She took off fast. He watched her run back the way they’d come, through the wet grass, down the gentle slope. As Mother Sun crawled higher he could see Rissentoft in the distance, a black smear on the land, still smoldering.
He reckoned it must’ve looked a lot like Halleby before the war started.
Now it did again.
FROZEN LAKES
The king’s household halted in the spitting rain above the camp, a thousand fires sprawling under the darkening sky, pinprick torches trickling into the valley as the warriors of Gettland gathered. Thorn sprang down and offered the queen her hand. Not that Laithlin needed any help, she was twice the rider Thorn was. But Thorn was desperate to be useful.
In the songs, Chosen Shields protected their queens from assassins, or carried secret messages into the mouth of danger, or fought duels on which the fates of nations rested. Probably she should have learned by now not to take songs too seriously.
She found herself lost among an endlessly shifting legion of slaves and servants, trailing after the Golden Queen like the tail after a comet, besieging her with a thousand questions to which, whether she was nursing the heir to the throne at the time or not, she always had the answers. King Uthil might have sat in the Black Chair but, after a few days in Laithlin’s company, it was plain to Thorn who really ruled Gettland.
There was no trace of the easy companionship she’d had with Vialine. No earnest talks or demands to be called by her first name. Laithlin was more than twice Thorn’s age: a wife and mother, a peerless merchant, the mistress of a great household, as beautiful as she was deep-cunning as she was masterfully controlled. She was everything a woman should be and more. Everything Thorn wasn’t.
“My thanks,” Laithlin murmured, taking Thorn’s hand and making even sliding down from a saddle look graceful.
“I want only to serve.”
The queen did not let go of her hand. “No. You were not born to stand in dusty meetings and count coins. You want to fight.”
Thorn swallowed. “Give me the chance.”
“Soon enough.” Laithlin leaned close, gripping Thorn’s hand tight. “An oath of loyalty cuts both ways. I forgot that once, and never will again. We shall do great things together, you and I. Things to sing of.”
“My king?” Father Yarvi’s voice, and sharp with worry.
Uthil had stumbled climbing from his own saddle and now he was leaning heavily on his minister, gray as a ghost, chest heaving as he clutched his drawn sword against it.
“We will speak later,” said Laithlin, letting go of Thorn’s hand.
“Koll, boil water!” called Father Yarvi. “Safrit, bring my plants!”
“I saw that man walk a hundred miles through the ice and never falter,” said Rulf, standing beside Thorn with his arms folded. “The king is not well.”
“No.” Thorn watched Uthil shamble into his tent with one arm over his minister’s shoulders. “And with a great battle coming. Poor luck indeed.”
“Father Yarvi doesn’t believe in luck.”
“I don’t believe in helmsmen, but they dog me even so.”
Rulf chuckled at that. “How’s your mother?”
Thorn frowned across at him. “Unhappy with my choices, as always.”
“Still striking sparks from each other?”
“Since you ask, not near so much as we used to.”
“Oh? I reckon one of you must have grown up a little.”
Thorn narrowed her eyes. “Maybe one of us had a wise old warrior to teach them the value of family.”
“Everyone should be so lucky.” Rulf peered down at the ground, rubbing at his beard. “I’ve been thinking, perhaps … I should pay her a visit.”
“You asking my permission?”
“No. But I’d like to have it, still.”
Thorn gave a helpless shrug. “Far be it from me to come between a pair of young lovers.”
“Or me.” Rulf gave a meaningful look past her from under his brows. “Which is why I’ll be dwindling into the west, I think …”
Thorn turned, and Brand was walking toward her.
She had been hoping she might see him, but as soon as she did she felt a surge of nerves. As if she was stepping into the training square for the first time and he was her opponent. They should have been familiar to each other now, surely? But of a sudden she had no idea how to be with him. Prickly-playful, like one oar-mate with another? Simpering soft, like a maiden with a suitor? Frosty-regal, like Queen Laithlin with a debtor? Creepy-cautious, like a clever gambler keeping her dice well hidden?
Each step he came closer felt like a step back out onto that frozen lake, ice creaking under her weight, no notion what the next footfall might bring.
“Thorn,” he said, looking her in the eye.
“Brand,” she said, looking back.
“Couldn’t stand to wait for me any longer, eh?”
Prickly-playful, then. “The suitors were queued up outside my house all the way to the bloody docks. There’s only so much of men weeping over my beauty I can stand.” And she pressed a fingertip to one side of her nose and blew snot into the mud out of the other.