All Raith ever wanted was to serve his king, to fight beside his brother, and he’d thrown it away, and could never have it back. He was on his own, like Rakki said. Sword-bearer to a girl without the strength to even draw a sword.
‘What say you, King Uthil?’ she called.
‘I say there cannot be a warrior here not humbled by your resolve, Queen Skara.’ The Iron King smiled, a sight Raith had never thought to see. ‘Death waits for us all. I will be honoured to face her at your side.’
Raith saw Skara swallow as she turned to the Vanstermen.
‘What say you, King Gorm?’
The weight of the mail was crushing her. The heat of it was baking her. Skara had to force herself to stand straight, stand proud, clamp the haughty challenge to her face. She was a queen, damn it. She was a queen, she was a queen, she was a queen …
‘Humbled by your resolve?’ snarled Mother Scaer. ‘There cannot be a warrior here not disgusted by your play-acting. As if you ever drew a sword, let alone swung one in anger! And now you would have us give our lives for your empty kingdom, your empty pride, your-’
‘Enough,’ said Gorm, softly. His dark eyes did not seem to have left Skara since she first entered the hall.
‘But, my king-’
‘Sit,’ said the Breaker of Swords. Mother Scaer ground her teeth with fury, but she dropped down on her stool.
‘You wish me to fight for your fortress,’ said Gorm mildly, in his sing-song voice. ‘To gamble with my life and the lives of my warriors far from home. To face the High King’s numberless army on the promise of elf-magic from a bald witch and a one-handed liar.’ He gave an open, friendly smile. ‘Very well.’
‘My king-’ hissed Mother Scaer, but he raised his hand to quiet her, eyes still on Skara.
‘I will fight for you. Every man of Vansterland will kill for you and die for you. I will be your shield, today, tomorrow, and every day of my life. But I want something in return.’
It was silent as death in the hall. Skara swallowed. ‘Name your price, great king.’
‘You.’
She felt sweat prickle under her borrowed mail. She felt her gorge rising, wanted nothing more than to spray the table with sick, but she doubted Mother Kyre would have considered that the proper response to a king’s proposal of marriage.
‘For a long time I have been searching for a queen,’ said the Breaker of Swords. ‘A woman my equal in cunning and courage. A woman who can make the coins in my treasury breed. A woman who can give me many children to be proud of.’
Skara found herself glancing at Raith, and he stared back, mouth hanging open, but had no more to offer than a sword she could barely lift.
Father Yarvi had turned pale. Plainly this was one development he had not foreseen. ‘Someone who can give you Throvenland,’ he snapped.
Gorm’s chain of dead men’s pommels rattled faintly as he shrugged his great shoulders. ‘Someone who can join Throvenland to Vansterland and help guide both to glory. I want your hand, your blood and your wits, Queen Skara, and in return I offer you mine. I think it a fair trade.’
‘My queen-’ hissed Mother Owd.
‘You can’t-’ said Blue Jenner.
But it was Skara’s turn to still her advisors with a gesture.
It was a shock, but a queen cannot allow a shock to last long. She was not a child any more.
With the Breaker of Swords beside her she might hold Bail’s Point. She might claim vengeance for her grandfather. She might see Bright Yilling dead. With the key of Vansterland around her neck she might win security for her people, might rebuild Yaletoft, might forge a future for Throvenland.
She was sick of coaxing, wheedling, playing one rival off against another. She was tired of her title dangling by a thread. Skara was far from eager to share Grom-gil-Gorm’s bed. But sharing his power, that was something else.
He might be more than twice her size. He might be more than twice her age. He might be scarred, fearsome, ruthless, and as far as it was possible to be from the husband she had dreamed of as a girl. But dreamers must wake. She reckoned it a match Mother Kyre would have approved of. The world is full of monsters, after all. Perhaps the best one can hope for is to have the most terrible on your side.
And it was hardly as if she had a choice. She made herself smile.
‘I accept.’
Choices
‘Are you ready?’ asked Father Yarvi, stacking books in a chest. Those favourite books of his, forbidden writings on elf-ruins and elf-relics. ‘We must leave on the next tide.’
‘Entirely ready,’ said Koll. Meaning he was packed. This was a voyage he’d never be ready for.
‘Talk to Rulf. Make sure we have plenty of ale to shore up the crew’s courage. Even with a favourable wind it will be five days down the coast to Furfinge.’
‘One cannot count on a favourable wind,’ murmured Koll.
‘No, indeed. Especially when we cross the straits to Strokom.’
Koll swallowed. He would have liked to put it off until the end of the world, but it would only make things worse, and he did that enough. ‘Father Yarvi …’ Gods, he was a coward. ‘Perhaps … I should stay behind.’
The minister looked up. ‘What?’
‘While you’re gone King Uthil might need-’
‘He will not be negotiating a trade deal, spinning a coin trick or carving a chair. He will be fighting. Do you think King Uthil needs your advice on how to fight?’
‘Well-’
‘Mother War rules here.’ Yarvi shook his head as he went back to his books. ‘Those of us who speak for Father Peace must find other ways to serve.’
Koll made another effort. ‘Honestly, I’m afraid.’ A good liar weaves as much truth into the cloth as he can, after all, and there had never been a truer word spoken than that.
Father Yarvi frowned at him. ‘Like a warrior, a minister must master their fear. They must use it to sharpen their judgment, rather than let it become a fog that blinds them. Do you think I am not afraid? I am terrified. Always. But I do what must be done.’
‘Who decides what must be done, though-’
‘I do.’ Father Yarvi slammed the lid of his chest and stepped close. ‘We have a great opportunity! A minister is a seeker of knowledge, and you more than most. I have never known a more curious mind. We have the chance to learn from the past!’
‘To repeat the mistakes of the past?’ Koll muttered, and instantly regretted it as Father Yarvi caught him by the shoulders.
‘I thought you wanted to change the world? To stand at the shoulder of kings and guide the course of history? I’m offering you that chance!’
Gods, he did want that. Father Koll, feared and admired, never talked down to, never taken lightly, and certainly never butted in the face by some white-haired thug. He forced it away. ‘I’m grateful, Father Yarvi, but-’
‘You made a promise to Rin.’
Koll blinked. ‘I …’
‘You are not too hard a book to read, Koll.’
‘I made a promise to Brand!’ he blurted out. ‘She needs me!’
‘I need you!’ snapped Father Yarvi, gripping at his shoulders. His hand might have been withered, but it could still squeeze hard enough to make Koll squirm. ‘Gettland needs you!’ He mastered himself, let his hands fall. ‘I understand, Koll, believe me, no one better. You want to do good, and stand in the light. But you are a man now. You know there are no easy answers.’ Yarvi winced down at the floor, as if in pain. ‘When I brought you and your mother out of slavery I never expected anything in return-’
‘Why bring it up so often, then?’ snapped Koll.
Father Yarvi looked up. Surprised. Even a little hurt. Enough to give Koll a familiar surge of guilt. ‘Because I made Safrit a promise. To see you become the best man you could be. A man she could be proud of.’
A man who does good. A man who stands in the light. Koll hung his head. ‘I keep thinking about all the things I could have done differently. I keep thinking … about the offer Mother Adwyn made-’