Koll raised his brows and Rin did the same. ‘My queen,’ he murmured.
Skara’s big green eyes were fixed on Rin. ‘I am so sorry for the death of your brother. Every word I hear is that he was a good man.’
‘Aye, well.’ Rin frowned down at her bench. ‘It’s them Mother War takes first.’
‘We can all pray Father Peace gets his turn soon,’ said Koll.
Queen Skara glanced sideways, every bit as scornful of that pious effort as Thorn Bathu might have been. ‘As long as Bright Yilling is dead and rotting first.’
‘I’m not much for prayers but I’ll pray for that,’ said Rin.
‘I hear you make swords. The best in the Shattered Sea.’
‘I made King Uthil’s. I made Thorn Bathu’s.’ Rin unwrapped the bundle on her bench to show the last one she’d worked on. The one she and Koll had worked on together. ‘Made this for a man died last week in Thorlby.’
‘Did you carve the scabbard too?’ Raith ran his thick fingertips down the wood. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘I work the metal,’ said Rin. ‘Koll works the wood.’
Raith looked round at him. ‘You’ve a gift to be proud of, then. Wish I could make things.’ He winced as he made a fist. As if it hurt him to do it. ‘Always been better at breaking.’
‘That takes less effort,’ muttered Koll.
‘I need a sword,’ said Skara. ‘And mail that fits me.’
Rin gave the young queen a doubtful look up and down. She hardly looked strong enough to stand in armour, let alone fight in it. ‘Are you going into battle?’
Skara smiled. ‘Gods, no. But I want to look like I might.’
Too Many Ministers
‘Mother Scaer, what a pleasure.’
One glance at Gorm’s minister told Skara her visit would not be much of a pleasure for anyone. She was always a woman of edges and angles, but now her face was as sharp as a chisel, and just as humourless.
‘I am sorry for the state of my chambers, we have had to start rather from scratch.’ The furniture had been scrounged up from anywhere, the hangings were captured battle-flags, and Blue Jenner would not say where the goose-feather mattress had come from. But these were the rooms Skara had been born in, the three great arched windows looking out over the yard of her own fortress. She was going nowhere.
‘Will you have some wine?’ She turned to beckon her thrall, but Mother Scaer stopped her dead.
‘I have not come for wine, my queen. I have come to discuss your vote for Father Yarvi.’
‘I vote in the interests of Throvenland.’
‘Will Throvenland benefit from a second Breaking of God?’ Scaer’s voice was sharp with anger. ‘What if Father Yarvi cannot control this magic? Or if he can control it, what then? Do you think he will give it up?’
‘Would it benefit Throvenland more to have the High King’s army ranging unchecked?’ Skara felt herself getting shrill, struggled to keep calm and failed. ‘To have Bright Yilling burn what little is left unburned?’
Mother Scaer’s eyes were narrowed to deadly slits. ‘You do not want to do this, my queen.’
‘It seems everyone but me knows what I want to do.’ Skara raised a brow at Sister Owd. ‘Has one queen ever been blessed with the advice of so many ministers?’
‘There at least I can lighten your burden,’ said Scaer. ‘If you mean to join in Father Yarvi’s madness I must keep a close eye upon him. My king must have a minister at his side in the meantime.’ She held out one long, tattooed arm, and beckoned with her crooked forefinger. ‘Playtime is over, Sister Owd. Get back to your place and look to my crows.’
Owd’s round face fell, and Skara had to make an effort to stop hers doing the same. She had not realized until that moment how much she had come to rely on her minister. How much she had come to trust her. To like her. ‘I am not minded to give her up—’
‘Not minded?’ Scaer snorted. ‘She is my apprentice, lent, not given, and in case you were too foolish to realize it, my queen, she has been telling me everything. Who you speak to and what you say. Your every request and desire. The size of each morning turd, for that matter. I understand that, like she that produces them, they are a little … thin.’
Owd was staring stricken at her feet, face turned redder than ever. Skara should have known. Perhaps she had. But it still cut her deep. She was speechless for a moment. But only a moment. Then she thought of how her grandfather might have answered, had he been treated with such scorn in his own land, his own fortress, his own chambers.
As Sister Owd took a reluctant step towards the door Skara put out an arm to stop her.
‘You misunderstand me! I am not minded to give her up because only this morning she swore her oath to me as Mother Kyre’s successor. Mother Owd is the new Minister of Throvenland, and her only place is beside me.’
She was pleased to see Scaer look suitably astonished at the news. The only person who looked more so was Owd herself.
She stared from her old mistress to her new, then back, eyes round as cups. But she was too sharp to stay off-balance long. ‘It is true.’ Owd pushed her shoulders back and stretched out her neck. A posture Mother Kyre would have thoroughly approved of. ‘I have sworn to serve Queen Skara as her minister. I was going to tell you—’
‘But you spoiled our surprise,’ said Skara, smiling sweetly. A smile costs nothing, after all.
‘Oh, there will be a price for this,’ said Mother Scaer, nodding slowly. ‘Of that I assure you.’
Skara was out of patience. ‘Wake me when it’s time to pay. Now are you walking from my chambers or shall I have Raith toss you from the window?’
Gorm’s minister gave one final hiss of disgust then stalked from the room, slamming the door behind her.
‘Well.’ Skara took a ragged breath and put one hand on her chest, trying to calm her hammering heart. ‘That was bracing.’
‘My queen,’ whispered Sister Owd, eyes turned mortified to the floor. ‘I know I do not deserve your forgiveness—’
‘You cannot have it.’ Skara put a calming hand on her shoulder. ‘Because you have done nothing wrong. I have always known you are loyal. But I have always known your loyalties were divided. Mother Scaer was your mistress. Now you have chosen me. For that I am grateful. Very grateful.’ And Skara squeezed her shoulder firmly, stepping closer. ‘But your loyalties must be divided no longer.’
Sister Owd stared back, and dashed a little wetness from her lashes. ‘I swear a sun-oath and a moon-oath, my queen. I shall be a loyal minister to you and to Throvenland. I shall have a greater care for your body than for my own. I shall have a greater care for your interests than for my own. I shall tell your secrets to no one and keep no secret from you. I am yours. I swear it.’
‘Thank you, Mother Owd.’ Skara let go of her with a parting pat. ‘The gods know I have never been in sorer need of good advice.’
Loyalty
Raith wove between the campfires, around the tents, among the gathered warriors of Vansterland. He’d done the same a hundred times, before duels, before raids, before battles. This was where he was happiest. This was home to him. Or it should’ve been. Things weren’t quite what they used to be.
The men were tired, and far from their fields and their families, and knew the odds they faced. Raith could see the doubt in their firelit faces. Could hear it in their voices, their laughter, their songs. Could smell their fear.
He wasn’t the only one wandering through the camp. Death walked here too, marking out the doomed, and every man felt the chill of her passing.
He struck away towards a low hill with a single fire on top, strode up towards the summit, the chatter fading behind him. Rakki knelt on a blanket by the fire, Gorm’s shield between his knees, frowning as he polished the bright rim with a rag. Gods, it was good to see him. Like a sight of home for a man a long time gone.
‘Hey, hey, brother,’ said Raith.
‘Hey, hey.’ When Rakki looked around it was like sta
ring in a mirror. The magic mirror Horald brought back from his voyages, that showed a man the better part of himself.
Sitting down beside him was as comfortable as slipping on a favourite pair of boots. Raith watched his brother work in silence for a moment, then looked down at his own empty hands. ‘Something’s missing.’
‘If it’s your brains, your looks or your sense of humour, I’ve got ’em all.’
Raith snorted. ‘I was thinking of a sword for me to work on.’
‘Queen Skara’s scabbard doesn’t need a polish?’
Raith glanced across and saw that crooked little smile on Rakki’s mouth. He snorted again. ‘I’m standing ready, but no royal invitation yet.’
‘I wouldn’t hold your breath, brother. While you’re waiting you could always eat.’ And Rakki nodded towards the old grease-blackened pot over the fire.
‘Rabbit?’ Raith closed his eyes and dragged in a long sniff. Took him back to happier times, sharing the same meals, and the same hopes, and the same master. ‘I do love rabbit.’
‘Course. Know each other better’n anyone, don’t we?’
‘We do.’ Raith gave Rakki a sideways glance. ‘So what do you want?’
‘I can’t just cook for my brother?’
‘Course you can, but you never do. What do you want?’
Rakki put Gorm’s great shield aside and fixed him with his eye. ‘I see you with the young Queen of Throvenland, and that broken-down pirate of hers, and that chubby excuse for a minister, and you look happy. You never look happy.’
‘They’re not so bad,’ said Raith, frowning. ‘And we’re all on the same side, aren’t we?’
‘Are we? Folk are starting to wonder whether you even want to come back.’
Rakki had always known just how to sting him. ‘I never chose a bit of this! All I’ve done is make the best of where I was put. I’d do anything to come back!’
The answer came from behind him. ‘That is good to hear.’
He was no helpless child any more but that voice still made him cringe like a puppy expecting a slap. He forced himself to turn, forced himself to look straight into Mother Scaer’s blue, blue eyes.
‘I have missed you, Raith.’ She squatted in front of him, bony wrists on her knees and her long hands dangling. ‘I think it high time you returned to your rightful place.’
Raith swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. To fill his king’s cup, carry his king’s sword, fight at his brother’s side? To go back to being the fiercest, the hardest, the bloodiest? To go back to burning, and killing, and to one day be weighed down with a chain of pommels of his own? ‘That’s all I want,’ he croaked out. ‘All I’ve ever wanted.’
‘I know,’ said the minister, that soothing tone that scared him more even than the harsh one. ‘I know.’ And she reached out, and scrubbed at his hair like you might scrub a puppy between the ears. ‘There is just one service your king needs you to perform.’
Raith felt a cold shiver between his shoulders at her touch. ‘Name it.’
‘I fear Father Yarvi has a ring through the young Queen Skara’s pretty nose. I fear he leads her where he pleases. I fear he will lead her to her doom, and drag all of us along in a stumbling procession behind.’
Raith glanced at his brother, but there was no help there. There rarely was. ‘She’s got her own mind, I reckon,’ he muttered.
Mother Scaer gave a scornful snort. ‘Father Yarvi plans to break the most sacred laws of the Ministry, and bring elf-weapons out of Strokom.’
‘Elf-weapons?’
She leaned hissing towards him and Raith flinched back. ‘I have seen it! Blinded by his own arrogance, he plans to unleash the magic that broke God. I know you are not the clever one, Raith, but do you see what is at stake?’
‘I thought no one can enter Strokom and live—’
‘The witch Skifr is here, and she can, and she will. If that little bitch gives Yarvi her vote.’
Raith licked his lips. ‘I could talk to her …’
Scaer darted out a hand and he couldn’t help cringing, but she only placed her cool palm ever so gently on his cheek. ‘Do you think I would be so cruel as to pit you in a battle of words against Father Yarvi? No, Raith, I think not. You are no talker.’
‘Then …’
‘You are a killer.’ Her brow creased, like she was disappointed he hadn’t seen it right off. ‘I want you to kill her.’
Raith stared. What else could he do? He stared into Mother Scaer’s eyes, and felt cold all over. ‘No …’ he whispered, but no word had ever been spoken so feebly. ‘Please …’
Pleading had never won anything from Mother Scaer. It only showed her his weakness.
‘No?’ Her hand clamped painful tight about his face. ‘Please?’ He tried to pull away but there was no strength in him and she dragged him so close their noses almost touched. ‘This is no request, boy,’ she hissed, ‘this is your king’s command.’
‘They’ll know I did it,’ he whined, scrabbling for excuses like a dog for a buried bone.
‘I have done the thinking for you.’ Mother Scaer slid out a little vial between two long fingers, what looked like water in the bottom. ‘You were a king’s cup-filler. Slipping this into a queen’s cup can be no harder. One drop is all it will take. She will not suffer. She will fall asleep and never wake. Then there can be an end to this elf-madness. Perhaps even peace with the High King.’
‘King Fynn thought he could make peace—’
‘King Fynn did not know what to offer.’
Raith swallowed. ‘And you do?’
‘I would start with Father Yarvi, in a box.’ Mother Scaer let her head drop on one side. ‘Along with, perhaps, the southern half of Gettland? Everything north of Thorlby should be ours, though, don’t you agree? I feel confident Grandmother Wexen could be persuaded to listen to that argument …’
Mother Scaer took Raith’s limp wrist, and turned his hand over, and dropped the vial into his palm. Such a little thing. He thought of Skara’s words, then. Why send an honest fool to do a clever liar’s job?
‘You sent me to her because I’m a killer,’ he muttered.
‘No, Raith.’ Mother Scaer caught his face again, tilted it towards her. ‘I sent you because you are loyal. Now claim your reward.’ She stood, seeming to tower over him. ‘This time tomorrow, you will be back where you belong. At the king’s side.’ She turned away. ‘At your brother’s side.’ And she was gone into the night.
Raith felt Rakki’s hand on his shoulder. ‘How many people have you killed, brother?’
‘You know I’m not much at counting.’
‘What’s one more, then?’
‘There’s a difference between killing a man who’d just as soon kill you first and killing someone …’ Someone who’s done you no harm. Someone who’s been kind to you. Someone you—
Rakki dragged him close by his shirt. ‘The only difference is there’s far more to gain now, and far more to lose! If you don’t do it … you’ll be on your own. We’ll both be on our own.’
‘What happened to sailing off together down the wide Divine?’
‘You told me to thank Mother War that we stand with the winners, and you were right! Let’s not pretend you’ve only killed warriors. How much have I gone along with for your sake? What about that woman at that farm, eh? What about her children—’
‘I know what I’ve done!’ The fury boiled up and Raith closed his aching fist tight around the vial and shook it in his brother’s face. ‘Did it for us, didn’t I?’ He caught Rakki by the collar, made him stumble, knocking the pot off the fire and spilling stew across the grass.
‘Please, brother.’ Rakki held him by the shoulders, more hug than clinch. The more Raith hardened, the more he softened. Knew him better than anyone, didn’t he? ‘If we don’t look out for each other who will? Do this. For me. For us.’
Raith looked into his brother’s eyes. Didn’t seem to him they looked much alike, right then. He sucked in air, an
d slowly breathed it out, and all the fight went with it.
‘I’ll do it.’ He hung his head, staring at the little vial in his palm. How many people had he killed, after all? ‘I was trying to think of a good reason not to, but … you’re the clever one.’ He closed his fist tight. ‘I’m the killer.’
Rin was mostly silent, lengths of wire held in her mouth as she frowned down at her work. Maybe it was having a girl her age around, or the excitement of the coming moot, but Skara talked for both of them. About her youth at Bail’s Point and her few memories of her parents. About the Forest in Yaletoft, and how it burned, and how she hoped to rebuild it better. About Throvenland and her people, and how with the gods’ help she’d deliver them from the tyranny of the High King, claim vengeance on Bright Yilling and protect the legacy of her murdered grandfather. Sister Owd, now Mother Owd and with a frown to match her station, nodded along approvingly.
Raith didn’t. He would’ve loved to be part of that fine future, but he’d seen what life was. He hadn’t been brought up in a fortress or a king’s hall with slaves hanging on his every whim. He’d clawed himself up with no one but his brother beside him.
He put one hand to his shirt, felt the lump of the little vial under the cloth. He knew what he was. Knew what he had to do.
Then Skara smiled at him, that smile that made him feel like Mother Sun had picked him alone to shine upon. ‘How do you fight in this?’ she said, shaking herself and making the mail rattle. ‘The weight of it!’
Raith’s resolve melted like butter on a hearthstone. ‘You get used to it, my queen,’ he croaked.
She frowned at him. ‘Are you ill?’
‘Me?’ he stammered. ‘Why?’
‘When did you learn manners? Gods, it’s hot.’ She tugged at the collar of the mailshirt and the padded jacket underneath. She’d never looked more alive – flushed, eyes bright and the faintest sheen on her face. She snapped her fingers at her thrall. ‘Bring me some wine, would you?’
‘I’ll do it,’ said Raith, stepping quickly over to the jug.
‘Might as well be served by the best.’ Skara nodded towards him, grinning at Rin. ‘He was a king’s cup-bearer.’