‘Out with it,’ snapped Skara, sick tickling at the back of her throat.
‘My queen …’ Mother Owd swallowed, eyes round in her round face. ‘Grom-gil-Gorm is dead.’
Changing the World
‘I know it was you!’ snarled Mother Scaer, her rage filling the Hall of Whispers to the top, echoing back so savagely Koll hunched into his shoulders, ‘or that bitch of yours—’
‘If you are talking of Queen Skara she is neither a bitch nor is she mine.’ Grandfather Yarvi’s smile was as unmarked by Scaer’s fury as elf-stone by arrows. ‘If you knew I was responsible you would be presenting evidence, but I know you have none because I know I had nothing to do with it.’
Scaer opened her mouth but Yarvi talked over her. ‘We speak of Grom-gil-Gorm, Breaker of Swords and Maker of Orphans! He used to boast that no man had more enemies! Every pommel on that chain he wore was someone’s score in need of settling.’
‘And, after all …’ Koll spread his hands and tried to look as earnest as any man could. ‘Sometimes … people just die.’
Mother Scaer turned her freezing glare on him. ‘Oh, men will die over this, I promise you!’
Yarvi’s guards shifted unhappily, their faces hidden behind gilded face-plates but their elf-weapons on conspicuous display. The men who’d rowed the South Wind to Strokom had sickened. Three had died already. It seemed without Skifr’s magic beans the ruins were every bit as dangerous as the stories said. For now there would be no more relics brought from within, but Grandfather Yarvi found no shortage of men keen to carry the ones he had. The moment they took them up, after all, they were made stronger than any warrior in all the songs.
‘Have you really nothing better to do, Mother Scaer, than toss empty threats at my apprentice?’ Grandfather Yarvi gave a careless shrug. ‘Gorm died without an heir. Vansterland could fall into chaos, every warrior vying to prove himself the strongest. You must keep order, and ensure a new king is found without too much blood spilled.’
‘Oh, I shall find a new king.’ She glowered at Yarvi and growled the words. ‘Then I will dig out the truth of this and there will be a reckoning.’ She pointed up towards the statues of the Tall Gods with a clawing finger. ‘The gods see all! Their judgment is always waiting!’
Yarvi’s brow furrowed. ‘In my experience they take their time about it. Dig out whatever truth you please, but for now there shall be no High King. All the last one brought us was blood, and the Shattered Sea needs time to heal.’ He put his withered hand reluctantly on his own chest. ‘For now power shall rest with the Ministry, and Father Peace shall have his day.’
Mother Scaer gave a disgusted hiss. ‘Not even Grandmother Wexen presumed to set herself so high.’
‘This is for the greater good, not my own.’
‘So say all tyrants!’
‘If you despise my methods so, perhaps you should give up that elf-weapon you carry? Or is it not quite the evil you first feared?’
‘Sometimes one must fight evil with evil.’ Scaer looked towards Yarvi’s guards, and shifted the relic she carried beneath her coat. ‘If you have taught the world one lesson it is that.’
Yarvi’s frown hardened. ‘You should have the proper respect, Mother Scaer. For the office of Grandfather of the Ministry, if not the man who holds it.’
‘Here is all the respect I have for you at once.’ And she spat onto the floor at his feet. ‘You have not heard the last from me.’ And her footsteps clapped in the great space above as she stalked from the Hall of Whispers.
‘A shame.’ Yarvi wiped the spittle calmly away with his shoe. ‘When we were always such good friends. Still.’ And he turned to Koll with a grin at the corner of his mouth. ‘Enemies are the price of success, eh?’
‘So I’m told, Father Yarvi—’ Koll quickly corrected himself. ‘Grandfather Yarvi, that is.’
‘So it is. Walk with me.’
Though Mother Sun was high and bright there had been rain that morning, and the grey stones of Skekenhouse were dotted with puddles. The fires had all been put out but there was still the faintest tang of burning. The killing had been stopped but there was still an edge of violence on the air. The calls of the traders came muted, the eyes of the people were cast down. Even a dog’s distant bark sounded somehow fearful. Mother War might have folded her wings but Father Peace was far from settled at his loom.
A crowd of supplicants had gathered in the long shadow of the Tower of the Ministry. Folk come to beg for some prisoner released or some indulgence granted. They knelt in the wet, cringing as Grandfather Yarvi swept past, implacable, and called out thanks to him for saving the city from the Shends.
None mentioned that he’d been the one who gave the city up to the Shends in the first place. Not to his face, anyway.
‘Folk used to nod to you,’ murmured Koll. ‘Bow if they really wanted something. Now they kneel.’
‘It is only proper that they kneel to the Grandfather of the Ministry,’ he murmured, acknowledging the most servile efforts with a generous wave of his shrivelled hand.
‘Aye, but do they really kneel to him, or to the elf-weapons his guards carry?’
‘What matters is that they kneel.’
‘Are fear and respect really the same?’
‘Of course not,’ said Yarvi, walking on and leaving more of his many guards to clear away the crowd. ‘Respect soon blows away in a storm. Fear has far deeper roots.’
Teams of thralls crawled among the ruins, struggling under the ready whips of chain-masters, working to restore the city to the way it had been before the sack. Some of them, Koll was sure, were folk who’d stood high in the favour of Grandmother Wexen. Now they found that the higher you climbed, the further there was to fall.
It made Koll wonder whether they’d really changed the world so much for all that blood shed. Different folk wearing the collars, maybe, and different folk holding the chains, but life was still life. Same questions. Same answers.
‘You are unusually quiet,’ said Grandfather Yarvi as they walked on towards the docks.
‘Sometimes you work so hard for something that when it comes you hardly know what to do with it.’
‘Victory rarely feels much of a victory, in the end.’ Yarvi’s eyes slid sideways and it seemed, as ever, that he could see straight into Koll’s thoughts. ‘Is that all, though?’
‘There’s something that’s been … well … bothering me.’ It had in fact been burning a hole through Koll’s mind since the day it happened.
‘You’ve never been one to keep your worries to yourself.’
Koll twisted his neck and felt the reassuring rattle of the storekeeper’s weights under his shirt. ‘My mother always told me honesty was a man’s best shield.’
‘Fine advice, as your mother’s always was. Be honest, then.’
‘Grandmother Wexen …’ He picked at a fingernail. ‘She said she didn’t send the men who burned Skifr’s family.’
Yarvi peered at Koll down his nose. He seemed to peer from a long way up, since he became Grandfather of the Ministry. ‘A lie. Like the lie about there being a traitor within our alliance. Grandmother Wexen knew how to sow discord among her enemies. Now she does it from beyond the Last Door.’
‘Maybe …’ Koll pressed the tips of his forefingers together so they turned blotchy white. Every word was an effort. ‘Ask who benefits, you always told me.’
Grandfather Yarvi came to a sudden halt and Koll heard the guards halt with him. He could see their shadows stretching out towards him on the cobblestones. The shadows of the elf-weapons they carried. ‘And who benefits?’
‘You do,’ croaked Koll, not looking up from his fingers, and added in a rush, ‘or we do. Gettland. All of us. Without that hall-burning Skifr would not have come north. Without Skifr there would have been no journey to Strokom. Without the journey to Strokom, no elf-weapons. Without elf-weapons, no victory at Bail’s Point. Without victory at Bail’s Point—’
The weight of Fat
her Yarvi’s bad hand on his shoulder put a stop to Koll’s blathering. ‘The future is a land wrapped in fog. Do you really think I could have planned all that?’
‘Perhaps …’
‘Then you flatter and insult me both at once. I have always said that power means having one shoulder in the shadows. But not both, Koll. Skifr was our friend. Do you really think I could send men to kill her? To burn her children?’
Looking into his pale eyes then, Koll wondered whether there was anything the First of Ministers would not do. But he had no more evidence than Mother Scaer, and even less chance of getting satisfaction. He forced a quick smile onto his face, and shook his head. ‘Of course not. It just … bothered me, is all.’
Father Yarvi turned away. ‘Well, you cannot be so easily bothered if you are to take my place as Minister of Gettland.’ He tossed it out like a trainer might a bone and, sure enough, Koll chased after it like an eager puppy.
‘Me?’ He hurried to catch up, his voice gone high as a little girl’s. ‘Minister of Gettland?’
‘You are the same age I was when I took up Mother Gundring’s staff. I know you do not quite believe in yourself, but I believe in you. It is high time you took your test, and swore your oath, and became a minister. You will sit beside the Black Chair, and be Father Koll, and your birthright will be the plants and the books and the soft word spoken.’
Everything he’d wanted. Respect, and authority, and his talents put to use. Father Koll. The best man he could be. So why did the thought fill him with dread?
The docks crawled with humanity, people bargaining, arguing and threatening in six languages Koll knew and at least six he didn’t, ships tangling at the wharves, tangling with each other as they came and went, oars clashing and scraping.
Many were leaving Skekenhouse in the murk of mistrust that had followed Gorm’s death. The Shends had already cleared out with their plunder, grumbling at getting only a part of what they were promised. The Throvenmen were heading home to rebuild their broken farms, their broken towns, their broken country. Without the chain of Gorm’s fame binding them the Vanstermen were splintering into factions already, racing back to safeguard what was theirs or set about taking what was someone else’s before winter gripped the north.
‘Lots of people leaving,’ said Koll.
‘True enough.’ Father Yarvi gave a satisfied sigh as he watched the hubbub. ‘But people arriving too.’
There were sharp-eyed merchant-women of Gettland, servants of the Golden Queen come to clamp levies on every ship that passed through the straits. There were zealous prayer-weavers fixed on driving out the One God and singing the songs of the many on every street-corner in Skekenhouse. And every day more landless warriors swaggered in, hired by Grandfather Yarvi from all across the Shattered Sea, the white eagle of the Ministry fresh-daubed on their shields.
‘They’re bringing plenty of swords with them,’ murmured Koll.
‘Indeed they are. We must keep Father Peace smiling for a while.’
‘Since when did Father Peace smile at swords?’
‘Only half a war is fought with swords, Koll, but only half a peace is won with ploughs.’ Yarvi propped his withered palm on the hilt of the curved sword he still wore. ‘A blade in the right hands can be a righteous tool.’
Koll watched a group of frowning warriors stroll past, weapons worn as proudly as a new wife might wear her key. ‘Who decides whose hands are right?’
‘We will. We must. It is the duty of the powerful to put aside childish notions and choose the lesser evil. Otherwise the world slides into chaos. You aren’t still having doubts are you, Koll?’
‘Doubts?’ Gods, he was made of them. ‘No, no, no. No.’ Koll cleared his throat. ‘Maybe. I know how much I owe you. I just … don’t want to let you down.’
‘I need you beside me, Koll. I promised your father I would free you, and I did. I promised your mother I would look after you, and I have.’ His voice dropped softer. ‘I have my doubts too and you … help me choose what is right.’ There was a weakness there Koll hadn’t heard before, had never expected to hear. A desperation, almost. ‘Rulf has gone back to Thorlby to be with his wife. I need someone I can trust. Someone who reminds me I can do good. Not just greater good, but … good. Please. Help me to stand in the light.’
‘I’ve so much still to learn—’ blathered Koll, but however he twisted there was no slipping free.
‘You will learn by doing. As I did. As every man must.’ Yarvi snapped his fingers. ‘Let us put aside the Test.’
Koll blinked up at him. ‘Put it aside?’
‘I am Grandfather of the Ministry, who will refuse me? You can swear your oath now. You can kneel here, Koll the woodcarver, and rise Father Koll, Minister of Gettland!’
He might not have pictured it kneeling on the quayside, but Koll had always known this moment would come. He’d dreamed of it, boasted of it, eagerly learned the words by heart.
He wobbled slowly down and knelt, Koll the woodcarver, damp soaking through his trousers. Grandfather Yarvi towered over him, smiling. There was no need for him to threaten. The faceless guards still lurking at his shoulders did it for him.
Koll only had to say the words to be a minister. Not only Brother Koll, but Father Koll. To stand beside kings and change the world. To be the best man he could be, just as his mother had always wanted. To never be an outsider. To never be weak. To have no wife and no family but the Ministry. To leave the light, and have one shoulder always in the shadows. At least one.
All he had to do was say the words, and stand.
One Vote
There was an overgrown courtyard at the heart of the house that Skara had taken for her own. It was choked with weeds and throttled with ivy but someone must have cared for it once, for late flowers were still blossoming in a sweet-smelling riot against the sunny wall.
Even though the leaves were falling and the year was growing cold, Skara liked to sit on a lichen-spattered stone bench there. It reminded her of the walled garden behind the Forest where Mother Kyre had taught her the names of herbs. Except there were no herbs. And Mother Kyre was dead.
‘The atmosphere in Skekenhouse is …’
‘Poisonous,’ Mother Owd finished for her.
As usual, her minister chose an apt word. The citizens were steeped in grudges and fear. The remains of the alliance were at one another’s throats. Grandfather Yarvi’s warriors were everywhere, the white dove of Father Peace on their coats but Mother War’s tools always close to twitchy fingers.
‘It is high time we left for Throvenland,’ said Skara. ‘We have much to do there.’
‘The ships are already being fitted, my queen,’ said Blue Jenner. ‘I was going to offer Raith an oar—’
Skara looked up sharply. ‘Has he asked for one?’
‘He’s not the kind to ask. But I heard it didn’t work out too well for him with Thorn Bathu, and it’s not as though he can carry Gorm’s sword any more—’
‘Raith made his choice,’ snapped Skara, her voice cracking. ‘He cannot come with us.’
Jenner blinked. ‘But … he fought for you at the straits. Saved my life at Bail’s Point. I said we’d always have a place for him—’
‘You shouldn’t have. It is not up to me to keep your promises.’
It hurt her, to see how hurt he looked at that. ‘Of course, my queen,’ he muttered, and walked stiffly into the house, leaving Skara alone with her minister.
The wind swirled up chill, leaves chasing each other about the old stones. A bird twittered somewhere in the dry ivy. Mother Owd cleared her throat.
‘My queen, I must ask. Is your blood coming regularly?’
Skara felt her heart suddenly thudding, her face burning, and she looked down at the ground.
‘My queen?’
‘No.’
‘And … might that be … why you are reluctant to give an oar to King Gorm’s sword-bearer?’ Blue Jenner might be baffled but plainly Mother Owd guess
ed the truth. The trouble with a shrewd advisor is they see through your own lies as easily as your enemy’s.
‘His name’s Raith,’ muttered Skara. ‘You can use his name, at least.’
‘He Who Sprouts the Seed has blessed you,’ said the minister softly.
‘Cursed me.’ Though Skara knew she had no one else to blame. ‘When you doubt you’ll live through tomorrow you spare few thoughts for the day after.’
‘One cannot do the wise thing every time, my queen. What do you want to do?’
Skara dropped her head into her hands. ‘Gods help me, I’ve no idea.’
Mother Owd knelt in front of her. ‘You could carry the child. We might even keep it secret. But there are risks. Risks to you and risks to your position.’
Skara met her eyes. ‘Or?’
‘We could make your blood come. There are ways.’
Skara’s tongue felt sticky as she spoke. ‘Are there risks to that?’
‘Some.’ Mother Owd looked evenly back. ‘But I judge them less.’
Skara set her palm on her belly. It felt no different. No more sickness than usual. No sign of anything growing. When she thought of it gone it gave her nothing but relief, and a trace of queasy guilt that she felt nothing more.
But she was getting practised at storing away regrets. ‘I want it gone,’ she whispered.
Mother Owd gently took her hands. ‘When we get back to Throvenland, I will make the preparations. Don’t spare it another thought. You have enough to carry. Let me carry this.’
Skara had to swallow tears. She had faced threats, and rage, and even Death, with eyes dry, but a little kindness made her want to weep. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
‘A touching scene!’
Mother Owd stood quickly, twisting around as Grandfather Yarvi stepped out into their little garden.
He still wore the same plain coat. The same worn sword. He still carried the elf-metal staff he used to, though it sent a very different message since he killed Bright Yilling with it. But he had around his neck the chain Grandmother Wexen once wore, a rustling mass of papers of his own already threaded on it. And his face had changed. There was a bitter brightness in his eye Skara had not seen before. Perhaps he had put on a ruthless mask, since he moved into the Tower of the Ministry. Or perhaps, no longer needed, he had let a soft mask fall away.