‘Doubts?’ Gods, he was made of them. ‘No, no, no. No.’ Koll cleared his throat. ‘Maybe. I know how much I owe you. I just … don’t want to let you down.’
‘I need you beside me, Koll. I promised your father I would free you, and I did. I promised your mother I would look after you, and I have.’ His voice dropped softer. ‘I have my doubts too and you … help me choose what is right.’ There was a weakness there Koll hadn’t heard before, had never expected to hear. A desperation, almost. ‘Rulf has gone back to Thorlby to be with his wife. I need someone I can trust. Someone who reminds me I can do good. Not just greater good, but … good. Please. Help me to stand in the light.’
‘I’ve so much still to learn-’ blathered Koll, but however he twisted there was no slipping free.
‘You will learn by doing. As I did. As every man must.’ Yarvi snapped his fingers. ‘Let us put aside the Test.’
Koll blinked up at him. ‘Put it aside?’
‘I am Grandfather of the Ministry, who will refuse me? You can swear your oath now. You can kneel here, Koll the woodcarver, and rise Father Koll, Minister of Gettland!’
He might not have pictured it kneeling on the quayside, but Koll had always known this moment would come. He’d dreamed of it, boasted of it, eagerly learned the words by heart.
He wobbled slowly down and knelt, Koll the woodcarver, damp soaking through his trousers. Grandfather Yarvi towered over him, smiling. There was no need for him to threaten. The faceless guards still lurking at his shoulders did it for him.
Koll only had to say the words to be a minister. Not only Brother Koll, but Father Koll. To stand beside kings and change the world. To be the best man he could be, just as his mother had always wanted. To never be an outsider. To never be weak. To have no wife and no family but the Ministry. To leave the light, and have one shoulder always in the shadows. At least one.
All he had to do was say the words, and stand.
One Vote
There was an overgrown courtyard at the heart of the house that Skara had taken for her own. It was choked with weeds and throttled with ivy but someone must have cared for it once, for late flowers were still blossoming in a sweet-smelling riot against the sunny wall.
Even though the leaves were falling and the year was growing cold, Skara liked to sit on a lichen-spattered stone bench there. It reminded her of the walled garden behind the Forest where Mother Kyre had taught her the names of herbs. Except there were no herbs. And Mother Kyre was dead.
‘The atmosphere in Skekenhouse is …’
‘Poisonous,’ Mother Owd finished for her.
As usual, her minister chose an apt word. The citizens were steeped in grudges and fear. The remains of the alliance were at one another’s throats. Grandfather Yarvi’s warriors were everywhere, the white dove of Father Peace on their coats but Mother War’s tools always close to twitchy fingers.
‘It is high time we left for Throvenland,’ said Skara. ‘We have much to do there.’
‘The ships are already being fitted, my queen,’ said Blue Jenner. ‘I was going to offer Raith an oar-’
Skara looked up sharply. ‘Has he asked for one?’
‘He’s not the kind to ask. But I heard it didn’t work out too well for him with Thorn Bathu, and it’s not as though he can carry Gorm’s sword any more-’
‘Raith made his choice,’ snapped Skara, her voice cracking. ‘He cannot come with us.’
Jenner blinked. ‘But … he fought for you at the straits. Saved my life at Bail’s Point. I said we’d always have a place for him-’
‘You shouldn’t have. It is not up to me to keep your promises.’
It hurt her, to see how hurt he looked at that. ‘Of course, my queen,’ he muttered, and walked stiffly into the house, leaving Skara alone with her minister.
The wind swirled up chill, leaves chasing each other about the old stones. A bird twittered somewhere in the dry ivy. Mother Owd cleared her throat.
‘My queen, I must ask. Is your blood coming regularly?’
Skara felt her heart suddenly thudding, her face burning, and she looked down at the ground.
‘My queen?’
‘No.’
‘And … might that be … why you are reluctant to give an oar to King Gorm’s sword-bearer?’ Blue Jenner might be baffled but plainly Mother Owd guessed the truth. The trouble with a shrewd advisor is they see through your own lies as easily as your enemy’s.
‘His name’s Raith,’ muttered Skara. ‘You can use his name, at least.’
‘He Who Sprouts the Seed has blessed you,’ said the minister softly.
‘Cursed me.’ Though Skara knew she had no one else to blame. ‘When you doubt you’ll live through tomorrow you spare few thoughts for the day after.’
‘One cannot do the wise thing every time, my queen. What do you want to do?’
Skara dropped her head into her hands. ‘Gods help me, I’ve no idea.’
Mother Owd knelt in front of her. ‘You could carry the child. We might even keep it secret. But there are risks. Risks to you and risks to your position.’
Skara met her eyes. ‘Or?’
‘We could make your blood come. There are ways.’
Skara’s tongue felt sticky as she spoke. ‘Are there risks to that?’
‘Some.’ Mother Owd looked evenly back. ‘But I judge them less.’
Skara set her palm on her belly. It felt no different. No more sickness than usual. No sign of anything growing. When she thought of it gone it gave her nothing but relief, and a trace of queasy guilt that she felt nothing more.
But she was getting practised at storing away regrets. ‘I want it gone,’ she whispered.
Mother Owd gently took her hands. ‘When we get back to Throvenland, I will make the preparations. Don’t spare it another thought. You have enough to carry. Let me carry this.’
Skara had to swallow tears. She had faced threats, and rage, and even Death, with eyes dry, but a little kindness made her want to weep. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
‘A touching scene!’
Mother Owd stood quickly, twisting around as Grandfather Yarvi stepped out into their little garden.
He still wore the same plain coat. The same worn sword. He still carried the elf-metal staff he used to, though it sent a very different message since he killed Bright Yilling with it. But he had around his neck the chain Grandmother Wexen once wore, a rustling mass of papers of his own already threaded on it. And his face had changed. There was a bitter brightness in his eye Skara had not seen before. Perhaps he had put on a ruthless mask, since he moved into the Tower of the Ministry. Or perhaps, no longer needed, he had let a soft mask fall away.
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.’