Mother Isriun’s face had turned deathly pale. She tried to shrink back but Scaer’s tattooed arm snaked about her shoulders and held her tight. “You would break your oaths to them?” muttered Isriun, eyes wide.
“Break my oaths?” Gorm shook the scarred shield from his arm and let it clatter down. “There is less honor in keeping them. I shatter them. I spit on them. I shit on them.” He loomed over Isriun, the knife glinting red in his hand. “The High King decrees, does he? Grandmother Wexen commands, does she? Old goat and old sow, I renounce them! I defy them!”
Isriun’s thin neck fluttered as she swallowed. “If you kill me there will be war.”
“Oh, there will be war. The Mother of Crows spreads her wings, girl.” Grom-gil-Gorm slowly raised the knife that Rin had forged, Isriun’s eyes rooted to the bright point. “Her feathers are swords! Hear them rattle?” And a smile spread across his face. “But I do not need to kill you.” He tossed the knife skittering through the grass to end beside Thorn where she hunched on hands and knees, retching. “After all, Mother Scaer, why kill what you can sell?”
Gorm’s old minister, and now his new one, gave a smile chill as the winter sea. “Take this snake away and put a collar on her.”
“You’ll pay!” shrieked Isriun, eyes wild. “You’ll pay for this!” But Gorm’s warriors were already dragging her up the eastern slope.
The Breaker of Swords turned back, blood dripping from the dangling fingers of his wounded hand. “Does your offer of alliance still stand, Laithlin?”
“What could Vansterland and Gettland not achieve together?” called the Golden Queen.
“Then I accept.”
A stunned sigh rippled around the square, as if the held breath of every man was suddenly let out.
Brand twisted free of Rulf’s limp hands and ran.
“THORN?”
The voice seemed to echo from a long way away, down a dark tunnel. Brand’s voice. Gods, she was glad to hear it.
“You all right?” Strong hands at her shoulder, lifting her.
“I got proud,” she croaked, throat raw, mouth stinging. Tried to get to her knees, so weak and dizzy she nearly fell again, but he caught her.
“But you’re alive.”
“I reckon,” she whispered, more than a little surprised as Brand’s face drifted gradually out of the bright blur. Gods, she was glad to see it.
“That’s enough.” He stretched her arm over his shoulders and she groaned as he lifted her gently to her feet. She couldn’t have taken a step on her own, but he was strong. He wouldn’t let her fall. “You need me to carry you?”
“It’s a fine thought.” She winced as she looked toward the warriors of Gettland gathered on the crest ahead of them. “But I’d better walk. Why didn’t he kill me?”
“Mother Isriun changed his mind.”
Thorn took one look back as they shuffled up the slope toward the camp. Grom-gil-Gorm stood in the middle of the square, bloodied but unbeaten. Mother Scaer was already working at his wounded shield hand with needle and thread. His sword-hand was gripping Queen Laithlin’s, sealing the alliance between Vansterland and Gettland. Bitter enemies made friends. At least for now.
Beside them, with arms folded, Yarvi smiled.
In spite of all the prayers to Mother War, it seemed Father Peace made the judgment that day.
IN THE LIGHT
Brand gave the billet a few more ringing blows with his hammer then shoved it back into the coals in a shower of sparks.
Rin gave a disgusted click of her tongue. “You’ve not got what they call a gentle touch, have you?”
“That’s what you’re here for.” Brand grinned at her. “Got to make you feel special, don’t I?”
But she was looking past him, toward the door. “You’ve a visitor.”
“Father Yarvi, what an honor.” Brand set down his hammer and wiped his forehead on his forearm. “Come to buy a blade?”
“A minister should stand for Father Peace,” said Yarvi as he stepped into the forge.
“A good one stays friendly with Mother War too,” said Rin.
“Wise words. And now more than ever.”
Brand swallowed. “It’s going to be war, then?”
“The High King will take time gathering his warriors. But I think it will be war. Still. War is a fine thing for a swordsmith’s business.”
Rin raised her brows at Brand. “We’d settle for a poorer peace, I reckon. I hear King Uthil’s on the mend, at least.”
“His strength rushes back,” said Yarvi. “Soon he will be terrorizing his warriors once again at sword practice, and using your fine steel to do it.”
“Father Peace be praised,” said Rin.
“Father Peace and your skills,” said Brand.
Yarvi humbly bowed. “I do what I can. And how do the gods treat you, Brand?”
“Well enough.” He nodded at his sister. “If it wasn’t for my tyrant of a master I’d be enjoying the job. Turns out I like working with metal a lot more than I remembered.”
“Easier than working with people.”
“Steel is honest,” said Brand.
Father Yarvi looked sideways at him. “Is there somewhere we can speak alone?”