“Oh, this is something,” murmured Rulf, grinning wide.
Fror winced as he rubbed at his ribs. “It’s a lot more fun than fighting her yourself, that’s sure.”
Sumael’s frowning companion murmured something under his breath, and Father Yarvi smiled.
“What did he say?” whispered Brand.
“He said the girl is extraordinary.”
Brand snorted. “That’s bloody obvious.”
“Very good,” Skifr was saying. “But do not wait for me to hand you an opening. I am no gift-giver.”
“I’ll cut my own, then!” Thorn darted forward so fast Brand took a wobbly step back, her ax and sword flashing in circles, but Skifr twisted, reeled, somehow finding a path between them and away to safety.
“Please,” said Sumael, louder. “I need to—”
“There is no place for please on the battlefield!” screamed Skifr, unleashing another blinding flurry, wood clattering on wood, herding Thorn into the corner of the yard then her blade raking stone as Thorn ducked under it, rolled away and came up swinging. Skifr gasped as she stumbled back, Thorn’s sword missing the end of her nose by a finger’s breadth.
Koll gave a disbelieving titter. Father Yarvi puffed out his cheeks, eyes bright. Rulf shook his balding head in disbelief. “I never saw the like.”
“Excellent,” said Skifr, eyes narrowed. “I am glad to see my wisdom has not been wasted.” She spun her ax in her fingers so quickly it became a blur. “Truly excellent, but you will find—”
“Stop!” screamed Sumael, dragging every face sharply toward her. To Brand’s surprise she sank to one knee, sweeping her arm towards her servant. “May I present her radiance Vialine, Princess of the Denied, Grand Duke of Napaz, Terror of the Alyuks, Protector of the First of Cities and Thirty-fifth Empress of the South.”
For a moment Brand thought it some elaborate joke. Then he saw Father Yarvi drop to one knee, and everyone else in the yard just afterward, and any hint of laughter quickly died.
“Gods,” he whispered, getting his own knee to the paving so fast it hurt.
“Sorry,” croaked Thorn, hastily doing the same.
The empress stepped forward. “Don’t be. It was a most instructive display.” She spoke the Tongue with a heavy accent, but her voice was rich and full of confidence.
“Your radiance—” said Yarvi.
“Do I seem all that radiant to you?” The empress laughed. An open, friendly laugh that echoed about the courtyard. “I would rather we speak plainly. I get very little plain speaking at the palace. Except from Sumael, of course.”
“I find Sumael’s speaking just a little too plain at times.” Father Yarvi brushed off his knees as he stood. “We are truly honored by your visit.”
“It is I who should be honored. You have traveled across half the world to speak with me, after all. I would hate to be the sort of person who would not walk half a mile from my palace gate to speak with you.”
“I will try not to waste your time, then, empress.” The minister took a step toward her. “Do you understand the politics of the Shattered Sea?”
“I know a little. Sumael has told me more.”
Yarvi took another step. “I fear Mother War will soon spread her bloody wings across its every shore.”
“And you seek my help. Even though we pray to different gods? Even though my aunt made an alliance with the High King?”
“Her alliance, not yours.”
The empress folded her arms and stepped sideways. She and the minister began to circle each other warily, very much as Thorn and Skifr had done a few moments before. “Why should I forge a new one with Gettland?”
“Because you wish to favor the winning side.”
Vialine smiled. “You are too bold, Father Yarvi.”
“King Uthil would say there is no such thing as too bold.”
“Gettland is a small nation, surrounded by enemies—”
“Gettland is a rich nation surrounded by paupers. Queen Laithlin has made sure of it.”
“The Golden Queen,” murmured Vialine. “Her fame as a merchant has spread even this far. Is it true she has found a way to catch gold and silver in paper?”
“She has. One of many wonders, the secrets of which she would happily share with her allies.”
“You offer me gold and silver, then?”
“The High King offers nothing but prayers.”
“Is gold and silver everything to you, Father Yarvi?”
“Gold and silver is everything to everyone. Some of us have enough of it to pretend otherwise.”
The empress gave a little gasp at that.
“You asked for honesty.” Yarvi snapped his fingers toward Thorn and she stood up. “But as it happens my mother has sent something made of neither gold nor silver. A gift, brought the long, hard road down the Divine and the Denied from the darkest corners of the Shattered Sea.” And he slid the black box from inside his coat and handed it to Thorn.
“An elf-relic?” said the empress, scared and curious at once.
The frowning man moved closer to her, frowning even deeper.
Thorn held the box out awkwardly. They might have been of an age, but Vialine looked like a child next to her. Her head barely came to Thorn’s chest, let alone her shoulder. As though realizing how strange a pair they made, Thorn dropped to one knee so she could hold the gift at a more fitting angle, the elf-letters etched on the lid glinting as they caught the light. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I wish I was tall.” Vialine pushed back the lid of the box, and that pale light flooded out, and her eyes went wide. Brand felt Rulf stiffen beside him, heard Koll give a gasp of amazement, Fror murmuring a breathless prayer. He’d seen the light before and still he strained forward, longing to see what made it. The lid of the box was in the way, though.
“It is beautiful,” breathed the empress, reaching out. She gasped as she touched whatever was inside, the light on her face shifting from white to pink and back as she jerked her hand away. “Great God! It still turns?”
“It does,” said Skifr. “It senses you, Empress, and shifts to match your mood. It was brought from the elf-ruins of Strokom, where no man has trodden since the Breaking of God. There may not be another like it in the world.”
“Is it … safe?”
“No truly wonderful thing can be entirely safe. But it is safe enough.”
Vialine stared into the box, her wide eyes reflecting its glow. “It is too grand a gift for me.”
“How could any gift be too grand for the Empress of the South?” asked Yarvi, taking a gentle step toward her. “With this upon your arm, you will seem radiant indeed.”
“It is beautiful beyond words. But I cannot take it.”
“It is a gift freely given—”
Vialine looked up at him through her lashes. “I asked you to speak honestly, Father Yarvi.” And she snapped the box shut, and put the light out with it. “I cannot help you. My aunt Theofora made promises I cannot break.” She lifted her small fist high. “I am the most powerful person in the world!” Then she laughed, and let it fall. “And there is nothing I can do. Nothing I can do about anything. My uncle has an understanding with Mother Scaer.”
“A ruler must plow her own furrow,” said Yarvi.
“Easier said than done, Father Yarvi. The soil is very stony hereabouts.”
“I could help you dig it over.”
“I wish you could. Sumael says you are a good man.”
“Above average.” Sumael had a little smile at the corner of her mouth. “I’ve known worse men with both their hands.”
“But you cannot help me. No one can.” Vialine drew up her hood, and with one last glance toward Thorn, still kneeling in the middle of the courtyard with the box in her hand, the Empress of the South turned to leave. “And I am sorry, but I cannot help you.”
It was hardly what they’d all been hoping for. But so it goes, with hopes.
SOME BLOODY DIPLOMAT
Skifr came at her again but this time Thorn was ready. The old woman grunted in surprise as Thorn’s ax caught her boot and sent her lurching. She parried the next blow but it rocked her on her heels and the one after tore her sword from her hand and knocked her clean on her back.
Even on the ground Skifr was dangerous. She kicked dust in Thorn’s face, rolled and flung her ax with deadly accuracy. But Thorn was ready for that too, hooked it from the air with her own and sent it skittering into the corner, pressing on, teeth bared, and pinning Skifr against one of the pillars, the point of her sword tickling the old woman’s sweat-beaded throat.
Skifr raised her gray brows. “Auspicious.”
“I won!” bellowed Thorn, shaking her notched wooden weapons at the sky. It had been months since she dared hope she might ever get the better of Skifr. Those endless mornings being beaten with the oar as Mother Sun rose, those endless evenings trying to hit her with the bar by the light of Father Moon, those endless blows and slaps and slides into the mud. But she had done it. “I beat her!”
“You beat her,” said Father Yarvi, nodding slowly.
Skifr winced as she clambered up. “You have beaten a grandmother long years past her best. There will be sterner challenges ahead for you. But … you have done well. You have listened. You have worked. You have become deadly. Father Yarvi was right—”
“When am I wrong?” The minister’s smile vanished at a hammering on the door. He jerked his head toward Koll and the boy slid back the bolt.
“Sumael,” said Yarvi, smiling as he did whenever she visited. “What brings—”
She was breathing hard as she stepped over the threshold. “The empress wishes to speak to you.”
Father Yarvi’s eyes widened. “I’ll come at once.”
“Not you.” She was looking straight at Thorn. “You.”
BRAND HAD SPENT MOST of his life feeling out of place. Beggar among the rich. Coward among the brave. Fool among the clever. But a visit to the Palace of the Empress opened up whole new gulfs of crippling inadequacy.
“Gods,” he whispered, every time he crept around another corner after Thorn and Sumael into some new marbled corridor, or gilded stairway, or cavernous chamber, each richer than the last. He tiptoed down a hallway lit with candles tall as a man. Dozens of them, each worth more in Thorlby than he was, left burning on the chance that someone might happen by. Everything was jewelled or silvered, panelled or painted. He looked at a chair inlaid with a dozen kinds of wood, and thought how much more it must have cost than everything he had earned in his life. He wondered if he was dreaming it, but knew he didn’t have a good enough imagination.
“Wait here,” said Sumael, as they reached a round room at the top of a flight of steps, every bit of the marble walls carved as finely as Koll’s mast with scenes from some story. “Touch nothing.” And she left Brand alone with Thorn. The first time since that day in the market.
And look how that turned out.
“Quite a place,” he muttered.
Thorn stood with her back to him, turning her head to show a sliver of frown. “Is that why Father Yarvi sent you along? To say what anyone could see?”
“I don’t know why he sent me along.” Chill silence stretched out. “I’m sorry if I dragged you back. The other day. You’re far the better fighter, I should’ve let you take the lead.”
“You should’ve,” she said, without looking at him.
“Just … seems like you’re angry with me, and whatever I—”
“Does now seem like the time?”
“No.” He knew some things were better left unsaid but he couldn’t stand thinking she hated him. He had to try and put things right. “I just—” He glanced across at her, and she caught him looking, the way she had dozens of times the last few weeks, but now her face twisted.
“Just shut your bloody mouth!” she snarled, white with fury, and looked ready to give him a bloody mouth as well.
He looked down at the floor, so highly polished he could see his own stricken face staring stupidly back, and had nothing to say. What could you say to that?
“If you love-birds are quite finished,” said Sumael from the doorway, “the empress is waiting.”
“Oh, we’re finished,” snapped Thorn, stalking off.
Sumael shrugged her shoulders at Brand, and two frowning guards shut the doors on him with a final-sounding click.
THE GARDENS WERE LIKE something from a dream, all lit in strange colors by the purple sunset and the shifting torchlight, flames flickering from cages of coals that sent sparks dancing with every breath of wind. Nothing was the way the gods had made it, everything tortured by the hands of man. Grass shaved as carefully as a romancer’s jaw. Trees clipped into unnatural shapes and bowing under the weight of their own bloated, sweet-smelling blossom. Birds too, twittering from the twisted branches, and Thorn wondered why they didn’t fly away until she saw they were all tethered to their perches with silver chains fine as spider’s threads.
Paths of white stone twisted between statues of impossibly stern, impossibly slender women wafting scrolls, books, swords. Empresses of the past, Thorn reckoned, and all wondering why this half-shaved horror had been allowed among them. The guards looked as if they had the same question. Lots of guards, every mirror-bright sword and spear making her acutely aware of how unarmed she was. She sloped after Sumael around a star-shaped pool, crystal water tinkling into it from a fountain carved like snakes coiled together, up to the steps of a strange little building, a dome set on pillars with a curved bench beneath it.
On the bench sat Vialine, Empress of the South.
She had undergone quite a transformation since she visited Father Yarvi’s crumbling house. Her hair was twisted into a shining coil netted with golden wire and hung with jewels. Her bodice was set with tiny mirrors that twinkled blue and pink with the fading light, red and orange with the torch-flames. From a streak of dark paint across the bridge of her nose, her eyes gleamed brightest of all.
Thorn wasn’t sure she’d ever felt so far out of her depth. “What do I say?”
“She’s just a person,” said Sumael. “Talk to her like she’s a person.”
“What the hell do I know about talking to a person?”
“Just be honest.” Sumael slapped Thorn on the back and sent her stumbling forward. “And do it now.”
Thorn edged onto the lowest stair. “Your radiance,” she croaked out, trying to go down on one knee then realizing it couldn’t really be done on a set of steps.
“Vialine, and please don’t kneel. A week ago I was nobody much. It still makes me nervous.”
Thorn froze awkwardly halfway down, and wobbled back to an uncertain stoop. “Sumael says you sent for—”
“What is your name?”
“Thorn Bathu, your—”
“Vialine, please. The Thorn seems self-explanatory. The Bathu?”
“My father won a famous victory there the day I was born.”
“He was a warrior?”
“A great one.” Thorn fumbled for the pouch about her neck. “Chosen Shield to a queen of Gettland.”
“And your mother?”
“My mother … wishes I wasn’t me.” Sumael had told her to be honest, after all.
“My mother was a general who died in battle against the Alyuks.”
“Good for her,” said Thorn, then instantly thought better of it. “Though … not for you.” Worse and worse. “I suppose, your radiance …” She trailed off into mortified silence. Some bloody diplomat.
“Vialine.” The empress patted the bench beside her. “Sit with me.”
Thorn stepped up into the little pavilion, around a table, a silver platter on it heaped with enough perfect fruit to feed an army, and to a waist-high rail.
“Gods,” she breathed. She had scarcely thought about how many stairs she climbed, but now she saw they were on the palace roof. There was a cliff-like drop to more gardens far below. The First of Cities was spread out under the
darkening sky beyond, a madman’s maze of buildings, lights twinkling in the blue evening, as many as stars in the sky. In the distance, across the black mirror of the straight, other clusters of lights. Other towns, other cities. Strange constellations, faint in the distance.
“And all this is yours,” Thorn whispered.
“All of it and none of it.” There was something in the set of Vialine’s jaw, jutting proudly forward, that Thorn thought she recognized. That she had seen in her mother’s mirror, long ago. That made her think the empress was used to wearing a brave face of her own.
“That must be quite a weight to carry,” she said.
Vialine’s shoulders seemed to sag a little. “Something of a burden.”
“Empress, I don’t know anything about politics.” Thorn perched herself on the bench in a manner she hoped was respectful, whatever that looked like, she’d never been too comfortable sitting unless it was at an oar. “I don’t know anything about anything. You’d be much better talking to Father Yarvi—”
“I don’t want to talk about politics.”
Thorn sat in prickling awkwardness. “So …”
“You’re a woman.” Vialine leaned forward, her hands clasped in her lap and her eyes fixed on Thorn’s face. Disarmingly close. Closer than Thorn was used to having anyone, let alone an empress.
“So my mother tells me,” she muttered. “Opinion’s divided …”
“You fight men.”
“Yes.”
“You beat men.”
“Sometimes …”
“Sumael says you beat them three at a time! Your crew respect you. I could see it in their faces. They fear you.”
“Respect, I don’t know. Fear, maybe, your—”
“Vialine. I never saw a woman fight like you. Can I?” Before Thorn could answer the empress had put her hand on Thorn’s shoulder and squeezed at it. Her eyes went wide. “Great God, you’re like wood! You must be so strong.” She let her hand drop, much to Thorn’s relief, and stared down at it, small and dark on the marble between them. “I’m not.”
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