“Well,” she said. “No one ever achieved anything alone.”

Great Men’s Footsteps

Wasn’t till Rikke was walking up the steep cobbled way from the harbour that she realised how much she’d missed Uffrith. Missed the sea’s smell and the gulls’ clamour. Missed knowing every street and face. Missed her father. His memory had been getting hazy, in the echoing space of Skarling’s Hall, in the grand salons of Adua. Here it rushed back so sharp she wanted to cry.

For the first time in a long time, she felt like she was home.

She wandered beneath the carved rafters where she and Leo had sat together as children. Her fingertip left a snaking trail through the dust on the seat where her father had given his judgements. She stepped from the shadows and into the sunny garden, and dropped down on the time-greyed bench, frowning off towards the sea.

Spring had been busy. The garden was overgrown again, just like it always used to be, the stuff her father planted all erupted in a messy riot, nothing like his plans. A creeper had slipped free from the crumbling wall and spilled white flowers across his grave. He’d have laughed to see it, most likely, and said time makes fools of us all.

She thought of the girl she’d been, when Isern took her up into the hills to prove she had the Long Eye. Foolish and twitchy and soft. Ignorant about so many things. No bones and no brains, maybe, but a good heart. She touched her fingertips to the tattoos on her face. So much changed. She wondered if it was really for the better.

“Your father loved this plot.” Shivers stood in the doorway, arms folded.

“Naught he liked more than sitting back and watching things grow,” she said.

“It’s grown, all right.”

“Aye, well, he never had much time for weeding, what with all the wars he got dragged into.”

“True enough. But you’ve made the whole North your garden now.” Shivers shook his head like he could hardly believe it. “Reckon he’d be proud.”

“Would he? After all I’ve done? Black Rikke, they call me.”

“A proud name.”

“A name they hung on a killer ’cause he was the worst man in the North.”

“It’s just a name. It’ll be what you make of it.”

“Aye, I guess.” And Rikke slumped with her elbows on her knees and her chin propped in her hands. “Did I do the right thing, Shivers?”

“You’re asking the wrong man, I reckon.”

“I’m asking the only one I trust.”

“’Cause I done so much o’ the wrong thing?”

“Shows you know the difference, don’t it?”

“Not sure there is one.” He sank down on the bench beside her. “It’s a comfort, telling yourself there’s some big right thing out there. That you could seek some wise old bastard in the mountains who’s got the answer. Then there’d be no need for doubts and regrets.” He looked sideways, sunlight glinting off his metal eye. “But far as I can tell it ain’t that simple. Right things, wrong things, well… it’s all a matter of where you stand. Every choice is good for some, bad for others. And once you’re chief, you can’t just do what’s good for you, or those you love. You have to find what’s best for most. Worst for fewest. Like your father tried to, and with no magic eye to see the outcome.” He sat back, one leg stretched out, and looked towards the sea, breeze stirring the grey hair about his craggy face. “Doubts and regrets, they’re the cost of casting a shadow. The only folk without ’em are the dead. For what it’s worth, I’d say you did the best you could.”