I’d stayed in my seat. Duncan Greenfire had stopped a Brethren assassin killing the prince, and everyone had jumped to their feet. It was very exciting, but there was little I could contribute. The incident had stopped me following through with my challenge to the young Winterlord, and I decided to let everyone else deal with the aftermath, while I let my anger dissipate.
Arthur, my brother, took the assassin out of the hall, followed by one of the Winterlords, while everyone else argued. Master Greenfire, the dangerous little bastard, was gathered up by Tomas Red Fang and taken away. And the arguing continued. It took an hour of back and forth before anyone returned to join me at the table, and by then the prince had accepted that, despite the attempt on his life, he was not going to get an oath of loyalty from Lord Ulric.
“We’ll find out who he is,” offered Vikon Blood, trying to placate Lady Natasha Dawn Claw, by far the most agitated of the visitors. “But you should leave. It may not be safe.”
“Leave?” snapped the old woman.
“Please,” said Prince Oliver. “This changes everything. The Brethren have made their move.”
I leant back and put my leather boots up on the table, slowly crossing my legs and smiling at the Winterlords. “Just leave,” I said. “When my brother finds out who sent the assassin, we’ll tell you. But your presence has no benefit to us, and we will not submit to you.”
More arguing ensued. I was largely responsible, but chose not to contribute further. Ulric had called the Always King his brother, but had no reason to follow the prince. We both hated the Dark Brethren, but that was a soft reason to form an alliance. The Parliament may change and it may affect us, but we’d thrive or we wouldn’t. It was not always wise to plan ahead. And no assassin had tried to kill a Sea Wolf.
It was eventually decided that the young Winterlord duellist, called David Falcon’s Fang, and his Pure One squire, would remain at the Severed Hand, and represent the prince. Consensus could not be reached on the identity of the assassin, as he wore no heraldry, but Prince Oliver was sure that he’d been sent from the Open Hand, tasked by one of the three Cyclone brothers. His petty, conspiratorial babble barely penetrated my ears, though Lord Ulric and Tomas Red Fang paid close attention, and appeared sincere in their desire to resolve the situation. But I had other things to do, and I didn’t give a shit about the Winterlords.
*
The Wood of Scars was colder than usual, though I was glad to be out of the Wolf House and away from the Winterlords. I felt a sharp breeze, lancing through the trees and flowing over my face. We were on the hunt, tracking Mirralite Pure Ones from the Severed Hand to a lattice of dried river beds, ringing a forest clearing. I thought ten, maybe fifteen men.
“Why don’t they learn?” asked Jaxon Ice, the duellist at my side. “Haven’t we killed enough of them?”
“They have no wyrd,” I replied. “And one hundred and sixty-seven years ago we invaded their island.”
The Mirralite would never bend knee to the First Fang. We’d shown them time and time again what we did to rebels, but they appeared determined to die. When I was small, I remember my father whispering tales of the Second Battle of Tranquillity, when the Mirralite rose in open rebellion and were crushed by Lord Ulric and King Christophe Dawn Claw, the Shining Sword. The two Eastron lords declared their friendship on that day and decreed Nibonay to be at peace. The island was ours by the eternal right of conquest and we were nice enough to allow the Pure Ones to remain. My whole life I’d seen the gratitude of the Nissalite and the scorn of the Mirralite. When I took the rite and became a duellist, I gained the power to do something about it. For eleven years I’d swung the blade of the Severed Hand as a Sea Wolf, defending it against Pure Ones, Dark Brethren and all manner of void beasts. Arthur and I had served together on a dozen ships, and our cloaks were red indeed. In blood and glory.
“They don’t know we’re here,” I said. “They’d have carried on running. Break the glass and we’ll give ’em a surprise. Are we close enough to the hold?”
Jaxon looked up at the sky, then back towards the Severed Hand, assessing whether or not the void would be friendly. “Should be okay,” he replied. “Spirit-masters keep this area clear of dangerous spirits. North of here is where things get nasty.”
“Okay, break the glass,” I confirmed.
I closed my eyes and pushed my mind forwards, flowing effortlessly into the void. Jaxon was already there, several seconds before me, proving once again why we called him the Wisp. He had a knack for moving in and out of the void, and beyond the glass he could travel faster than any other duellist.
Our wyrd was the same, shining in our hearts and arms, but I had a subtle skin of glowing light that covered me from head to toe, setting me apart. Arthur possessed the same light and claimed it was a hereditary gift of our family. We were born one year apart, on the same day, at the same hour. Though everyone thought of us as twins, he was the younger by exactly a year.
“Once more for the Severed Hand,” I muttered, drawing my cutlass and moving towards the clearing. The trees were now a shimmering blue and the grass fell away into endless puddles of green, so vibrant they caused me to squint. Jaxon was nice enough to not skip ahead and show me how easily he found void travel.
“Addie, it’s quiet tonight,” said the Wisp. “The woods are usually more alive than this.”
“I haven’t been out here for a few weeks,” I replied. “Seems colder.”
“It is … it is colder. And not a single spirit.”
The Wood of Scars was a dangerous place to break the glass. The Mirralite, in their ignorance, worshipped dozens of nature deities of various kinds, each given a semblance of form in the void. They were hollow compared to our own totem, but nasty when directed by Mirralite shamans, known as varn. But there were none on this night. Varn or spirits. It was just quiet and cold.
“Bad omens,” I said. “My father said that only a fool ignores bad omens.”
“Your father is the Battle Brand, we would be foolish to not heed his advice.” Jaxon was smiling at me, affecting an expression of deference.
“And your father is some man of Ice? One of the rebellious ones or one of the dead ones?”
The People of Ice were confined on the island of Nowhere, and few of them sought a home at the Severed Hand. They were acknowledged as Sea Wolves, but had risen in rebellion once too often to be trusted. Jaxon Ice was one of the few to gain station as a duellist.
He laughed, punching me on the shoulder and gliding away, across the treacherous tide of the void.
“What, no advice from old man Ice?” I called after him, before hurrying towards the clearing. The Wisp and I were duellists, equal in all things. Insults and banter would only ever cause shallow cuts. Duellists did not challenge each other, not since Lord Ulric’s father, the Bloody Fang, became elder of the Severed Hand.
“Hurry up,” joked the Wisp. “There are ten Pure Ones to kill. If you’re nice, I’ll let you have five of them.”
Through the ghostly trees, I could see where a dozen dried river beds met in a shallow depression. A crackling distortion in the void indicated that the Mirralite had lit a fire. The Pure Ones themselves were huddled together, appearing beyond the glass as nothing more than grey husks, devoid of wyrd or any significant power. They were still of the race of men, but different, somehow lesser. Perhaps the Eastron from across the sea would be the same if they’d never harnessed their wyrd.
Jaxon moved to the other side and we flanked them, before taking deep breaths and returning to the realm of form. In a flash of light and wyrd, we struck from the void. Two Pure Ones were driven, as split sides of meat, into the earth. Two more had died before the rest could stand. I whipped my strength into a single point at the tip of my blade and severed a man’s head in a blur of movement. Jaxon danced between two Mirralite, slicing one across the gut and throwing the other to the ground.
“Run if you wish,” I said calmly, as the remaining Pure Ones ran. “We can run faster.”
They were all large men, clad in thin canvas clothing, baggy and adorned with colourful embroidery. Their nature spirits liked bright colours and knotted designs, but not good steel or effective armour. Killing them was like filleting fish.
A single Pure One stood his ground, gritting sharpened teeth at me. He had seaweed woven into his hair, and he licked his lips. I approached, and was about to kill him, when he spoke. “Use your glass while you can, Invader,” he growled, with strangely sincere confidence. “I hear the sea, and the Sea Wolves will be deafened by its roar. The glass will break upon the Severed Hand, and in will flood waves of chaos. This I swear on the Lodge of the Rock.”
He drew a curved blade and slit his own throat … and he did it slowly, snarling at me the whole time. I’d hunted a thousand Mirralite, and killed a thousand more, but I’d never seen one kill himself. And I’d never seen madness like I saw in his eyes. He meant it, and he believed it, and he’d made sure I heard it before he died. The glass will break upon the Severed Hand – an ominous prophecy, to be sure, but spoken by a worthless prophet.
*
I had a famous name, but I never thought of it as a curse. From my first memories I had been a Brand. My grandfather was the Brand. I grew up watching the awe in my father’s eyes whenever the Battle Brand spoke or acted. When grandfather died and my parents left for Last Port, my brother and I were made wards of the Severed Hand, to take the rite when we came of age. We were twelve when he left, and I’ve only seen my father four times in the past fifteen years. The Battle Brand didn’t leave Last Port, though Arthur and I were duellists, and didn’t need a father.
“What do you think he meant?” asked the Wisp. “About the glass.”
We had dealt with the remaining Mirralite and were jogging back to the Severed Hand.
I shrugged. “Pure Ones spout all sorts of meaningless rubbish. If we listened to every one of their doom-laden prophecies, we’d never leave the hold. The Wolf’s Bastard keeps track of them. He’s got a ledger with all sorts of apocalyptic horse-shit.”
“The Invaders came from across the sea,” mused the Wisp. “We claimed their rock, their fire, their tree.”
I snorted in amusement. “Don’t sing that, it bothers me.” Even the Nissalite sung the refrain from time to time. Jonas Grief, the master-at-arms, was not above executing Pure Ones cheeky enough to sing it around the Wolf House.
“What did you say about ignoring bad omens?” asked Jaxon.
“The Battle Brand, not me.”
“Still, only fools ignore such things.”
“Didn’t say I was ignoring it,” I replied. “I just said the Mirralite are full of portentous crap.”
The Wisp was usually right. He had a knack for cutting through the dressing of things and locating the heart. This trait was not liked by my brother, who had taken to bullying Jaxon from a young age. The Wisp usually just smiled, content in the knowledge that his skill in the void was unquestioned. This often made Arthur even more angry and required me to lend a restraining hand. I’d lost count of the bruises Jaxon would have got without me. It made us close friends. The Wisp was far from helpless, but Arthur was the toughest duellist of his generation. Except for his sister.
The trees thinned and the first glimpses of stone appeared across the skyline. The hold of the Severed Hand was a sprawling block of grey and black, dominating the coast for a hundred miles or more. Thick walls connected six huge towers, forming the original western battlements of the hold, and further east, the newer buildings were built from the edge of the Wood of Scars to the Bright Coast.
We approached Ragnar’s Tower and the Gate of Scars, leaving the dense forest and feeling the chill winds rolling from the Outer Sea. The land was shimmering and indistinct, sending waves of ghostly mirages across the horizon, each one as real as a painting and as fleeting as a gust of wind. I saw a hundred battles and a thousand people every time I looked at that magical horizon. They were friends, enemies and, most importantly, memories. Each time I looked I wanted to see a mirage I’d seen before, perhaps one from my childhood when a great sea-serpent appeared to devour a boat, or an army of ghostly warriors assaulting an unseen enemy in the distance. Or a more recent memory, of deep green eyes and soft skin.
The glass was thin on Nibonay and allowed visions to leak from the void. Nothing solid or permanent, just flashes of unreality intruding upon the Severed Hand and its Sea Wolves. Two great void battles had taken place here. The two Battles of Tranquillity. Duncan Red Claw had massacred an army of rebels a hundred and fifty years ago, and Ulric Blood had done the same with King Christophe, when I was barely three years old. Each time, the Sea Wolves had attacked en-masse from the void, annihilating the Pure One spirits and fracturing the glass. Since then, powerful nature spirits had reclaimed the void of Nibonay, making it near suicide to break the glass beyond sight of the Severed Hand.
“Look yonder,” said the Wisp, pointing to a plume of smoke, seeping above the cliffs. “More ships aflame.”
The smoke was distant from the hold and looked like it came from fishing boats or a small jetty. Either way, the Mirralite were stepping up their campaign of sabotage. The last month had seen two dozen such attacks. The Pure Ones skulked to the edge of the woods and flung casks of oil and flaming torches at anything wooden. They were too afraid to mount any serious assaults, but killing them did nothing to stop our boats from burning. They’d stayed clear of Laughing Rock, and any large ships. To the north, the tall masts of the Dead Horse were just disappearing over the horizon.
“Why do they bother?” I mused. “They never fire any ships of note or kill anyone. It’s barely more than a game.”
“Maybe it’s the only victory they can get. Either that, or they just fucking hate us.”
“Most of them,” I replied. “Can you report on your own? I have an errand to run.”
He looked at me, a knowing twitch travelling across his narrow eyes. He knew where I was going, perhaps the only duellist who did, but he didn’t question me.
“Fine,” said the Wisp. “I’ll see you tonight. Rys will expect you.”
“I’ll be there … and thank you.” It was nice to have a friend like Jaxon. A simple kind of luxury, but one I’d bled for.
“Don’t thank me, just be careful. And ask the Old Bitch of the Sea to keep your brother from finding out.”
I shoved him and clenched my fists. “You should hope he doesn’t, for I won’t tell him.”
Jaxon took two large strides backwards and lowered his head in submission. “Addie, you’re the only duellist who ever stuck up for me, I’d have to be a cold-hearted bastard to betray you.” He looked at me and smiled. “But I think you’re an idiot.”
“I am an idiot … but I’m a self-aware idiot.”
*
Swordfish Bay stunk of fish. It always stunk of fish. The night boats made it stink in the morning, the day boats made it stink in the evening, and the platforms filled with fish in baskets made it stink throughout the day. I cursed the totem that I was born without a taste for fish. Something about the smell. I could never forget it, even when trying to eat the flesh itself. My brother used to wave salt cod under my nose whenever he felt like a fight. It was the one thing guaranteed to raise my anger. I fought him and I won, I always won. The only man to ever best me was Rys Coldfire, and he didn’t need fish to start the fight. It was enough to call me on the Day of Challenge when I was twenty-one. The next day, when my broken arm and wounded pride were healing, Arthur decided to wave more salt cod in my face and mock me for being thrashed. I kicked him in the balls and shouted that I fucking hated fish.
The smell remained as I turned into the narrow street, south of the Pup Yards. I kept my head low and my sword well-hidden beneath my cloak. Fisherman and Nissalite lived here, but anyone who had been near the Wolf House might know my face. Adeline Brand, duellist of the Severed Hand, would not be seen in such a dark, narrow part of the hold. They’d look at me with wide eyes and ask why I was there. I didn’t want to answer them, so I kept my face hidden. It was a risky journey and one I’d resisted for over a week, but something about killing the Pure Ones had driven me to the dark corner of the Severed Hand.
I turned sideways, to squeeze between grey brick buildings, and made my way to the small black door, barely visible next to a secluded fisherman’s yard. The door was smooth against the wall and had no handle. I knocked and waited, my hand balling into a fist.
Two bolts were withdrawn from within and the door opened outwards. Just a crack, but enough for a slim, pale face to poke out and inspect me. I grabbed the wood and pulled the door fully open, surprising the man. I held my right fist back, threatening a punch, but giving the man a chance to submit.
“Please, please, I don’t want to fight,” said the Pure One, a young man, not yet in his twenties.
“Where is he?” I asked.
He looked at me, fearful recognition flowing over his delicate features. “He’s not here, noble duellist.”
I punched him in the jaw and kicked him back inside the building. I stepped out of the alleyway and closed the door behind me. Within, the building was sparse. It was a shack, with wooden furniture and stairs, leading up and down.
“You’re a poor liar,” I said. “You know who I am, don’t lie to me again. Where is he?”
“Addie,” said a voice from the stairs. “Please don’t hurt Sky, he’s my cousin. He’s not been here long, it would be a shame for his experience of the Invaders to start with pain.”
He’d come from downstairs and approached silently. He was almost as tall as me and his canvas clothing was loose over his thin limbs, but he moved like a stalking animal. His face was angular and his eyes a deep green. His name was Young Green Eyes, though he was in his early thirties.
The young Pure One, Sky, had started crying on the floor. His face was red and a trickle of blood coated his lips. Now inside, I reassessed his age. He was maybe fifteen. I offered him my hand. “Apologies, boy,” I said. “I don’t like being lied to.”
He wouldn’t take my hand, preferring to stay on his arse and scuttle backwards, hiding behind Young Green Eyes. The older man helped him up and ushered him downstairs. When we were alone, I approached, keeping my fists clenched.
“I killed a Mirralite today. He told me to use the glass while I could. What did he mean? What are the varn up to?”
The Pure One didn’t back away. He kept his eyes locked on my face. The depths of green plunged into bottomless pits, so vibrant I couldn’t look away. Not that I wanted to. The curve of his jaw, the paleness of his skin. He was beautiful without his eyes, but with them … I felt a vulnerability I couldn’t control. I shoved him backwards. “Answer me!”
He smiled, his face becoming boyish and gentle. “Is it the Day of Challenge?”
“No,” I spluttered. “I meant …”
“I know what you meant.” He looked me up and down, but wasn’t afraid. I hated him for it. “Strange that I didn’t run when you knocked on the door. I could have done, I knew it was a duellist.”
“Why didn’t you?” I asked, forgetting my previous question. “I could kill you and every Pure One in this building. And do you know what would happen to me? Absolutely nothing.”
“So kill me,” he replied. As if giving me a reason, he raised his chin and stated, “I do not recognize your authority. You are Invaders, unworthy of the Lodge of the Rock. And I am unbound by the Shackles of the Wolf.”
We were close now, within touching distance. Young Green Eyes looked like any other Pure One, bronze-skinned and lithe, but he was Mirralite. He belonged to the clan that had never pledged to the First Fang. He was no spy, just a man who didn’t believe that fighting the Sea Wolves accomplished anything. To any other Eastron he was Nissalite and compliant.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I said, meeting his gaze.
“Try,” he replied. “I am not afraid of you.”
I grabbed him, balling my hands around his thin tunic and shoving him across a table. He wrapped his arms around my neck and squeezed, minimizing my strength advantage. The table broke as we wrestled back and forth, each grunting as we tried to free our arms. He called me an Invader bitch, I called him a fucking rebel. I kicked and head-butted him, but the nimble bastard managed to keep hold of me in a tight grapple. I thought about kissing him and I thought about killing him. The thoughts had equal weight in my head and provided just enough of a distraction for Young Green Eyes to punch me in the stomach and gain the upper hand. I let go of him and clutched my belly, struggling for breath. The Pure One left me on the floor and stood. His face bled from three small cuts and he nursed a badly twisted arm. I could have used my wyrd and killed him, but I didn’t. I’d pulled my blows, though I’d not meant to.
“What was the question?” he asked, through panted breaths.
I sat up against the broken table. In the presence of anyone else, I’d be embarrassed. If my brother could see me, he’d laugh for a week. If the Wolf’s Bastard could see me, he’d say I was unworthy of my name.
“I should tear you apart,” I snarled, feeling wyrd flow into my clenched fists.
He just looked at me, wiping blood from his cheek. He wrung his hand, wincing at the pain, but he didn’t respond. I stood up, ignoring the pain in my stomach and glaring at him. “Why are you not afraid of me?”
Young Green Eyes didn’t flinch or turn away from my hate-filled stare. He looked me up and down, and his mouth curled into a smile. He’d never bent his knee to the Sea Wolves, or admitted that we were superior. To him, we were Invaders. To him, I was … I didn’t know. I wanted him, but I couldn’t explain why.
“Last time you came here, we didn’t fight before we fucked,” said the Pure One. “Is this to replace kissing from now on?”
I grabbed him again, or maybe we grabbed each other. This time there was no hate or anger, just grasping hands and murmured grunts of passion. I tore off his tunic and threw him on the floor. He kept hold of my arm and I fell on top of him.
*
My brother used to tell me stories of the brothels he’d visited and the whores who waited for his return. Vincent Heartfire bragged about the women throughout the Kingdom who called him husband. Even Rys Coldfire, the Wolf’s Bastard, had two mistresses in the hold. Male lust was accepted and celebrated, but when I wanted to fuck, I had to do it in secret. Admittedly my choice of lover was questionable, but surely lust was lust.
Young Green Eyes was asleep, his arm draped across my breasts. It was dark outside and the upstairs bedroom was bathed in a grey light. The building was quiet. I knew not how many of his family skulked below, other than Sky, but I imagined they’d keep skulking until I left. I’d broken arms in the past to remind my lover’s family that my visits were a secret, and I was confident that their fear of me was enough. If it wasn’t, they could only cause me limited trouble anyway. And they knew I’d kill them.
“What hour is it?” he asked. He kept his eyes closed.
I stroked his long, black hair out of his face and leant across to kiss him. His lips reacted, but his body remained still. “Maybe seven o’clock,” I replied.
His arm tightened and pulled me close. “Good. Still early.”
“I asked you a question,” I whispered. “And I’d like an answer.”
“Ask again,” he replied, still not opening his eyes.
I took a deep breath and stroked my arms across his back. A sheen of sweat coated our flesh, feeling warm and comforting. “A Mirralite warrior told me to use the glass while I could. He said he could hear the sea. What did he mean?”
Young Green Eyes raised himself up on his arms and smiled down at me. “He probably didn’t mean anything. If he was at the dangerous end of your cutlass, he’d say anything. Young Mirralite fight the Invaders because the varn tell them to. People like me are rarely listened to.”
I didn’t believe him. He knew I lusted for him and he used this to distract me, displaying his body and smiling. “You’re not telling me the truth. You know I dislike lying.”
“Sometimes the truth is worse,” he replied.
“Answer me,” I repeated.
He looked out of the window and gritted his teeth. “There’s talk,” he murmured. “A varn called Gloom Scribe has been saying things … and Mirralite are listening.”
“What has he been saying? And where do I find him?”
“He’s from the Bay of Bliss, but I know not where he lays his head these days. He likes the sea.”
“Think harder,” I replied.
“Am I just your spy now?” He spat the words and snarled. “If this is rape, tell me. I couldn’t fight you off … you could have me if you wanted.” He grabbed me and gave me a hard kiss. “I’m not your toy or your inferior. I fuck you because …”
“Because?” I prompted, breathing heavily.
He pressed his lips to mine, but his eyes stayed open. “I think it’s time for you to go, Mistress Brand.”