I always like the way your tongue cuts me, girl. Makes me wonder what else it can do.”
I stared directly into his eyes, meeting the lust I saw there with utter disdain. I wasn’t afraid and felt no need to reach for the long-knife on my belt. I was Druhr-Tivarik and, whilst childhood torments would have been punished with a beating, any insult or injury now that I was of childbearing age would earn him the lengthy death of a dishonoured warrior. However, as our gazes locked and seconds stretched into moments, I was given to wondering if this was the day when his lust finally overcame his caution.
“When your brother becomes Mestra-Skeltir,” he said, voice thick and teeth bared, “we will conquer all. We will ravage the lands of the Merchant Kings all the way to the Golden Sea, and I will be at his side for every battle. When all the glorious slaughter ends and the final drop of blood falls, he will ask me what reward I desire for my service. What do you imagine I will ask for?”
“Luralyn.”
Our eyes snapped to the altar at the sound of my brother’s voice. Kehlbrand didn’t look at us, standing with arms braced against the altar’s edge, his gaze still captured by Tehlvar’s body. “I will have counsel,” he said before glancing up at Obvar. “Saddle brother, go and slake your appetite on a slave and leave my sister be. And don’t get too drunk. I may have need of your blade on the morrow.”
Obvar stiffened and I saw a faint twitch of resentment pass across his lean, bearded features. It faded quickly, however, and he let out a faint sigh of acceptance. Saddle brothers they were, but Kehlbrand was Skeltir now.
“Here,” Obvar grunted, shoving the wineskin into my hands. “A token of esteem for my Skeltir’s sister.”
I watched him stomp off towards the encampment of our Skeld, feeling a brief spasm of sympathy for whichever unfortunate slave caught his interest. Slaves are not of the Hast. I inwardly recited one of the Laws Eternal as I joined Kehlbrand at the altar. Anything not of the Hast is booty.
“Have some,” I said, holding out the wineskin. “It’s really not too bad.”
He ignored the offer, gaze lingering on our brother’s slack, empty features. The lips had drawn back in death, baring his teeth in a parody of a grin. Unwilling to endure the sight of that grin for long, I occupied myself with another generous gulp of Obvar’s wine.
“Do you know why the priests killed him, Luralyn?” Kehlbrand asked. As usual, his voice was soft. My brother rarely shouted. Even during the duels I had seen him fight, the few words he spoke amidst the tumult of blades were spoken in a steady, almost solicitous murmur. Nevertheless, I can recall no one ever failing to hear or comprehend a single word he said.
“He got the question wrong,” I replied, wiping the sleeve of my formal black cotton robe across my mouth.
“I hear no grief in your voice, little colt,” Kehlbrand said, finally turning to regard me. “Did you not love our brother? Does your heart not break at his departure from this world?”
To anyone listening, his questions would have been taken as earnest, sincere inquiries, coloured by an aggrieved note at my apparent indifference. I, however, knew my brother well enough to recognise gentle mockery when I heard it.
“We were birthed from the same womb,” I said. “But not the same father. Tehlvar was a stranger to me for most of my life. But . . .” I paused to survey the corpse on the altar, struck once again by the sheer number of battle wounds it bore, some long healed, others barely weeks old. Kehlbrand’s body, I knew, was almost entirely free of scars. “Still, I’m sorry he’s gone. He was a good Skeltir, if a little overfond of reciting the priests’ teachings.”
“The priests’ teachings,” Kehlbrand repeated with a slow nod. “He did always love their lessons. ‘I have ranged beyond the Iron Steppe, brother,’ he told me once. ‘The people who dwell there live lives of uncertainty and confusion. They celebrate weakness and revel in greed. They make a virtue of lies and a sin of honesty. When the Mestra-Skeltir rises, he will wash all of that away, in blood. This the priests have seen.’”
He fell silent, reaching out to place his hand over the dull gleam of Tehlvar’s eyes, closing the lids. “But you’re wrong, little colt. They