Joe Abercrombie - Half the World

Father Yarvi took her hand and, stronger than she looked, she pulled him close by it. “You understand I can promise nothing.”

“I am less interested in promises than I used to be. The way to bend someone to your will is to offer them what they want, not to make them swear an oath.” Yarvi twisted his hand free. “It will be cold on the Divine, as the year grows late. I’d pack something warm.”

As they walked off into the darkness, Father Yarvi put his hand on Brand’s shoulder. “You did well.”

“I scarcely said a thing.”

“No. But the wise speaker learns first when to stay silent. You’d be surprised how many clever people never take the lesson.”

Sumael was waiting for them at the gate. “Did you get what you wanted?”

Yarvi stopped in front of her. “Everything I wanted and far more than I deserved. But now it seems I must leave it behind.”

“Fate can be cruel.”

“It usually is.”

“You could stay.”

“You could come.”

“But in the end we must all be what we are. I am counselor to an empress.”

“I am minister to a king. We both have our burdens.”

Sumael smiled. “And when you’ve a load to lift …”

“You’re better lifting than weeping.”

“I will miss you, Yarvi.”

“It will be as if I left the best piece of myself behind.”

They looked at each other for a moment longer, then Sumael dragged in a sharp breath. “Good luck on the journey.” And she strode away, shoulders back.

Father Yarvi’s face twisted and he leaned against the gate as if he might fall. Brand was on the point of offering his hand, but the wise speaker learns first when to stay silent. Soon enough the minister drew himself up without help.

“Gather the crew, Brand,” he said. “We’ve a long way to go.”

Thorn gently slid her oar from its port and gave the sweat-polished wood a fond final stroke with her fingertips.

“Fare you well, my friend.” The oar was all indifference, though, so with a parting sigh she hefted her sea-chest rattling onto the wharf and sprang up after it.

Mother Sun smiled down on Thorlby from a clear sky, and Thorn closed her eyes and tipped her face back, smiling as the salt breeze kissed her scarred cheeks.

“Now that’s what weather should be,” she whispered, remembering the choking heat of the First of Cities.

“Look at you.” Rulf paused in tying off the prow-rope to shake his balding head in wonder. “Hard to believe how you’ve grown since you first sat at my back oar. And not just in height.”

“From girl to woman,” said Father Yarvi, clambering from the South Wind .

“From woman to hero,” said Dosduvoi, catching Thorn in a crushing hug. “Remember that crew of Throvenmen singing a song about you on the Divine? The she-devil who killed ten warriors and saved the Empress of the South! A woman who breathes fire and looks lightning!”

“Snake for a tail, wasn’t it?” grunted Fror, winking his smaller eye at her.

“All that time spent staring at your arse,” mused Koll, “and I never noticed the tail-ow!” As his mother clipped him around the head.

Dosduvoi was still chuckling over the Throvenmen. “Their faces when they realized you were sitting right in front of them!”

“And then they begged to fight you.” Rulf laughed with him. “Bloody fools.”

“We warned ’em,” grunted Fror. “What did you say, Safrit?”

“She might not breathe fire, but you’ll get burned even so.”

“And she kicked their white arses one after another and dumped their captain in the river!” shouted Koll, springing up onto the ship’s rail and balancing there with arms spread wide.

“Lucky he didn’t drown with all that ice,” said Rulf.

In spite of the warmth, Thorn shivered at the memory. “Gods, but it was cold up there on the Divine.”

The ice had come early, crackling against the keel, and just a week north of the tall hauls it had locked the river tight. So they’d dragged the South Wind over and made a hall of her again, and lived there huddled like a winter flock for two freezing months.

Thorn still trained as hard as if she could hear Skifr’s voice. Harder, maybe. She fought Dosduvoi and Fror and Koll and Rulf, but though she saw him watching, she never asked for Brand.

She still woke when Skifr would’ve woken her. Earlier, maybe. She’d look down in the chill darkness through the smoke of her breath and see him lying, chest slowly shifting, and wish she could drop down beside him in the warmth the way she used to. Instead she’d force herself out into the bitter chill, teeth clenched against the aching in her leg as she ran across a white desert, the elf-bangle glowing chill white at her wrist, the streak of the crew’s campfire the one feature in the great white sky.

She had what she’d always wanted. Whatever Hunnan and his like might say she had proved herself a warrior, with a favored place on a minister’s crew and songs sung of her high deeds. She had sent a dozen men through the Last Door. She had won a prize beyond price from the most powerful woman in the world. And here was the harvest.

A thousand miles of lonely nothing.

Thorn had always been happiest in her own company. Now she was as sick of it as everyone else was. So she stood on the docks of Thorlby and hugged Safrit tight, and dragged Koll down from the rail and scrubbed his wild hair while he squirmed in embarrassment, then caught Rulf and kissed him on his balding pate, and seized hold of Dosduvoi and Fror and hauled them into a struggling, sour-smelling embrace. A frowning giant and a scarred Vansterman, foul as dung and frightening as wolves when she met them, grown close to her as brothers.

“Gods damn it but I’ll miss you horrible bastards.”

“Who knows?” said Mother Scaer, still stretched out among their supplies where she had spent most of the homeward voyage. “Our paths may cross again before too long.”

“Let’s hope not,” Thorn muttered under her breath, looked over those familiar faces, and gave it one last try. “How’d you get the scar, Fror?”

The Vansterman opened his mouth as if to toss out one of his jokes. He always had one ready, after all. Then his eyes flickered to her scarred cheeks and he stopped short, thinking. He took a long breath, and looked her straight in the eye.

“I was twelve years old. The Gettlanders came before dawn. They took most of the villagers for slaves. My mother fought and they killed her. I tried to run, and their leader cut me with his sword. Left me for dead with nothing but this scar.”

There was the truth, then, and it was ugly enough. But there was something else in the way Fror looked at her. Something that made the hairs stand on Thorn’s neck. Her voice cracked a little when she asked the question. “Who was their leader?”

“They called him Headland.”

Thorn stared down at the sword she wore. The sword that had been her father’s. “This sword, then?”

“The gods cook strange recipes.”

“But you sailed with Gettlanders! You fought beside me. Even though you knew I was his daughter?”

“And I’m glad I did.” Fror shrugged. “Vengeance only walks a circle. From blood, back to blood. Death waits for us all. You can follow your path to her bent under a burden of rage. I did, for many years. You can let it poison you.” He took a long breath, and let it sigh away. “Or you can let it go. Be well, Thorn Bathu.”

“You too,” she muttered, hardly knowing what to say. Hardly knowing what to think.

She took a last look at the South Wind, tame now, at the wharf, the paint flaking on the white doves mounted at prow and stern. That ship had been her home for a year. Her best friend and her worst enemy, every plank and rivet familiar. Seemed a different ship to the one they set out in. Weathered and worn, scarred and seasoned. A little bit like Thorn. She gave it a final, respectful nod, jerked her sea-chest up onto her shoulder, turned-