Joe Abercrombie: Half the World

“What could Vansterland and Gettland not achieve together?” called the Golden Queen.

“Then I accept.”

A stunned sigh rippled around the square, as if the held breath of every man was suddenly let out.

Brand twisted free of Rulf’s limp hands and ran.

“THORN?”

The voice seemed to echo from a long way away, down a dark tunnel. Brand’s voice. Gods, she was glad to hear it.

“You all right?” Strong hands at her shoulder, lifting her.

“I got proud,” she croaked, throat raw, mouth stinging. Tried to get to her knees, so weak and dizzy she nearly fell again, but he caught her.

“But you’re alive.”

“I reckon,” she whispered, more than a little surprised as Brand’s face drifted gradually out of the bright blur. Gods, she was glad to see it.

“That’s enough.” He stretched her arm over his shoulders and she groaned as he lifted her gently to her feet. She couldn’t have taken a step on her own, but he was strong. He wouldn’t let her fall. “You need me to carry you?”

“It’s a fine thought.” She winced as she looked toward the warriors of Gettland gathered on the crest ahead of them. “But I’d better walk. Why didn’t he kill me?”

“Mother Isriun changed his mind.”

Thorn took one look back as they shuffled up the slope toward the camp. Grom-gil-Gorm stood in the middle of the square, bloodied but unbeaten. Mother Scaer was already working at his wounded shield hand with needle and thread. His sword-hand was gripping Queen Laithlin’s, sealing the alliance between Vansterland and Gettland. Bitter enemies made friends. At least for now.

Beside them, with arms folded, Yarvi smiled.

In spite of all the prayers to Mother War, it seemed Father Peace made the judgment that day.

Brand gave the billet a few more ringing blows with his hammer then shoved it back into the coals in a shower of sparks.

Rin gave a disgusted click of her tongue. “You’ve not got what they call a gentle touch, have you?”

“That’s what you’re here for.” Brand grinned at her. “Got to make you feel special, don’t I?”

But she was looking past him, toward the door. “You’ve a visitor.”

“Father Yarvi, what an honor.” Brand set down his hammer and wiped his forehead on his forearm. “Come to buy a blade?”

“A minister should stand for Father Peace,” said Yarvi as he stepped into the forge.

“A good one stays friendly with Mother War too,” said Rin.

“Wise words. And now more than ever.”

Brand swallowed. “It’s going to be war, then?”

“The High King will take time gathering his warriors. But I think it will be war. Still. War is a fine thing for a swordsmith’s business.”

Rin raised her brows at Brand. “We’d settle for a poorer peace, I reckon. I hear King Uthil’s on the mend, at least.”

“His strength rushes back,” said Yarvi. “Soon he will be terrorizing his warriors once again at sword practice, and using your fine steel to do it.”

“Father Peace be praised,” said Rin.

“Father Peace and your skills,” said Brand.

Yarvi humbly bowed. “I do what I can. And how do the gods treat you, Brand?”

“Well enough.” He nodded at his sister. “If it wasn’t for my tyrant of a master I’d be enjoying the job. Turns out I like working with metal a lot more than I remembered.”

“Easier than working with people.”

“Steel is honest,” said Brand.

Father Yarvi looked sideways at him. “Is there somewhere we can speak alone?”

Brand looked over at Rin, already pounding at the bellows. She shrugged. “Steel is patient too.”

“You’re not, though.”

“Go have your talk.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Before I change my mind.”

Brand pulled his gloves off and led Yarvi out into the little yard, noisy with the sound of running water. He sat on the bench Koll had carved for them in the dappled shade of the tree, breeze cool on his sweat-sheened face, and offered Father Yarvi the place beside him.

“A pleasant spot.” The minister smiled up at Mother Sun, flashing and flickering through the leaves. “It’s a fine life you and your sister have made for yourselves.”

“She made it. I just happened along.”

“You’ve always played your part. I remember you taking the weight of the South Wind across your shoulders.” Yarvi looked down at the scars snaking up Brand’s forearms. “There was a feat to sing of.”

“I find I care less for songs than I used to.”

“You are learning. How is Thorn?”

“Already back to training three-quarters of every day.”

“She is carved from wood, that one.”

“No woman firmer touched by Mother War.”

“And yet she has been the needle that stitched two great alliances together. Perhaps she was touched by Father Peace too.”

“Don’t tell her that.”

“The two of you are still … together?”

“Aye.” Brand had a sense the minister knew these answers, but that every question had another hidden in it. “You could call it that.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“I suppose so,” he said, thinking of the screaming argument they’d had that morning.

“It’s not good?”

“It’s good,” he said, thinking of how they’d made up afterward. “It’s just … I always thought of being together as the end of the work. Turns out it’s where the work starts.”

“No road worth traveling is easy,” said Father Yarvi. “Each of you has strengths the other lacks, weaknesses the other makes up for. It is a fine thing, a rare thing, to find someone who …” He frowned up at the shifting branches, as though he thought of something far away, and the thought was painful. “Makes you whole.”

Took a little while for Brand to gather the courage to speak. “I’ve been thinking about melting down that coin Prince Varoslaf gave me.”

“To make a key?”

Brand pushed a couple of fallen leaves around with the side of his boot. “Probably she’d prefer a dagger but … a key’s traditional. What do you think Queen Laithlin would think of it?”

“The queen has had three sons and no daughters. I think she is becoming very much attached to her Chosen Shield. But I’m sure she could be persuaded.”

Brand gave those leaves another push. “No doubt folk think I’m the one should wear the key. I’m none too popular in Thorlby.”

“The king’s warriors are not all admirers of yours, it is true. Master Hunnan in particular. But I have heard it said enemies are the price of success. Perhaps they are the price of conviction too.”

“The price of cowardice, maybe.”

“Only a fool would reckon you a coward, Brand. To stand up before the warriors of Gettland and speak as you did?” Father Yarvi put his lips together and gave a faint whistle. “People may sing no hero’s songs of it, but that was rare courage.”

“You think so?”

“I do, and courage is not your only admirable quality.”

Brand hardly knew what to say to that, so he said nothing.

“Did you know Rulf melted down his earnings from our voyage and made a key of his own?”

“For who?”

“Thorn’s mother. They are being married in the Godshall next week.”

Brand blinked. “Oh.”

“Rulf is getting old. He would never say so, but he is keen to step back.” Yarvi looked sideways. “I think you would do well in his place.”

Brand blinked again. “Me?”

“I told you once that I might need a man beside me who thinks of doing good. I think so more than ever.”

“Oh.” Brand couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“You could join Safrit, and Koll, and be part of my little family.” Every word Father Yarvi let drop was carefully weighed out and these did not fall by accident. He knew just what to offer. “You would be close to me. Close to the queen. Close to the queen’s Chosen Shield. The helmsman of a minister’s ship.” He remembered that day on the steering platform, the crew thumping at their oars, the sunlight bright on the water of the Denied. “You would stand at the right hand of the man who stands at the right hand of the king.”