The Last Light of the Sun. Guy Gavriel Kay

you find it?”

      “Captured a shepherd.”

      “And he is?”

      “Dead,” said the Erling. “I can take you to him, if you want.”

      “You expected this house to be undefended?”

      The man smiled a little, then, and shook his head. “Not defended by your warband, certainly. Young leaders. They made a mistake.”

      “You weren’t one of them?”

      The other man shook his head.

      “The one who held me brought you here? Of the line of the Volgan?”

      The Erling nodded.

      “Elder grandson?” Brynn had stopped in front of him again.

      “Younger. Ivarr’s the elder.”

      “But he didn’t lead.”

      The man shook his head. “Yes and no. It was his idea. But Ivarr’s … different.”

      Brynn was stabbing his blade into the earth now.

      “You came to burn this farm?”

      “And kill you, and any of your family here, yes.”

      He was so calm, Rhiannon thought. Had he made his peace with dying? She didn’t think that was it. He’d surrendered, said he didn’t want to be killed, back in her chamber.

      “Because of the grandfather?”

      The man nodded. “Your killing him. Taking the sword. These two decided they were of an age to avenge it, since their father had not. They were wrong.”

      “And why are you here? You’re as old as I am.”

      First hesitation. In the silence Rhiannon could hear the horses and the crackle of torches. “Nothing to keep me in Vinmark. I made a mistake, too.”

      Part of an answer, Rhiannon thought, listening closely.

      Brynn was staring at him. “Coming, or before you came?”

      Another pause. “Both.”

      “There’s no ransom for you, is there.”

      “No,” the man said frankly. “Once there might have been.”

      Brynn’s gaze was steady. “Maybe. Were you ransomed last time you were taken here, or did you escape?”

      Again, a silence. “Escaped,” the Erling admitted.

      He had decided, Rhiannon realized, that there was no hope in anything but honesty.

      Brynn was nodding. “I thought so. I believe I remember you. The red hair. You did raid with Volganson, didn’t you? You escaped east, twenty-five years ago, after he died. Through the hills. All the way to the Erling settlements on the east coast. They chased you, didn’t they? You used a cleric as hostage, if I remember.”

      A murmur, from those listening.

      “I did. I released him. He was a decent enough man.” Brynn’s voice altered slightly.

      “That was a long way to go.”

      “By Ingavin’s blind eye, I wouldn’t want to do it again,” the Erling said dryly.

      Another silence. Brynn resumed his pacing. “There’s no ransom for you. What can you offer me?”

      “A hammer, sworn loyalty.”

      “Until you escape again?”

      “I said I wouldn’t do it again, that journey. I was young then.” He looked down and away for the first time, then back up. “I have nothing to go home to, and this place is as good as any for me to end my days. You can make me a slave, to dig ditches or carry water, or use me more wisely, but I will not escape again.”

      “You will take the oath and come to the faith of Jad?”

      Another slight smile, torchlight upon him. “I did that last time.”

      Brynn didn’t return the smile. “And recanted?”

      “Last time. I was young. I’m not any more. Neither Ingavin nor your sun god are worth dying for, in my judgement. I suppose I am a heretic to two faiths. Kill me?”

      Brynn was standing still again, in front of him.

      “Where are the ships? You will guide us to them.”

      The Erling shook his head. “Not that.”

      Rhiannon saw her father’s expression. He wasn’t normally someone she feared.

      “Yes that, Erling.”

      “This is the price of being allowed to live?”

      “It is. You spoke of loyalty. Prove it.”

      The Erling was still a moment, considering. Torches moved in the yard around them. Men were being carried inside, or helped if they could walk.

      “Best kill me then,” the red-bearded man said.

      “If I must,” said Brynn.

      “No,” said someone else, stepping forward. “I will take him as a man of mine. My own guard.”

      Rhiannon turned, her mouth falling open.

      “Let me be clear on this,” her mother went on, coming to stand beside her husband, looking at the Erling. Rhiannon hadn’t realized she was even with them. “I believe I understand. You would fight an Erling band that came upon us now, but will not reveal where your fellows are?”

      The Erling looked at her. “Thank you, my lady,” he said. “Certain things done for life make the life unworthy. You become sick with them. They poison you, your thoughts.” He turned back to Brynn. “They were shipmates,” he said.

      Brynn’s gaze held that of the Erling another moment, then he looked to his wife. “You trust him?”

      Enid nodded her head.

      He was still frowning. “He can easily be killed. I will do it myself.”

      “I know you will. You want to. Leave him to me. Let us get to our work. There are wounded men here. Erling, what is your name?”

      “Whatever name you give me,” the man said.

      The Lady Enid swore. It was startling. “What is your name?” she repeated.

      A last hesitation, then that wry expression again. “Forgive me. My mother named me Thorkell. I answer to it.”

      RHIANNON WATCHED the Erling go with her mother. He’d said before, in her rooms, that he could be ransomed. A lie, it now emerged. From the look of him—an old man still raiding—Helda had said she doubted it. Helda was older, knew more about these things. She was the calmest of them, too, had helped Rhiannon simply by being that way. They had almost died. They could have died tonight. The one named Thorkell had saved her father and herself, both.

      Rhiannon, hands steady as she gathered linens and carried heated water with Helda for the wounded in the hall, remembered the wind of that hammer flying past her face. Realized—already—that she would likely do so all her life, carrying the memory like the two scars on her throat.

      Tonight the world had altered, very greatly, because there was also the other thing, which ought to have been pushed away or buried deep or lost in all the bloodshed, but wasn’t. Alun ab Owyn had ridden an Erling horse out of the yard, pursuing the archer who’d shot at her father. He hadn’t yet come back.

      Brynn ordered a pit to be dug in the morning, beyond the cattle pen, and the bodies of the slain raiders shovelled in. Their own dead—nine so far, including Dai ab Owyn—had been taken into the room attached to the chapel, to be cleansed and clothed, laid out for the rituals of burial. Woman’s work after battle, when it could be done.