He’d come back to their room and her things were gone and she was sleeping with Safrit and Koll and she hadn’t said why. She hadn’t said one word to him since that day in the market. She must’ve seen how he was looking at her, guessed what he was thinking. Wasn’t as though he was any good at hiding it. But judging by the way she looked at him now, or rather the way she didn’t, the thought made her flesh crawl. Of course it did.
Why would someone like her—so strong, and sharp, and confident—want a dullard like him? Anyone could see at one glance she was something truly special and he was nothing, and would always be nothing, just like his father used to tell him. A cringing dunce who’d begged for scraps, and picked through rubbish, and dragged sacks around the docks for a pittance and been grateful to get it.
He wasn’t sure exactly how he’d done it, but he’d found a way to let everyone down. His crew. His family. Himself. Thorn. He’d ruined it.
Koll slid back the bolt on the door and Sumael stepped into the courtyard. She had two others with her: a small servant in a hooded cloak and a big-shouldered man with a watchful frown and a scar through one gray brow.
The servant pushed her hood back. She was slight and dark-haired, with quick eyes that missed no detail as she watched the fight. If you could call it a fight. Fror was one of the best warriors on the crew, but it only took Thorn a few more moments to put him down and she wasn’t even breathing hard afterward.
“I’m done,” he groaned, clutching at his ribs with one hand while he held the other up for mercy.
“Most encouraging,” said Skifr, catching the wooden blade of Thorn’s ax before she could hit him again regardless. “I delight in the way you are fighting today, my dove. No doubts, no conscience, no mercy. Who will be next to face you … ?”
Dosduvoi and Koll found the corners of the courtyard suddenly fascinating. Brand held up helpless palms as Skifr’s eyes fell on him. The mood Thorn was in, he wasn’t sure he’d come through a bout alive. The old woman gave a sigh.
“I fear you have nothing left to learn from your oarmates. The time has come for stiffer opposition.” She pulled her coat off and tossed it over Fror’s back. “How did you get that scar, Vansterman?”
“I kissed a girl,” he grunted, crawling toward the wall, “with a very sharp tongue.”
“Further proof that romance can be more dangerous than swordplay,” said Skifr, and Brand could only agree with that. She pulled out a wooden sword and ax of her own. “Now, my dove, we shall truly see what you have learned—”
“Before you begin,” said Sumael, “I’ve—”
“Red-toothed war waits for nothing!” Skifr sprang, weapons darting out quick and deadly as striking snakes, Thorn twisting and writhing as she dodged and parried. Brand could hardly count how many crashing blows they traded in the time it took him to take a breath. Eight? Ten? They broke apart as suddenly as they met, circling each other, Thorn weaving between the columns in a prowling crouch, Skifr swaggering sideways, weapons drifting in lazy circles.
“Oh, this is something,” murmured Rulf, grinning wide.
Fror winced as he rubbed at his ribs. “It’s a lot more fun than fighting her yourself, that’s sure.”
Sumael’s frowning companion murmured something under his breath, and Father Yarvi smiled.
“What did he say?” whispered Brand.
“He said the girl is extraordinary.”
Brand snorted. “That’s bloody obvious.”
“Very good,” Skifr was saying. “But do not wait for me to hand you an opening. I am no gift-giver.”
“I’ll cut my own, then!” Thorn darted forward so fast Brand took a wobbly step back, her ax and sword flashing in circles, but Skifr twisted, reeled, somehow finding a path between them and away to safety.
“Please,” said Sumael, louder. “I need to—”
“There is no place for please on the battlefield!” screamed Skifr, unleashing another blinding flurry, wood clattering on wood, herding Thorn into the corner of the yard then her blade raking stone as Thorn ducked under it, rolled away and came up swinging. Skifr gasped as she stumbled back, Thorn’s sword missing the end of her nose by a finger’s breadth.
Koll gave a disbelieving titter. Father Yarvi puffed out his cheeks, eyes bright. Rulf shook his balding head in disbelief. “I never saw the like.”
“Excellent,” said Skifr, eyes narrowed. “I am glad to see my wisdom has not been wasted.” She spun her ax in her fingers so quickly it became a blur. “Truly excellent, but you will find—”
“Stop!” screamed Sumael, dragging every face sharply toward her. To Brand’s surprise she sank to one knee, sweeping her arm towards her servant. “May I present her radiance Vialine, Princess of the Denied, Grand Duke of Napaz, Terror of the Alyuks, Protector of the First of Cities and Thirty-fifth Empress of the South.”
For a moment Brand thought it some elaborate joke. Then he saw Father Yarvi drop to one knee, and everyone else in the yard just afterward, and any hint of laughter quickly died.
“Gods,” he whispered, getting his own knee to the paving so fast it hurt.
“Sorry,” croaked Thorn, hastily doing the same.