Thorn sat and stared down at her filthy toes, pale as maggots in the darkness.
She had no notion why they took her boots. She was hardly going to run, chained by her left ankle to one damp-oozing wall and her right wrist to the other. She could scarcely reach the gate of her cell, let alone rip it from its hinges. Apart from picking the scabs under her broken nose till they bled, all she could do was sit and think.
Her two least favorite activities.
She heaved in a ragged breath. Gods, the place stank. The rotten straw and the rat droppings stank and the bucket they never bothered to empty stank and the mold and rusting iron stank and after two nights in there she stank worst of all.
Any other day she would’ve been swimming in the bay, fighting Mother Sea, or climbing the cliffs, fighting Father Earth, or running or rowing or practicing with her father’s old sword in the yard of their house, fighting the blade-scarred posts and pretending they were Gettland’s enemies as the splinters flew—Grom-gil-Gorm, or Styr of the Islands, or even the High King himself.
But she would swing no sword today. She was starting to think she had swung her last. It seemed a long, hard way from fair. But then, as Hunnan said, fair wasn’t a thing a warrior could rely on.
“You’ve a visitor,” said the key-keeper, a weighty lump of a woman with a dozen rattling chains about her neck and a face like a bag of axes. “But you’ll have to make it quick.” And she hauled the heavy door squealing open.
“Hild!”
This once Thorn didn’t tell her mother she’d given that name up at six years old, when she pricked her father with his own dagger and he called her “thorn.” It took all the strength she had to unfold her legs and stand, sore and tired and suddenly, pointlessly ashamed of the state she was in. Even if she hardly cared for how things looked, she knew her mother did.
When Thorn shuffled into the light her mother pressed one pale hand to her mouth. “Gods, what did they do to you?”
Thorn waved at her face, chains rattling. “This happened in the square.”
Her mother came close to the bars, eyes rimmed with weepy pink. “They say you murdered a boy.”
“It wasn’t murder.”
“You killed a boy, though?”
Thorn swallowed, dry throat clicking. “Edwal.”
“Gods,” whispered her mother again, lip trembling. “Oh, gods, Hild, why couldn’t you …”
“Be someone else?” Thorn finished for her. Someone easy, someone normal. A daughter who wanted to wield nothing weightier than a needle, dress in southern silk instead of mail and harbor no dreams beyond wearing some rich man’s key.
“I saw this coming,” said her mother, bitterly. “Ever since you went to the square. Ever since we saw your father dead, I saw this coming.”
Thorn felt her cheek twitch. “You can take comfort in how right you were.”
“You think there’s any comfort for me in this? They say they’re going to crush my only child with stones!”
Thorn felt cold then, very cold. It was an effort to take a breath. As though they were piling the rocks on her already. “Who said?”
“Everyone says.”
“Father Yarvi?” The minister spoke the law. The minister would speak the judgment.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Not yet.”
Not yet, that was the limit of her hopes. Thorn felt so weak she could hardly grip the bars. She was used to wearing a brave face, however scared she was. But Death is a hard mistress to face bravely. The hardest.
“You’d best go.” The key-keeper started to pull Thorn’s mother away.
“I’ll pray,” she called, tears streaking her face. “I’ll pray to Father Peace for you!”
Thorn wanted to say, “Damn Father Peace,” but she could not find the breath. She had given up on the gods when they let her father die in spite of all her prayers, but a miracle was looking like her best chance.
“Sorry,” said the key-keeper, shouldering shut the door.
“Not near as sorry as me.” Thorn closed her eyes and let her forehead fall against the bars, squeezed hard at the pouch under her dirty shirt. The pouch that held her father’s fingerbones.
We don’t get much time, and time feeling sorry for yourself is time wasted. She kept every word he’d said close to her heart, but if there’d ever been a moment for feeling sorry for herself, this had to be the one. Hardly seemed like justice. Hardly seemed fair. But try telling Edwal about fair. However you shared out the blame, she’d killed him. Wasn’t his blood crusted up her sleeve?
She’d killed Edwal. Now they’d kill her.