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, and 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.’
‘Was,’ muttered Raith. And would be again. If he could do this one thing.
He could hardly make out Skara’s words over the thudding of his heart. Slowly, carefully, trying to make sure his shaking hands didn’t give him away, he poured the wine. It looked like blood in the cup.