08 A Little Hatred: Book One (The Age of Madness)

Isern shook her head, lips pressed into a hard line as she nimbly worked that needle. ‘All the effort it takes to make a person but it’s the killers they sing about. When did you last hear a man sing a woman’s name? Unless he was singing for his mummy when the Great Leveller had a hand on him.’

‘No doubt there’s many ways in which the world could be better,’ said Rikke, with a smoky sigh.

‘My heartfelt thanks for that revelation,’ said Isern, rolling a scornful eye towards her. ‘The one thing I’ve learned in thirty-six winters is the world won’t change itself. You want some wounds mended, you’d better be ready to stitch.’

Rikke felt even more than usually helpless in the midst of all this pain. ‘What can I do?’

‘You? Rikke, with the Long Eye? Saw Black Calder’s men coming, didn’t you? Saved the army, maybe. Saved us all, maybe.’

‘Maybe.’ It was true folk were looking at her different since the battle. Like they respected her, which was a pleasant change. Like they feared her, which was less so. Like they hated her, a couple of ’em, which oddly was unpleasant and pleasant both at once. She’d never thought she’d be important enough to hate.

‘You’re not nobody any more, Sticky Rikke.’ Isern opened her eyes very wide. ‘The legend grows.’

‘Legend.’ Rikke snorted. ‘I’m nothing and no one.’

‘Ah, but isn’t that how all the best legends begin? I’d hazard you’re better equipped to lead us to a brighter tomorrow than most.’

‘I’m no bloody leader.’

‘How could you be, shuffling along at the back whining about how useless y’are? Hold that torch higher.’

‘Sorry. You’ll have to find someone else to hold it soon. I’ve been called to a meeting at dawn.’ Rikke puffed herself up. ‘By Lady Governor Brock, in fact.’

‘Wants to use your womanly wiles to convince her son not to fight, does she?’

Rikke sagged back down. ‘If she’s counting on my womanly wiles, she must be bloody desperate.’

‘Oh, I reckon you’ve more wiles than you realise. Talked the boy into fighting in the first place, didn’t you?’ And Isern gave her this sidewise glance, like they were in on some cunning scheme together.

‘What?’

‘With your lions and wolves and circles of blood.’

‘That’s just what I saw, in the vision. You asked me what I saw!’

Isern paused in her work. ‘You can’t choose what you see. But you can choose what you say. Moment ago, you were talking about changing the world. Now you can’t even change one boy’s mind? Let’s face the facts, it’s not the biggest mind around.’ She tore the thread with her teeth and reached for the bandages. ‘I know you like to think you’re jolting about helpless in a runaway cart, carried off to who-knows-where with no say in the matter, but if you look down, you might see you’re holding the reins.’ She gave Rikke another one of those looks. ‘Might be it’s time to use ’em. Now hold that bloody torch up.’

The Young Lion never looked bad, but being angry suited him, and being battle-scratched suited him, and even being a touch sulky seemed to suit him. Overall, Rikke was having some trouble imagining a better-looking man.

The trouble is that duels to the death aren’t always won by the best-looking. If anything, history favours ugly champions. Maybe they spend the time training that the pretty ones spend preening in the mirror. Rikke kept that thought to herself, though, since everyone was rattled enough already. Leo had staked all their futures on a duel with one of the most dangerous men in the North, after all, and about the only person who didn’t reckon that the worst idea since swords made of cake was Leo himself, known widely for his poor judgement.

Rikke’s mood was by no means helped by the knight herald standing motionless in the middle of the tent, a letter from His August Majesty held out in one gauntleted fist. When she’d slipped through the flap and seen him standing there, she’d wondered where they found all these tall bastards. Then she’d wondered why everyone else was ignoring him. Then, during a particularly impassioned rant, the lady governor had walked right through him and back the other way, and Rikke had realised her left eye was hot and he wasn’t actually there. Or wasn’t there yet, maybe.

When she’d seen Black Calder coming, she’d started to reckon the Long Eye a blessing. Now it was looking like a curse all over again.

‘I can’t back out,’ Leo was saying, all sullen and scratched and beautiful. ‘What’ll I look like?’

His mother stared in disbelief. She’d been doing that a lot. ‘There are bigger things at stake than what you look like!’

Rikke’s father took a turn, easing himself between the two of them, putting a calming hand on Leo’s shoulder. ‘Look, son, it’s an irony of life that the older you get, and the less years there are ahead of you, the more you fear the loss of ’em. When you’re young, it can feel like you’re invincible, but …’ He snapped his fingers under Leo’s nose. ‘Fast as that, it can all be took away.’