All agreed it had been an excellent death.
My Land
Mother Sun was a smudge on the eastern horizon, hiding her children the stars behind the iron-grey curtain of the dawn sky. The fortress loomed ahead, sombre as a funeral howe in the colourless dawn, hopeful crows circling above.
‘At least the rain has stopped,’ muttered Skara, pushing back her hood.
‘He Who Speaks the Thunder has taken his tantrums off inland,’ said Queen Laithlin. ‘Like all boys, he makes a great fuss but it’s soon over.’ And she reached out and chucked Prince Druin under the chin. ‘Shall I take him?’
‘No.’ Skara squeezed him tighter. ‘I can hold him.’ Having his little arms around her neck made her feel strong. And the gods knew, she had need of strength then.
Bail’s Point, shining symbol of Throvenland united, was not what she remembered. The village in the shadow of the fortress, where she had once danced at the summer festival, lay in ruins, houses burned or abandoned. The orchard before the crumbling man-built stretch of wall was throttled with ivy, last year’s fruit rotting in the weeds. The great gateway between two soaring elf-built towers had once been decorated with bright banners. Now a hanged man swung on a creaking rope from the battlements, his bare feet dangling.
His fine gold armrings, his shining mail, his gilded weapons had been stripped away, but Skara knew his face at once.
‘One of Bright Yilling’s Companions.’ She gave a shiver in spite of the fur about her shoulders. ‘One of those who burned Yaletoft.’
‘Yet here he swings,’ said Laithlin. ‘It seems praying to Death does not put off a meeting with her.’
‘Nothing puts off that meeting,’ whispered Skara. Probably she should have revelled in his death, spat on his corpse, given thanks to Mother War that this splinter of Throvenland at least was freed, but all she felt was a sick echo of her fear when she last saw him, and a dread that she would never be free of it.
Someone had chopped down the great oak that once grew in the yard of the fortress, the buildings crowding within the ancient elf-walls bare and ugly without its shade. Warriors lounged on the buckled cobbles around the stump, most drunk and getting more drunk, comparing wounds and trophies, cleaning weapons, trading stories.
A would-be skald was composing a verse, shouting the same line over and over while others offered choices for the next word to gales of laughter. A prayer-weaver droned out an elaborate thanks to the gods for their victory. Somewhere, someone was howling in pain.
Skara wrinkled her nose. ‘What is that smell?’
‘Everything men contain,’ murmured Sister Owd, watching a pair of thralls haul something past between them.
Skara realized with a cold shock that it was a corpse, and then to her horror that they were dragging it onto a whole heap of others. A pale tangle of bare limbs, stained and spattered, mouths lolling silent, eyes unseeing. A pile of meat which last night had been men. Men who had taken years of work to birth, and nurse, and teach to walk, speak, fight. Skara held Prince Druin close, trying to shield his eyes.
‘Should he see this?’ she murmured, wishing she had not seen it herself.
‘He will be king of Gettland. This is his destiny.’ Laithlin glanced dispassionately at the bodies, and Skara wondered if she had ever met so formidable a woman. ‘He should learn to rejoice in it. So should you. This is your victory, after all.’
Skara swallowed. ‘Mine?’
‘The men will argue over whose was the hairiest chest and the loudest roar. The bards will sing of the flashing steel and the blood spilled. But yours was the plan. Yours was the will. Yours were the words that set these men to your purpose.’
Words are weapons, Mother Kyre had told her. Skara stared at the dead men in the yard of Bail’s Point, and thought of the dead men in her grandfather’s hall, and rather than a crime avenged she saw two crimes, and felt the guilt of one piled on the pain of the other.
‘It does not feel like victory,’ she whispered.
‘You have seen defeat. Which do you prefer?’ Skara remembered standing at the Black Dog’s stern, watching the gable of her grandfather’s hall sag into the towering flames, and found she could not argue.
‘I was very impressed with you at the moot,’ said Laithlin.
‘Truly? I thought … you might be angry with me.’
‘That you spoke for yourself and your country? I might as well be angry at the snow for falling. You are eighteen winters old, yes?’
‘I will be, this year …’
Laithlin slowly shook her head. ‘Seventeen. You have a gift.’
‘Mother Kyre and my grandfather … all my life they tried to teach me how to lead. How to speak and what to say. How to make arguments, read faces, sway hearts … I always thought myself a poor pupil.’
‘I very much doubt that, but war can force strengths from us we never expected. King Fynn and his minister prepared you well, but one cannot teach what you have. You are touched by She Who Spoke the First Word. You have that light in you that makes people listen.’ The queen frowned at Druin, who was staring at the carnage in wide-eyed silence. ‘I have a feeling my son’s future may hang on that gift.’
Skara blinked. ‘My gifts beside yours are like a candle beside Mother Sun. You are the Golden Queen-’
‘Of Gettland.’ Her eyes flicked to Skara’s, bright and sharp. ‘The gods know I have tried to steer this alliance, first to counsel peace and then to urge action, but to King Uthil I am a wife and to King Gorm I am an enemy.’ She pushed a strand of hair from Skara’s face. ‘You are neither. Fate has made you the balance between them. The pin on which the scales of this alliance hang.’
Skara stared at her. ‘I do not have the strength for that.’
‘Then you must find it.’ Laithlin leaned close and took Prince Druin from her arms. ‘Power is a weight. You are young, cousin, I know, but you must learn to carry it, or it will crush you.’
Sister Owd puffed out her cheeks, making her round face look even rounder as she watched the queen glide away, her thralls and servants and guards trailing after her. ‘Queen Laithlin has always been a well of good humour.’
‘Good humour I can live without, Sister Owd. What I need is good advice.’
It surprised her how glad she was to see Raith alive, but then as things stood he was one whole third of her household, and by far the best-looking third. He and his brother sat laughing beside a fire, and Skara felt a strange pang of jealousy, they seemed so utterly at ease with each other. For two men sprung at once from the same womb they were easily told apart. Raith was the one with the wrinkle to his lip and the fresh cut down his face. The one with a challenge in his eye, even when he met Skara’s, that she could not seem to look away from. Rakki was the one who hardly met her eye at all, and scrambled to rise with the proper respect as she drew close.
‘You’ve earned your rest,’ she said, waving him down. ‘I hardly deserve to be among such blood-letters.’
‘You spilled a little blood yourself in that moot,’ said Raith, glancing down at Skara’s bandaged hand.
She found herself hiding it with the other. ‘Only my own.’
‘It’s spilling your own takes the courage.’ Raith winced as he prodded at the long scratch down his white-stubbled jaw. He looked no worse for the mark. Better, if anything.
‘I hear you fought well,’ she said.
‘He always does, princess.’ Rakki grinned as he punched his brother on the arm. ‘First through the gate! Without him we might still be squatting outside.’
Raith shrugged. ‘Fighting’s no hardship when you love to fight.’
‘Even so. My grandfather always told me those who fight well should be rewarded by those they fight for.’ And Skara twisted one of the silver rings Laithlin had given her from her wrist and held it out.
Rakki and Raith both stared. The armring had been much pecked with a knife to test its purity some time in the past, but Skara had been taught well the value of things. She saw that neither brother wore ring-money and knew this was no light matter to them. Raith swallowed as he reached to take it, but Skara kept her grip. ‘You fight for me, don’t you?’