“So does a minister.”
He started to smear something on her face that made the stitches sting. “I remember you now. A dark-haired girl, watching.”
“Even then you were a deep-cunning man.”
“I have had to be.”
“Your trip to the First of Cities has turned out better than anyone could’ve hoped.”
“Thanks to you.” He unwound a length of bandage. “You have done what no diplomat could achieve, and made an ally of the Empire of the South. Almost enough to make me glad I didn’t crush you with rocks. And you have your reward.” He tapped at the elf-bangle, its faint light showing through her sleeve.
“I’d give it back if I could open it.”
“Skifr says it cannot be opened. But you should wear it proudly. You have earned it, and more besides. I may not be my mother’s son any longer, but I still have her blood. I remember my debts, Thorn. Just as you remember yours.”
“I’ve had a lot of time for remembering, the last few days. I’ve been remembering Throvenland.”
“Another alliance that no one could have hoped for.”
“You have a habit of coming away with them. I’ve been thinking about the man who poisoned the water.”
“The man you killed?”
Thorn fixed his pale blue eye with hers. “Was he your man?”
Father Yarvi’s face showed no surprise, no confirmation and no denial. He wound the bandages around her head as if she had not spoken.
“A deep-cunning man,” she went on, “in need of allies, knowing King Fynn’s ready temper, might have staged such a thing.”
He pushed a pin gently through the bandages to hold them firm. “And a hot-headed girl, a thorn in the world’s arse, not knowing anything, might have got herself caught up in the gears of it.”
“It could happen.”
“You are not without some cunning of your own.” Father Yarvi put the bandages and the knife carefully away in his bag. “But you must know a deep-cunning man would never lay bare his schemes. Not even to his friends.” He patted her on the shoulder, and stood. “Keep your lies as carefully as your winter grain, my old teacher used to tell me. Rest, now.”
“Father Yarvi?” He turned back, a black shape in the bright outline of the door. “If I hadn’t killed that poisoner … who would have drunk the water?”
A silence, then, and with the light behind him she could not see his face. “Some questions are best not asked, Thorn. And certainly best not answered.”
“RULF’S BEEN GETTING THE CREW back together.” Brand pushed some invisible dust around with the toe of his boot. “Few new men but mostly the same old faces. Koll can’t wait to get started carving the other side of the mast, he says. And Dosduvoi’s thinking of preaching the word of the One God up north. Fror’s with us too.”
Thorn touched a finger to her bandages. “Reckon folk’ll be asking me how I got the scars, now, eh?”
“Hero’s marks,” said Brand, scratching at the ones that snaked up his own forearms. “Marks of a great deed.”
“And it’s hardly like my looks were ever my strongest point, is it?” Another awkward silence. “Father Yarvi says you killed Duke Mikedas.”
Brand winced as though the memory was far from pleasant. “The ground killed him. I just made the introduction.”
“You don’t sound proud of it.”
“No. Not sure I’m touched by Mother War like you are. Don’t have your …”
“Fury?”
“I was going to say courage. Anger I’ve got plenty of. Just wish I didn’t.”
“Father Yarvi says you carried me back. He says you saved my life.”
“Just what an oar-mate does.”
“Thanks for doing it, even so.”
He stared at the ground, chewing at his lip, and finally looked up at her. “I’m sorry. For whatever I did. For …” He had that helpless look of his again, but rather than making her want to hold him, it made her want to hit him. “I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault,” she grated out. “Just the way things are.”
“I wish they were a different way.”
“So do I.” She was too tired, too sore, too hurting inside and out to try and make it pretty. “Not as if you can make yourself like someone, is it?”
“Guess not,” he said in a meek little voice that made her want to hit him even more. “Been through a lot together, you and me. Hope we can be friends, still.”
She made her voice cold. Cold and sharp as a drawn blade. It was that or she might set to crying and she wouldn’t do it. “Don’t think that’ll work for me, Brand. Don’t see how this just goes back the way it was.”
His mouth gave a sorry twist at that. As if he was the one hurt. Guilt, more than likely, and she hoped it stung. Hoped it stung half as much as she did. “Up to you.” He turned his back on her. “I’ll be there. If you need me.”