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 disheveled crew as they shuffled past, Thorn most disheveled 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 man said, “Who are you?”
“Who am I? Who are you?”
Know where your nearest weapon is, her father used to tell her, and her eyes flickered to the table where the wreckage of their evening meal was scattered. An eating knife was wedged into the wood, short blade faintly gleaming. Hardly a hero’s blade, but when surprised at night with your belt open you take what you can get.
She gently eased her hand out of her trousers, gently eased towards the table and the knife. The man gently eased the jar away, eyes fixed on her, or at least somewhere near her.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said.
“I’m not? What’re you putting in our water?”
“What’re you doing with that knife?”
She wrenched it from the table and held it out, somewhat shaky, her voice high. “Is that poison?”