Half the World

FROZEN LAKES

The king’s household halted in the spitting rain above the camp, a thousand fires sprawling under the darkening sky, pinprick torches trickling into the valley as the warriors of Gettland gathered. Thorn sprang down and offered the queen her hand. Not that Laithlin needed any help, she was twice the rider Thorn was. But Thorn was desperate to be useful.

In the songs, Chosen Shields protected their queens from assassins, or carried secret messages into the mouth of danger, or fought duels on which the fates of nations rested. Probably she should have learned by now not to take songs too seriously.

She found herself lost among an endlessly shifting legion of slaves and servants, trailing after the Golden Queen like the tail after a comet, besieging her with a thousand questions to which, whether she was nursing the heir to the throne at the time or not, she always had the answers. King Uthil might have sat in the Black Chair but, after a few days in Laithlin’s company, it was plain to Thorn who really ruled Gettland.

There was no trace of the easy companionship she’d had with Vialine. No earnest talks or demands to be called by her first name. Laithlin was more than twice Thorn’s age: a wife and mother, a peerless merchant, the mistress of a great household, as beautiful as she was deep-cunning as she was masterfully controlled. She was everything a woman should be and more. Everything Thorn wasn’t.

“My thanks,” Laithlin murmured, taking Thorn’s hand and making even sliding down from a saddle look graceful.

“I want only to serve.”

The queen did not let go of her hand. “No. You were not born to stand in dusty meetings and count coins. You want to fight.”

Thorn swallowed. “Give me the chance.”

“Soon enough.” Laithlin leaned close, gripping Thorn’s hand tight. “An oath of loyalty cuts both ways. I forgot that once, and never will again. We shall do great things together, you and I. Things to sing of.”

“My king?” Father Yarvi’s voice, and sharp with worry.

Uthil had stumbled climbing from his own saddle and now he was leaning heavily on his minister, gray as a ghost, chest heaving as he clutched his drawn sword against it.

“We will speak later,” said Laithlin, letting go of Thorn’s hand.

“Koll, boil water!” called Father Yarvi. “Safrit, bring my plants!”

“I saw that man walk a hundred miles through the ice and never falter,” said Rulf, standing beside Thorn with his arms folded. “The king is not well.”

“No.” Thorn watched Uthil shamble into his tent with one arm over his minister’s shoulders. “And with a great battle coming. Poor luck indeed.”

“Father Yarvi doesn’t believe in luck.”

“I don’t believe in helmsmen, but they dog me even so.”

Rulf chuckled at that. “How’s your mother?”

Thorn frowned across at him. “Unhappy with my choices, as always.”

“Still striking sparks from each other?”

“Since you ask, not near so much as we used to.”

“Oh? I reckon one of you must have grown up a little.”

Thorn narrowed her eyes. “Maybe one of us had a wise old warrior to teach them the value of family.”

“Everyone should be so lucky.” Rulf peered down at the ground, rubbing at his beard. “I’ve been thinking, perhaps … I should pay her a visit.”

“You asking my permission?”

“No. But I’d like to have it, still.”

Thorn gave a helpless shrug. “Far be it from me to come between a pair of young lovers.”

“Or me.” Rulf gave a meaningful look past her from under his brows. “Which is why I’ll be dwindling into the west, I think …”

Thorn turned, and Brand was walking toward her.

She had been hoping she might see him, but as soon as she did she felt a surge of nerves. As if she was stepping into the training square for the first time and he was her opponent. They should have been familiar to each other now, surely? But of a sudden she had no idea how to be with him. Prickly-playful, like one oar-mate with another? Simpering soft, like a maiden with a suitor? Frosty-regal, like Queen Laithlin with a debtor? Creepy-cautious, like a clever gambler keeping her dice well hidden?

Each step he came closer felt like a step back out onto that frozen lake, ice creaking under her weight, no notion what the next footfall might bring.

“Thorn,” he said, looking her in the eye.

“Brand,” she said, looking back.

“Couldn’t stand to wait for me any longer, eh?”

Prickly-playful, then. “The suitors were queued up outside my house all the way to the bloody docks. There’s only so much of men weeping over my beauty I can stand.” And she pressed a fingertip to one side of her nose and blew snot into the mud out of the other.

“You’ve a new sword,” he said, looking down at her belt.

She hooked a finger under the plain crosspiece and drew it halfway so he could draw it the rest with the faintest ringing. “From the best blade-maker in the Shattered Sea.”

“Gods, she’s got good.” He brushed Rin’s mark on the fuller with his thumb, swished the blade one way and the other, lifted it to peer with one eye down the length, Mother Sun flashing along the bright steel and glinting on the point.

“Didn’t have time to do anything fancy with it,” said Thorn, “but I’m getting to like it plain.”

Brand softly whistled. “That is fine steel.”

“Cooked with a hero’s bones.”

“Is that so?”

“Reckon I’d had my fathers fingers about my neck for long enough.”

He grinned as he offered the sword back to her, and she found she was grinning too. “I thought Rin said no to you?”

“No one says no to Queen Laithlin.”

Brand had that old puzzled look of his. “Eh?”

“She wanted her Chosen Shield suitably armed,” she said, slapping the sword back into its scabbard.

He gaped at her in silence while that sank in.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Thorn’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t even have a shield.”

He snapped his mouth shut. “I’m thinking you are the shield, and none better. If I was a queen I’d pick you.”

“Hate to crush your hopes, but I doubt you’ll ever be queen.”

“None of the gowns would suit me.” He slowly shook his head, starting to smile again. “Thorn Bathu, Chosen Shield.”

“What about you? Did you save Gettland, yet? Saw you gathering on the beach. Quite the crowd of young champions. Not to mention a couple of ancient ones.”

Brand winced. “Can’t say we saved much of anything. We killed an old farmer. We stole some sausages. We burned a village ’cause it was on the wrong side of a river. We took a slave.” Brand scratched at his head. “I let her go.”

“You just can’t help doing good, can you?”

“Don’t think Hunnan sees it that way. He’d like to tell everyone I’m a disgrace but he’d have to admit his raid was a disgrace, so …” He puffed out his cheeks, looking more puzzled than ever. “I’m swearing my warrior’s oath tomorrow. Along with some lads never swung a blade in anger.”

Thorn put on Father Yarvi’s voice. “Let Father Peace spill tears over the methods! Mother War smiles upon results! You must be pleased.”

He looked down at the ground. “I suppose so.”

“You’re not?”

“Do you ever feel bad? About those men you’ve killed?”

“Not a lot. Why should I?”

“I’m not saying you should. I’m just asking if you do.”

“I don’t.”

“Well, you’re touched by Mother War.”

“Touched?” Thorn snorted. “She’s slapped me purple.”

“Being a warrior, brothers at my shoulder, it’s what I always wanted …”

“There’s no disappointment like getting what you’ve always wanted.”

“Some things are worth the wait,” he said, looking her in the eye.

She had no doubts at all what that look meant now. She was starting to wonder if getting across this frozen lake of theirs might not be so hard. Maybe you just took one step at a time, and tried to enjoy the thrill of it. So she took a little pace closer to him. “Where are you sleeping?”

He didn’t back off. “Under the stars, I reckon.”

“A Chosen Shield gets a tent.”

“You trying to make me jealous?”

“No, it’s only a small one.” She moved another little step. “But it’s got a bed.”

“I’m getting to like this story.”

“Bit cold, though.” She moved another little step, and they were both smiling. “On my own.”

“I could have a word with Sordaf for you, reckon he could warm a blanket with one fart.”

“Sordaf’s everything most women could ask for, but I’ve always had odd tastes.” She reached up, using her fingers like a comb, and pushed the hair out of his face. “I had someone else in mind.”

“There’s a lot of folk watching,” said Brand.

“Like I care a damn.”