He’d wanted to be a warrior. A man who stood by his king and won glory on the battlefield. And what had he become? A man who burned farms. Who betrayed trust. Who poisoned women.
He told himself it had to be done. For his king. For his brother.
He could feel Mother Owd’s eyes on his back as he took the sip the cup-filler takes to make sure the wine’s safe for better lips than his. He heard her take a step towards him, then Skara said, ‘Mother Owd! You knew Father Yarvi before he was a minister, didn’t you?’
‘I did, my queen, briefly. He could be ruthless even then …’
Raith heard the minister turn away, and without daring even to breathe he slipped Mother Scaer’s vial from his shirt, eased the stopper out and let one drop fall into the cup. One drop was all it would take. He watched the ripples spread, and vanish, and tucked the vial away. His knees felt weak of a sudden. He leaned on his fists.
He told himself there was no other way.
He took the cup in both hands and turned.
Skara was shaking her head as she watched Rin tucking the mail at her waist, folding it with quick fingers to fit her, fixing it with twisted wire.
‘I swear, you’re as nimble with steel as my old dressmaker was with silk.’
‘Blessed by She Who Strikes the Anvil, my queen,’ muttered Rin, stepping back to consider the results of her work. ‘Don’t feel too blessed lately, though.’
‘Things will change. I know they will.’
‘You sound like my brother.’ Rin gave a sad little smile as she walked around behind Skara. ‘Reckon we’re done. I’ll unlace it and make the adjustments.’
Skara drew herself up as Raith came close with the wine, setting one hand on the dagger at her belt, mail gleaming in the lamplight. ‘Well? Would I pass for a warrior?’
Gods, he could hardly speak. His knees were trembling as he knelt before her, the way he used to before Gorm, after every duel and battle. The way he would again. ‘If every shield-wall looked like that,’ he managed by some great effort to say, ‘you’d have no problem getting men to charge at the bastards.’ And he lifted the cup in both hands towards her.
He told himself he had no choice.
‘I could get used to handsome men kneeling at my feet.’ She gave that laugh. That big, wild laugh she had. And she reached for the cup.
Deals
‘Where is she?’ muttered Father Yarvi, glancing towards the door again.
Koll wasn’t used to seeing his master nervous and it was making him nervous too. As if he wasn’t nervous enough already, what with the fate of the world to be decided and all.
‘Maybe she’s dressing,’ he whispered back. ‘Strikes me as the sort of person who’d take a long time dressing for this sort of thing.’
Father Yarvi turned to glare at him and Koll found himself wilting into his chair. ‘She strikes me also as the sort of person who would account for the time it takes to dress for this sort of thing.’ He leaned closer. ‘Don’t you think?’
Koll cleared his throat, glancing towards the door again. ‘Where is she?’
Over on the other side of Bail’s Hall at Grom-gil-Gorm’s shoulder, Mother Scaer was beginning to look distinctly pleased with herself. It was as if she and Yarvi sat on a giant set of scales — one couldn’t fall without hoisting the other up.
‘There is a war to be fought!’ she called, and around her the warriors of Vansterland grumbled their annoyance. ‘Bright Yilling will not wait for the young queen, on that we can depend. We must choose our course soon or we will drift to disaster.’
‘We are well aware of that, Mother Scaer,’ grated out King Uthil, then leaned close to Father Yarvi. ‘Where is she?’
One half of the double doors creaked open a crack and Mother Owd slipped through, froze as all eyes turned to her, flustered as a duck who’d lost her ducklings.
‘Well?’ snapped Yarvi.
‘Queen Skara …’
Gorm narrowed his eyes. ‘Yes?’
‘Queen Skara …’ Mother Owd leaned to the door to peer through, and stepped back with evident relief. ‘Is here.’
The doors were flung wide and Mother Sun burst into the gloom, every man left blinking stupidly as the Throvenlanders marched into the hall.
Queen Skara strode at the front, head high and with her hair loose like a dark cloud. The dawn struck fire from the red stone on her armring, from the jewels in her earring, from her glittering coat of mail, for she came in full battle-gear, a dagger at her side and a gilded helm under her arm. Raith walked behind her, white head bowed, the sword Rin had forged cradled in the scabbard Koll had carved, which looked quite a marvellous piece of work, it had to be said.
Rin had surpassed herself. Skara surely looked a warrior-queen, even if she was absurdly slight for the job and all that hair would’ve been a fatal encumbrance in a fight. With harness jingling she marched between the delegations of Vansterland and Gettland, deigning to look neither right nor left and with her warriors tramping after.
Mother Scaer’s smile had vanished. Father Yarvi had pilfered it from her. Grom-gil-Gorm was staring at the young queen, scarred face slack. King Uthil raised his iron brows a fraction. Koll had never seen him look so astonished.
Sister Owd and Blue Jenner sat to either side of Queen Skara but she ignored Bail’s Chair, tossing her gilded helmet on the table and planting her iron-knuckled fists beside it, her warriors forming a crescent behind her. Raith went down on one knee, sliding the sword up his arm so he offered her the hilt.
They all knew Skara would never draw that sword. It was pure theatre, almost ridiculous. Almost, but not quite. For looming over them on the wall was the painted image of Ashenleer victorious, dressed in mail with hair unbound and her sword-bearer kneeling at her side, and Koll looked from the queen of legend to the queen of now and found them uncannily alike.
Father Yarvi’s smile grew wider. ‘Oh, that’s nice.’
Mother Scaer was less impressed. ‘You certainly like to make an entrance,’ she sneered.
‘Forgive me,’ said Skara. ‘I was getting ready to fight!’ She might have been a small woman but she had the voice of a hero. She barked the last word with as much violence as Thorn might have and even Mother Scaer flinched at it.
Koll leaned close to Father Yarvi. ‘I think she’s arrived.’
‘My allies!’ called Skara, voice ringing out in the silence, bright and confident as if she was born to be there. ‘My guests. Kings, ministers and warriors of Gettland and Vansterland!’
Raith risked a glance at those he’d always counted his friends. The Breaker of Swords himself had his eyes fixed on Skara, but Mother Scaer was staring straight at Raith with the most murderous look he’d ever seen on her, and he’d seen some deadly ones. Soryorn had a bitter twist of hatred to his lip. But it was Rakki’s eye he could hardly bear to meet. No anger, just disappointment. The look of a man betrayed by the one he trusted most. Raith looked down at the floor, the breath crawling in his throat.
‘We have a great decision to make today!’ Skara was saying. ‘Whether to use forbidden weapons against the High King’s army or to fall back before him.’
Raith was hardly listening. He was thinking about last night. He’d knelt before her, ready to do it. Then he’d heard her laugh, and his fingers had betrayed him. The cup had dropped, and the poisoned wine had spattered across the floor, and Skara had passed it off with a joke about the quality of king’s cup-fillers, and he’d lain outside her door staring into the darkness all night like the faithful hound he was.
Lain awake, thinking on how he’d doomed himself.
‘I am the Queen of Throvenland!’ called Skara. ‘The blood of Bail flows in my veins. Others might like to run from the High King, but I never will again. I have sworn vengeance against Bright Yilling and I mean to rip it from his carcass. I mean to scream defiance with my last breath! I mean to fight with every weapon.’ She glared across at Mother Scaer. ‘Every weapon. And I mean to fight here. I will not abandon Throvenland. I will not abandon Bail’s Point.’