The door shut, and she bared her teeth at it, and that made her face ache, and she felt tears in her eyes, and dashed them hard away. Wasn’t fair. Wasn’t fair at all, but she guessed love’s even less fair than the battlefield.
To fool herself once was once too often. She had to rip those hopes up before they could take root. She had to kill the seeds. As soon as she could she limped off to find Rulf and asked for a different oar to pull on the way back home.
Owed her that much, didn’t they?
STRANGE BEDFELLOWS
“So you’re leaving?” asked Sumael, her heavy footsteps echoing down the corridor.
“Within the week,” said Father Yarvi. “We may not make it home before the Divine freezes as it is. You could always come with us. Don’t pretend you don’t miss the northern snows.”
She laughed. “Oh, every balmy day here I wish I was frozen near to death again. You could always stay with us. Don’t you enjoy the southern sun?”
“I am a little too pale. I burn before I brown.” He gave a ragged sigh. “And I have an oath to keep.”
Her smile faded. “I didn’t think you took your oaths that seriously.”
“This one I do,” said Father Yarvi.
“Will you break the world to keep it?”
“I hope it won’t come to that.”
Sumael snorted. “You know how it is, with hopes.”
“I do,” murmured Brand. He got the feeling there were two conversations going on. One in plain sight and one hidden. But he’d never been much good with conversations, or with things he couldn’t see, so he said no more.
Sumael swung a gate open with a squealing of rusted hinges, rough steps dropping into darkness. “She’s down there.”
The vaulted passage at the bottom was caked with mold, something scurrying away from the flickering light of Brand’s torch.
“Just follow my lead,” said Yarvi.
Brand gave a weary nod. “What else would I do?”
They stopped before a barred opening. Brand saw the glimmer of eyes in the shadows and stepped close, raising his torch.
Mother Scaer, once minister of Vansterland, then emissary of Grandmother Wexen, now sat against a wall of mossy rock with her shaved head on one side, her tattooed forearms on her knees and her long hands dangling. She had five elf-bangles stacked on one wrist, gold and glass and polished metal glinting. Brand would’ve been awestruck at the sight of them once but now they seemed petty, gaudy, broken things beside the one Thorn wore.
“Ah, Father Yarvi!” Scaer stretched a long leg toward them, chains rattling from an iron band about her bare ankle. “Have you come to gloat?”
“Perhaps a little. Can you blame me? You did conspire to murder the Empress Vialine, after all.”
Mother Scaer gave a hiss. “I had no part of that. Grandmother Wexen sent me here to stop that puffed-up bladder of arrogance Duke Mikedas from doing anything foolish.”
“How did that work out?” asked Yarvi.
Mother Scaer held up a length of chain to show them, and let it drop in her lap. “You should know better than anyone, a good minister gives the best advice they can, but in the end the ruler does what the ruler does. Did you bring this one to frighten me?” Mother Scaer’s blue eyes fell on Brand, and even through the bars he felt a chill. “He is not frightening.”
“On the contrary, I brought him to make you feel comfortable. My frightening one picked up a scratch killing seven men when she saved the empress and ruined all your plans.” Brand didn’t point out that he’d killed two of those men. He took no pride in it, and he was getting the feeling that wasn’t the story everyone wanted to tell. “But she’s healing nicely. Perhaps she can frighten you later.”
Mother Scaer looked away. “We both know there is no later for me. I should have killed you at Amwend.”
“You wanted to leave my guts for the crows, I remember. But Grom-gil-Gorm said, why kill what you can sell?”
“His first mistake. He made a second when he trusted you.”
“Well, like King Uthil, Gorm is a warrior, and warriors tend to prefer action to thought. That is why they need ministers. That is why he needs your advice so very badly. That, I suspect, is why Grandmother Wexen was so keen to prize you from his side.”
“He will get no help from me now,” said Mother Scaer. “You, and Grandmother Wexen, and Duke Mikedas between you have made sure of that.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Yarvi. “I am heading back up the Divine within the week. Back to the Shattered Sea.” He pushed out his lips and tapped at them with his forefinger. “To send a passenger on to Vulsgard would not be too much trouble, eh, Brand?”
“Not too much,” said Brand.
Yarvi raised his brows as though the idea had just occurred. “Perhaps we could find room for Mother Scaer?”
“We’ve lost one mysterious bald woman.” Brand shrugged. “We’ve space for another.”
Gorm’s minister frowned up at them. Interested, but not wanting to seem interested. “Don’t toy with me, boy.”