hammer.
Seemed wherever she went she soon found a place for herself. But then she was a good person to have around. Someone who knew what she wanted and was willing to work for it. Someone who made things from nothing, mended things that were broken. She was just what Raith wasn’t.
He knew he’d no right to ask for anything from her, but she’d had some comfort for him after his brother died. The gods knew he needed some comfort, then. He didn’t know where else to look for it.
He gave a miserable sniff, wiped runny snot from under his broken nose on his bandaged arm, and stepped across the street to the door. He lifted his fist to knock.
‘What brings you here?’
It was the minister’s boy, Koll, a crooked grin on his face as he ambled up out of the fading light. A crooked grin reminded Raith for a strange little moment of the one his brother used to have. He still had a twitchy way about him, but there was an ease there too. Like a man who’d made peace with himself. Raith wished he knew how.
He thought fast. ‘Well … been thinking about getting a new sword. This is where that blade-maker’s working now, right?’
‘Rin’s her name and, aye, this is where she’s working.’ Koll cocked one ear to the door, smiled like there was sweet singing on the other side. ‘No one makes better swords than Rin. No one anywhere.’