Father Yarvi glanced sideways at him. ‘Two years old, and he handles this with better grace than I did.’
‘Perhaps.’ Queen Laithlin ruffled Druin’s pale blonde hair. ‘He sits straighter, but he has not sworn so fine an oath as you did.’
‘He does not have to.’ Yarvi’s jaw worked as he looked back to the fire. ‘Mine still binds us all.’
They sat, cold and silent, as Father Moon rose and his children the stars showed themselves, and the flames of the burning ship, and the burning goods, and the burning king lit up the faces of the hundred hundred mourners. They sat until the procession of warriors was over, and the boy-king was snoring gently in Queen Skara’s arms. They sat until the flames sank to a flickering, and the keel sagged into whirling embers, and the first muddy smear of dawn touched the clouds, glittering on the restless sea and setting the little birds twittering in the grass.
Queen Skara leant sideways, and laid her hand gently on Queen Laithlin’s, and Koll heard her murmur, ‘I am sorry.’
‘Don’t be. He died as he would have wanted to, with steel in his hand. The Iron King! And yet … there was so much more in him than iron. I only wish … that I had been beside him at the end.’ Laithlin shook herself, pulled her hand free of Skara’s to briskly wipe her eyes. ‘But I know what things are worth, cousin, and you will buy nothing with wishes.’
Then the queen-regent clapped her hands and the slaves with clinking collar-chains began to dig the earth over the still-smouldering pyre, raising a great howe that would stand tall beside that of Queen Skara’s father, killed in battle, and her great-grandfather Horrenhod the Red, and kings and queens of Throvenland, the descendants of Bail the Builder himself, dwindling away into the mist of history.
Laithlin stood, adjusting the great key of Gettland’s treasury, and spoke in a voice that betrayed neither doubt nor sorrow. ‘Gather the men. We sail for Skekenhouse.’
Away down the road, the High King’s captured warriors were still heaping the High King’s fallen warriors on poorer pyres. Pyres for a dozen, pyres for a hundred, their smoke smudging the sky for miles around.
Koll had become a minister to learn, not to kill. To change the world, not to break it. ‘When does it end?’ he muttered.
‘When I fulfil my oath.’ Father Yarvi’s eyes were dry as he stared out towards grey Mother Sea. ‘Not a moment before.’
Until he reached the bottom step, Koll was still arguing with himself over whether to go down.
He could hear the tapping of Rin’s hammer. Her tuneless humming under her breath as she worked. Time was that seemed a welcome as he stepped through her door. A song sung just for him. Now he felt like an eavesdropper, prying on a private conversation between her and the anvil.
She was frowning as she worked, a warm yellow glimmer across her face, mouth pressed into a firm line and the key she wore tossed over her shoulder so the chain was tight around her sweaty neck. She never did things by halves. He’d always loved that about her.
‘You took to working gold?’ he said.
She looked up, and when her eyes met his they seemed to steal his breath. He thought how much he’d missed her. How much he wanted to hold her. Be held by her. He’d always thought, hating to admit it to himself, that maybe she wasn’t pretty enough. That maybe someone prettier would trip and fall into his arms. Now he couldn’t believe he’d ever felt that way.
Gods, he was a fool.
‘King Druin’s head is smaller than his father’s.’ Rin held up the resized King’s Circle in her pliers, then set it back and carried on tapping.
‘I thought you were only interested in steel?’ He tried to wander into the forge the same carefree way he used to, but every step was a nervy challenge. ‘Swords for kings and mail for queens.’
‘After what those elf-weapons did, I’ve a feeling swords and mail might not be quite so popular. You have to change. Make the best of what life deals you. Face your misfortunes with a smile, eh?’ Rin snorted. ‘That’s what Brand would’ve said.’
Koll flinched at the name. At the thought he’d let Brand down, who’d treated him like a brother.
‘Why did you come here, Koll?’
He swallowed at that. Folk always said he’d a gift with words. But the truth was he’d a gift with ones that meant nothing. At saying what he actually felt he’d no gift at all. He pushed his hand into his pocket, felt the cool weight of the golden elf-bangle he’d taken from Strokom. A peace offering, if she’d have it.
‘I guess I’ve been thinking … maybe …’ He cleared his throat, mouth dry as dust as he glanced up guiltily at her. ‘I made the wrong choice?’ He’d meant it to be a firm admission. An open confession. Came out a self-justifying little squeak.
Rin looked less than impressed. ‘Did you tell Father Yarvi you made the wrong choice?’
He winced down at his feet but his shoes didn’t have the answers. Shoes don’t tend to. ‘Not yet …’ He couldn’t get the breath to say he would do, if she asked him to.
She didn’t. ‘Last thing I want to do is upset you, Koll.’ He winced harder at that. Something folk only say when upsetting you is their first priority. ‘But I reckon whatever choice you make, you soon get to thinking you made the wrong one.’
He would’ve liked to say that wasn’t fair. Would’ve liked to say he was so caught up between what Father Yarvi wanted, and what Rin wanted, and what Brand would’ve wanted, and what his mother would’ve wanted, he hardly knew what he wanted at all any more.
But all he managed was to croak out, ‘Aye. I’m not proud of myself.’
‘Nor am I.’ She tossed her hammer down, and when he met her eye she didn’t look angry. Sad. Guilty, even. He was starting to hope that might mean she’d forgive him when she said, ‘I laid with someone else.’
Took him a moment to catch up, and when he did he wished he hadn’t. His fist closed painful tight around the elf-bangle in his pocket. ‘You … Who?’
‘What does it matter? It wasn’t about him.’
He stood staring at her, suddenly furious. He felt ambushed. Wronged. He knew he had no right to feel that way, and that only made him feel worse. ‘You think I want to hear that?’
She blinked, caught somewhere between guilt and anger. ‘I hope you hate to hear it.’
‘That why you did it?’
Anger won. ‘I did it because I needed to you selfish prick!’ she barked. ‘Not everything’s about you and your great big talents and your great big choices and your great big bloody future.’ She stabbed at her chest with her finger. ‘I needed something and you chose not to be here!’ She turned her back on him. ‘No one’ll complain if you choose not to be here again.’
The tapping of her hammer chased him back up the steps. Back to the courtyard of Bail’s Point, and the war, and the smoke of dead men.
Digging
Raith’s back ached, and his chest was sore, and his long-broken hand and his newly-burned hand both stung in their own ways from the work. He’d dug ten graves’ worth of mud already, and found no sign of Rakki, but he kept digging.
He’d always fretted over what his brother might do without him. Never thought about what he’d do without his brother. Maybe he’d never really been the strong one after all.
Spade up, spade down, and the calm thud, thud of the blade in the soil, and the steady heaping of the earth to either side. It spared him from having to think.
‘Looking for treasure?’
A long figure stood at the lip of the pit with Mother Sun behind, hands on hips, gold and silver glinting on the unshaved side of her head. The last person he’d hoped to run into out here. But so it goes, with hopes.
‘Digging for my brother’s body.’
‘What’s that worth now?’
‘It’s worth something to me.’ He flung soil so it scattered across her boots, but Thorn Bathu wasn’t one to be put off by a little dirt.
‘You’ll never find him. Even if you do, what then?’
‘I build a proper pyre, and I burn him proper, and I bury him proper.’
‘Queen Skara was thinking of burying Bright Yilling proper. She says you have to be generous to your enemies.’
‘And?’
‘I bent his sword in half and buried that. His carcass I cut up and left for the crows. I reckon that more generous than he deserved.’
Raith swallowed. ‘I try not to think about what men deserve.’
‘The dead are past help, boy.’ Thorn closed one nostril with her finger and blew snot onto Raith’s diggings through the other. ‘All you can do is take a price from the living. I’ll be heading to Skekenhouse in the morning. Take a price from the High King for my husband.’
‘What price will pay for that?’
‘His head’ll make a start!’ she snarled at him, spit flecking from her twisted lips.
Being honest, her fury scared him a little. Being honest, it excited him a lot.
Reminded him of his own. Reminded him of a simpler time, when he knew who he was. When he knew who his enemies were, and all he wanted was to kill them.
‘Thought you might want to come along,’ said Thorn.
‘Didn’t think you liked me much.’
‘I think you’re a bloody little bastard.’ She poked a stone with her toe and it rolled down into the pit. ‘That’s just the kind of man I’m after.’
Raith licked his lips, that old fire flickering up in him like Thorn was the sparking flint and he was the ready tinder.
She was right. Rakki was dead, and no amount of digging would help him.
He chopped the shovel hard into the soil. ‘I’m with you.’
Skara was changed. Or perhaps she’d been changing bit by bit, and he hadn’t seen it till now.
She’d given up the mail, and looked less like the great painting of Ashenleer behind her. But she still wore the long dagger at her belt, and the armring with the red stone Bail the Builder once wore into battle. She still had the sword Rin made, though some boy from among the burned-out farmers knelt beside her with it in Raith’s place.
A queen indeed, and with learned advisors at her side. Blue Jenner hadn’t lost his raider’s slouch, but he’d cut back his wispy hair, and trimmed close his beard, and gained a fine fur and a gold chain to sit on top of it. Owd had shed weight and heaped on dignity since she was Mother Scaer’s apprentice, a disapproving frown on her sharpened face as she watched Raith skulk into the audience chamber, his stolen helmet clutched under his arm.
Skara looked down at him, chin high and shoulders back so her neck seemed to go on a mile, quite at home in Bail’s great chair and seeming as lofty as Laithlin ever had. Could it really be the same girl whose bed he’d shared a few nights before? Whose fingers had trailed across the scars on his back? Whose whispers had tickled at his ear? Seemed a dream now. Maybe it had been.
He wobbled out a bow. Felt quite the fool, but what else could he do? ‘I’ve, er, been thinking—’
‘My queen would be the proper opening,’ said Mother Owd, and Skara made no effort to put her right.
Raith winced. ‘My queen … I’ve been offered a place on Thorn Bathu’s crew. To lead the attack on Skekenhouse.’
‘You minded to take it?’ asked Jenner, bushy brows high.
Raith made himself look right in Skara’s eyes. As if it was just the two of them, alone. Man and woman rather than killer and queen. ‘If you can spare me.’
Perhaps there was the faintest flicker of hurt in her face. Perhaps he just wanted to see one. Either way, her voice stayed smooth as glass. ‘You are a Vansterman. You have sworn me no oaths. You are free to go.’
‘I have to,’ said Raith. ‘For my brother.’
It actually hurt in his chest, he hoped so hard she’d say, No, stay, I need you, I love you.
But Skara only nodded. ‘Then I thank you for your faithful service.’ Raith couldn’t stop his cheek from twitching. Faithful service, that was all he’d given her. The same as any dog. ‘You will be much missed.’
He tried to find some sign in her face that he’d be missed at all, but it was a mask. He glanced over his shoulder, saw a messenger from the Prince of Kalyiv waiting, fur hat clutched in eager hands, impatient for her moment.
Mother Owd was frowning down mightily at him. ‘If there is nothing else?’ No doubt she guessed some part of what had gone on and was keen to see his back. Raith could hardly blame her.
His shoulders slumped as he turned away. Felt like he’d outwitted himself altogether. Used to be the only thing moved him was the chance at punching folk in the head. Skara had showed him a glimpse of something better, and he’d traded it for a vengeance he didn’t even want.
Blue Jenner caught up to him in the doorway. ‘Do what you have to. There’ll always be a place for you here.’
Raith wasn’t so sure. ‘Tell me, old man … if you’ve done evil things … does that make you evil?’
Jenner blinked at him. ‘Wish I had the answers, boy. All I know is there’s no changing yesterday. You can only look to do better tomorrow.’
‘Aye, I reckon.’ Raith wanted to give the old raider a parting hug, but that gold chain made him seem too grand. So he settled for just an awkward grin down at his boots, dirty from digging, and skulked away.
Head and Heart
The dawn was crisp and clear, and Skara’s breath, and Laithlin’s breath, and Druin’s breath, and the breath of their gathered guards and slaves and attendants made a gently rising cloud of smoke as they looked down from the ramp leading to the harbour.
King Uthil was ashes and King Druin too young for the task, so it fell to Father Yarvi to lead the fleet to their reckoning with the High King in Skekenhouse. Standing for Father Peace did not prevent the young minister of Gettland from doing Mother War’s work that morning, and as well as any warrior.
As Mother Sun showed herself bright over the looming walls of Bail’s Point she cast long shadows from dozens of prow-beasts, lined up neatly as the heads of horses on parade, every oarsman calm and ready. Father Yarvi gave one grim wave to Queen Laithlin, then his high, hard call rang out across the silent harbour, and as though all those hundreds of men had one mind and one body, the ships began to move.
‘It seems Father Yarvi has become our leader,’ said Skara.
‘War has a way of revealing things in people.’ The pride was plain in Laithlin’s voice as she watched the ships of Gettland glide out to sea, two by two. ‘Some flourish and some falter. But I always knew Yarvi had resolve in him. Yours has surprised me more.’
‘Mine?’
‘Did you not stand firm here against the numberless armies of the High King? You are very much changed, cousin, from the girl brought wet-eyed and weary into my chambers.’
‘We all are changed,’ murmured Skara.
She saw Thorn Bathu stand scowling at the prow of her ship, one boot up on the rail as though she could not get to Skekenhouse fast enough. The boat had belonged to one of Bright Yilling’s Companions, a golden ram for a prow-beast, but Thorn had charred it black so it better fitted her black mood and, if you stood on the High King’s side, her black reputation. Skara’s eyes moved down the crew on their sea-chests, dangerous men all bent on vengeance, until she saw a white head bobbing with the stroke and made herself look away.
Yesterday, in Bail’s Hall, she had wanted to ask him to stay. To order him to stay. She had opened her mouth to do it, but at the last moment, she had let him go. She had made him go. She had not even been able to say a true goodbye. It would not have been proper.
She was not sure if you could call it love. It was nothing like the bards sing of. But whatever she felt was too powerful to risk having him outside her door every day, every night. That way she would have to be strong every moment, and sooner or later she would weaken. This way, she had to be strong only once.
It hurt her to push him away. It hurt her more to see how much she hurt him. But Mother Kyre had always told her hurts are part of life. All you can do i
s shoulder them, and carry on. She had her land, and her people, and her duty to think of. Taking him into her bed had been foolish. Selfish. A reckless mistake, and she could not afford to make another.
Blue Jenner gave Skara a nod from the steering platform of the Black Dog, and as she raised her arm in reply a rousing cheer went up from the crews of Throvenland. Men had been flooding into Bail’s Point since the victory to kneel before her and swear loyalty, and though the ships might have been taken from the High King, the warriors were hers.
‘You must have twenty crews, now, cheering for you,’ said Laithlin.
‘Twenty-two,’ said Skara, as she watched her ships follow the Gettlanders out of the harbour.
‘No meagre force.’
‘When I came to you I had nothing. I will never forget how much I owe you.’ Wanting to make some kind of gesture, Skara beckoned to her thrall. ‘You should take back the slave you lent me—’
‘Has she displeased you?’
Skara saw the fear in the girl’s eyes. ‘No. No, I just—’
‘Keep her.’ Laithlin waved her back. ‘A gift. The first of many. You will soon be High Queen over the whole Shattered Sea, after all.’
Skara stared at her. ‘What?’
‘If the wind blows our way, Grandmother Wexen will be toppled from her high perch in the Tower of the Ministry. The priests of the One God will be driven back to the south. The High King will fall. Have you spared no thought for who will replace him?’
‘I was a little distracted with getting through each day alive.’
Laithlin snorted as if that was a petty reason to ignore the turning of the wheels of power. Perhaps it was. ‘The Breaker of Swords is the most famous warrior left alive. The one king never defeated in battle or duel.’ She nodded towards the wharves, and Skara saw him striding up the long ramp towards them, men ducking out of his way like scattering pigeons. ‘Grom-gil-Gorm will be High King. And you will be his wife.’
Skara put a hand on her churning stomach. ‘I hardly feel ready to be queen of Throvenland.’
‘Who is ever ready? I was a queen at fifteen. My son is a king at two.’