All too often when we topple something hateful, rather than breaking it and starting fresh, we raise ourselves up in its place.
‘Even my battered little stone of a heart is warmed to see such closeness between ruler and minister.’ And Yarvi gave a smile with no warmth in it at all. ‘You are a woman who inspires loyalty, Queen Skara.’
‘There is no magic to it.’ She stood herself, carefully smoothing the front of her dress, carefully smoothing her face too, giving nothing away, the way Mother Kyre had taught her. She had a feeling she might need all of Mother Kyre’s lessons and more in the next few moments. ‘I try to treat people the way I would want to be treated. The powerful cannot only be ruthless, Grandfather Yarvi. They must be generous too. They must have some mercy in them.’
The First of Ministers smiled as if at the innocence of a child. ‘Charming sentiments, my queen. I understand you will soon be leaving for Throvenland. I need to speak to you first.’
‘Wishes for good weatherluck, most honoured Grandfather Yarvi?’ Mother Owd folded her arms as she faced him. ‘Or matters of state?’
‘Matters best discussed in private,’ he said. ‘Leave us.’
She gave a questioning sideways glance, but Skara returned it with the faintest nod. Some things must be faced alone. ‘I will be just inside,’ said Mother Owd as she stepped through the door. ‘If you need me for anything.’
‘We won’t!’ The pale eyes of the First of Ministers settled on Skara, cold as new snow. The look of a man who knows he has won before the game is even played. ‘How did you poison Grom-gil-Gorm?’
Skara raised her brows. ‘Why would I? He suited me much better on this side of the Last Door. The one who gained most from his death is you.’
‘Not every scheme is mine. But I’ll admit the dice have fallen well for me.’
‘A lucky man is more dangerous than a cunning one, eh, Grandfather Yarvi?’
‘Tremble, then, when you see both together!’ He smiled again, but there was something hungry in it that made every hair on her spine stand up. ‘It is true that things have changed since we last negotiated, among the howes outside Bail’s Point. Much … simpler. No need to talk any longer of alliances, or compromises, or votes.’
You can only conquer your fears by facing them, her grandfather used to say. Hide from them, and they conquer you. Skara tried to draw herself up proudly, the way he had, when he faced Death. ‘Uthil and Gorm are both gone through the Last Door,’ she said. ‘There is only one vote, now, and it is—’
‘Mine!’ barked Yarvi, opening his eyes very wide. ‘I cannot tell you how refreshing it is to talk to someone who sees straight to the heart of things, so I will not insult you by dithering. You will marry King Druin.’
Skara had been prepared for many things, but she could not quite smother a gasp at that one. ‘King Druin is three years old.’
‘Then you will find him a far less demanding husband than the Breaker of Swords would have been. The world is changed, my queen. And it seems to me now that Throvenland …’ Yarvi lifted his withered hand and turned it around and around in the air. ‘Serves little purpose.’ He somehow managed to snap that one stubby finger with a sharp click. ‘It shall be part of Gettland from now on, though I think it best if my mother continues to wear the key of the treasury.’
‘And me?’ Skara struggled to keep her voice level for the thumping of her heart.
‘My queen, you look beautiful whatever you wear.’ And Grandfather Yarvi turned towards the door.
‘No.’ She could hardly believe how utterly certain she sounded. A strange calm had come over her. The calm that Bail the Builder felt before a battle, perhaps. She might be no warrior, but this was her battlefield, and she was ready to fight.
‘No?’ Yarvi turned back, his smile fading. ‘I came to tell you how things would be, not to ask for an opinion, but perhaps I overestimated your—’
‘No,’ she said again. Words would be her weapons. ‘My father died for Throvenland. My grandfather died for Throvenland. I gave up everything to fight for Throvenland. While I live I will not see it torn apart like a carcass between wolves.’
The First of Ministers stepped towards her, gaunt face tight with anger. ‘Do not presume to defy me, you puking waif!’ he snarled, stabbing at his chest with his withered hand. ‘You have no idea what I have sacrificed, what I have suffered! No idea of the fires I was forged in! You do not have the gold, or the men, or the swords—’
‘Only half a war is fought with swords.’ Mother Kyre had always said a smile costs nothing, so Skara showed the very sweetest one she could as she took the slip of paper from behind her back, folded between two fingers, and held it out. ‘A gift for you, Grandfather Yarvi,’ she said. ‘From Bright Yilling.’
There might have been no man in the Shattered Sea more deep-cunning than he, but Skara had been taught how to read a face, and she caught the twitch by his eye, and knew Yilling’s final whisper on the battlefield before Bail’s Point was true.
‘To being a puking waif I freely confess,’ she said as Yarvi snatched the paper from her fingers. ‘I am told I keep my fears in my stomach. But I have seen some tempering myself over the last few months. Do you recognize the hand?’
He looked up, jaw clenched tight.
‘I thought you might. It seems now great foresight on Mother Kyre’s part that she taught me to read.’
His face twitched again at that. ‘Far from proper, spreading the secret of letters outside the Ministry.’
‘Oh, Mother Kyre could be far from proper when the future of Throvenland was at stake.’ Now she put a little iron in her voice. She had to show her strength. ‘And so can I.’
Father Yarvi crumpled the paper in his trembling fist, but Skara only smiled the wider.
‘Keep that one, by all means,’ she said. ‘Yilling gave me a whole pouch full. There are seven people I trust scattered across Throvenland with one each. You will never know who. You will never know where. But if I should suffer some accident, trip one night and fall through the Last Door like my husband-to-be, messages will be sent, and the story told on every coast of the Shattered Sea …’ She leaned close and murmured the words. ‘That Father Yarvi was the traitor within our alliance.’
‘No one will believe it,’ he said, but his face had turned very pale.
‘A message will find its way to Master Hunnan and the warriors of Gettland, telling them that it was you who betrayed their beloved King Uthil.’
‘I don’t fear Hunnan,’ he said, but his hand was trembling on his staff.
‘A message will find its way to your mother, the Golden Queen of Gettland, telling her that her own son sold her city to her enemies.’
‘My mother would never turn against me,’ he said, but his eyes were glistening.
‘A message will find its way to Thorn Bathu, whose husband Brand was killed in the raid you made happen.’ Skara’s voice was cold, and slow, and relentless as the tide. ‘But perhaps she is more forgiving than she appears. You know her much better than I.’
As a stick bent further and further snaps all at once, Grandfather Yarvi gave a kind of gasp and the strength seemed to go suddenly from his legs. He tottered back, stumbled into the stone bench and fell heavily upon it, elf-staff clattering from his good hand as he clutched out to steady himself. He sat, shining eyes wide, staring at Skara. Staring through her, as if his gaze was fixed on ghosts far beyond.
‘I thought … I might sway Bright Yilling,’ he whispered. ‘I thought I might bait him with little secrets and hook him with one great lie. But it was he that hooked me at the straits.’ A tear trickled from one of his swimming eyes and streaked his slack cheek.
‘The alliance was faltering. King Uthil’s resolve was waning. My mother saw more profit in peace. I could not trust Gorm and Scaer.’ He made a crooked fist of his left hand. ‘But I had sworn an oath. A sun-oath and a moon-oath. To be revenged on the killers of my father. I could not have peace.’ He blinked stupi
dly, tears rolling down his pale face, and Skara realized, perhaps for the first time, how young he was. Only a few years older than she.
‘And so I told Bright Yilling to attack Thorlby,’ he whispered. ‘To make an outrage from which there could be no turning back. I told him when and how. I did not mean for Brand to die. The gods know I did not mean it, but …’ He swallowed, the breath clicking in his throat, his shoulders hunched and his head hanging as though the weight of what he had done was crushing him. ‘A hundred decisions made, and every time the greater good, the lesser evil. A thousand steps taken and each one had to be taken.’ He stared down at the elf-staff on the ground, and his mouth twisted with disgust. ‘How could they lead me here?’
Skara felt no hate for him then, only pity. She was up to her neck in her own regrets, knew she could give him no worse punishment than he would give himself. She could give him no punishment at all. She needed him too badly.
She knelt before him, the chain of pommels rattling against her chest, and took his tear-stained face in her hands. Now she had to show her compassion. Her generosity. Her mercy. ‘Listen to me.’ And she shook his head so that his glazed eyes flicked to hers. ‘Nothing is lost. Nothing is broken. I understand. I know the weight of power and I do not judge you. But we must be together in this.’
‘As a slave is chained to his mistress?’ he muttered.
‘As allies are bound to each other.’ She brushed away his tears with her thumb-tips. Now she had to show her cunning, and strike a deal the Golden Queen herself would be proud of. ‘I will be Queen of Throvenland not only in name but in fact. I will kneel to no one and have the full support of the Ministry. I will make my own decisions for my own people. I will choose my own husband in my own time. The straits belong as much to Throvenland as to Yutmark. Half the levies your mother is collecting from the ships that pass through it shall go to my treasury.’
‘She will not—’
Skara shook his face again, hard. ‘One right word severs a whole rope of will-nots, you know that. Throvenland bore the worst of your war. I need gold to rebuild what Bright Yilling burned. Silver to buy my own warriors and my own allies. Then you shall be Grandfather of the Ministry, and your secrets just as safe in my hands as in yours.’ She leaned down, took his staff from the ground, and offered it to him. ‘You are a minister, but you have stood for Mother War. We have had blood enough. Someone must stand for Father Peace.’
He curled his fingers around the elf-metal, mouth scornfully twisting. ‘So we will dance into your bright future hand in hand, and keep the balance of the Shattered Sea between us.’
‘We could destroy each other instead, but why? If Grandmother Wexen has taught me one lesson, it is that you are a dire enemy to have. I would much rather be your friend.’ Skara stood, looking down. ‘You may need one. I know I will.’
The pale eyes of the First of Ministers were dry again. ‘It is hardly as if I have a choice, is it?’
‘I cannot tell you how refreshing it is to talk to someone who sees straight to the heart of things.’ She brushed a few stray leaves from her dress, thinking how proud her grandfather would have been. ‘There is only one vote, Grandfather Yarvi. And it is mine.’
New Shoots
Raith heard laughter. Skara’s big, wild laughter, and the sound alone made him smile.
He peered from the dripping doorway and saw her walking, fine cloak flapping with the hood up against the drizzle, Mother Owd beside her, guards and thralls around her, an entourage fit for the queen she was. He waited until they were passing before he eased out, scraping back his wet hair.
‘My queen.’ He’d meant it to sound light-hearted. It came out a needy bleat.
Her head snapped around and he felt the same breathless shock as when he first saw her face, only stronger than ever and, soon enough, with a bitter edge too. She cracked no delighted smile of recognition, no look of haunted guilt even, only a pained grimace. Like he reminded her of something she’d much rather forget.
‘One moment,’ she said to Mother Owd, who was frowning at Raith as if he was a barrow full of plague corpses. The queen stepped away from her servants, glancing both ways down the wet street. ‘I can’t speak to you like this.’
‘Maybe later—’
‘No. Never.’ She’d told him once words can cut deeper than blades, and he’d laughed, but that never was a dagger in him. ‘I’m sorry, Raith. I can’t have you near me.’
He felt like his belly was ripped open and he was pouring blood all over the street. ‘Wouldn’t be proper, eh?’ he croaked.
‘Damn “proper”!’ she hissed. ‘It wouldn’t be right. Not for my land. Not for my people.’
His voice was a desperate whisper. ‘What about for you?’
She winced. Sadness. Or maybe just guilt. ‘Not for me either.’ She leaned close, looking up from under her brows, but her words came iron-hard and, however eager he was to trick himself, they left no room for doubts. ‘Best we think of our time together as a dream. A pleasant dream. But it’s time to wake.’
He would’ve liked to say something clever. Something noble. Something spiteful. Something, anyway. But talk had never been Raith’s battlefield. He’d no idea how to bind all this up into a few words. So in helpless silence he watched her turn. In helpless silence he watched her sweep away. Back to her thralls, and her guards, and her disapproving minister.
He saw how it was, now. Should’ve known how it was all along. She’d liked his warmth well enough in winter, but now summer came she’d shrugged him off like an old coat. And he could hardly blame her. She was a queen, after all, and he was a killer. It wasn’t right for anyone but him. He would’ve felt lucky to have got what he had, if it hadn’t left him so raw and hurting, and with no idea how he could ever feel any other way.
Maybe he should’ve made some vengeful scene. Maybe he should’ve airily strode off, as if he’d a hundred better women begging for his attentions. But the sorry fact was he loved her too much to do either one. Loved her too much to do anything but stand, nursing his aching hand and his broken nose and staring hungrily after her like a dog shut out in the cold. Hoping she’d stop. Hoping she’d change her mind. Hoping she’d just so much as look back.
But she didn’t.
‘What happened between the two of you?’ Raith turned to see Blue Jenner at his shoulder. ‘And don’t tell me nothing, boy.’
‘Nothing, old man.’ Raith tried to smile, but he didn’t have it in him. ‘Thanks.’
‘For what?’
‘Giving me a chance to be better. More’n I deserve, I reckon.’
And he hunched his shoulders and pressed on into the rain.
Raith stood across the street from the forge, watching the light spill around the shutters, listening to the anvil music clattering from inside, wondering if it was Rin that swung the hammer.
Seemed wherever she went she soon found a place for herself. But then she was a good person to have around. Someone who knew what she wanted and was willing to work for it. Someone who made things from nothing, mended things that were broken. She was just what Raith wasn’t.
He knew he’d no right to ask for anything from her, but she’d had some comfort for him after his brother died. The gods knew he needed some comfort, then. He didn’t know where else to look for it.
He gave a miserable sniff, wiped runny snot from under his broken nose on his bandaged arm, and stepped across the street to the door. He lifted his fist to knock.
‘What brings you here?’
It was the minister’s boy, Koll, a crooked grin on his face as he ambled up out of the fading light. A crooked grin reminded Raith for a strange little moment of the one his brother used to have. He still had a twitchy way about him, but there was an ease there too. Like a man who’d made peace with himself. Raith wished he knew how.
He thought fast. ‘Well … been thinking about getting a new sword. This is where that blade-maker’s working now, right?’
‘Rin?
??s her name and, aye, this is where she’s working.’ Koll cocked one ear to the door, smiled like there was sweet singing on the other side. ‘No one makes better swords than Rin. No one anywhere.’
‘How about you?’ asked Raith. ‘Didn’t mark you as the type for swords.’
‘No.’ Koll grinned even wider. ‘I was going to ask if she’d marry me.’
Raith’s brows went shooting up at that, and no mistake. ‘Eh?’
‘Should’ve done it long ago, but I never been too good at making choices. Made a lot of the wrong ones. Done a lot of dithering. I’ve been selfish. I’ve been weak. Didn’t want to hurt anyone so I ended up hurting everyone.’ He took a long breath. ‘But death waits for us all. Life’s about making the best of what you find along the way. A man who’s not content with what he’s got, well, more than likely he won’t be content with what he hasn’t.’
‘Wise words, I reckon.’
‘Yes they are. So I’m going to beg her forgiveness – on my knees if I have to, which knowing her I probably will – then I’m going to ask her to wear my key and I’m hoping a very great deal she’ll say yes.’
‘Thought you were headed for the Ministry?’
Koll worked his neck out, scratching hard at the back of his head. ‘For a long time so did I, but there’s all kinds of ways a man can change the world, I reckon. My mother told me … to be the best man I could.’ His eyes were suddenly swimming, and he laughed, and tugged at a thong around his neck, something clicking under his shirt. ‘Shame it took me this long to work out what she meant. But I got there in the end. Not too late, I hope. You going in then?’
Raith winced towards the window, and cleared his throat. ‘No.’ He used to have naught but contempt for this boy. Now he found he envied him. ‘I reckon your errand comes first.’