‘We all have our foibles.’ Skara was glad for them, but watching made her sad for herself. She turned away and stared out towards the sea, and found she was thinking of Raith.
By now, if the South Wind had beaten the ice on the Divine, he would be rowing down the long Denied. She hoped he was happy, but he had always struck her as someone to whom happiness did not come easily. They had always had that much in common, if so little else. She thought of his face, forehead deep-furrowed and mouth pressed hard, the way it used to be. She thought of the warmth of him beside her. She wondered if he ever thought of her. She wondered if—
‘An eagle came from Grandfather Yarvi,’ said Mother Owd.
Skara shook herself. She had no time to waste on fancies. ‘Good news?’
‘The Vanstermen have a new king. Mother Scaer organized a trial by combat and this man drove every warrior before him. His name is Yurn-gil-Ram.’
Jenner scratched at his sparse hair. ‘Means naught to me.’
‘He is a chieftain from the utmost north where the snows never melt, and they call him The Ram because he breaks men with his head.’
Skara puffed out her cheeks. ‘Charming.’
‘He has declared himself the greatest warrior the Shattered Sea has ever seen, and offers to kill anyone who dares challenge him.’
‘I am eighteen years old and already had my lifetime’s fill of warriors’ boasting.’
‘They say he mixes blood with his beer and is making a chain from the fingerbones of his enemies.’
Blue Jenner gave Skara a wink. ‘Sounds fine husband material, my queen.’
She snorted. ‘Send him a bird to say Blue Jenner happily consents to wear his key.’
‘Marriage is the last thing on his mind,’ said Mother Owd, folding her arms tight. ‘Grandfather Yarvi fears he is already planning raids over the border into Gettland.’
Jenner gave a disgusted shake of his head. ‘Can the Vanstermen really be battle-hungry again? Aren’t they scared of elf-magic?’
‘Even as a bow only has so many arrows,’ said Owd, ‘it seems those elf-weapons can only send Death so many times. And with the witch Skifr gone to the south, Strokom is once again forbidden.’
Blue Jenner put his weathered face in his calloused hands and gave a groan. ‘Seems the world hasn’t changed as much as we thought.’
‘In the ashes of every war the seeds of the next take root,’ murmured Skara. She felt the old nerves bubbling up her throat, pressed a hand to her stomach and tried to swallow them back down again. ‘Send a bird to Mother Scaer with our congratulations and a bird to Queen Laithlin with our sympathies.’
‘And then?’ asked Mother Owd.
‘Watch carefully, speak softly, smile sweetly, gather our friends close, pray fervently to Father Peace for calm, and keep our swords handy.’
‘Orders that suit any situation.’
‘Might be wise to rebuild the walls of Bail’s Point too,’ said Jenner, ‘and stronger than ever.’
‘My queen!’ A boy was hurrying up from the docks, his boots squelching in the half-frozen mud. ‘There are three ships coming in! Their sails have the white horse of Kalyiv!’
‘Duke Varoslaf’s emissaries,’ said Jenner. ‘You want to greet them at the docks?’
Skara considered the message that would send. ‘We must not seem over-eager. Set a chair here, beneath the gable. It would be proper for them to come to me.’
Mother Owd smiled. ‘We must always think of what is proper.’
‘We must. And then, where necessary, ignore it.’
‘I’ll carve you a better one in due course, my queen.’ Koll thumped down one of the rough chairs the carpenters sat on while they ate. ‘But this might have to serve for now.’ And he flicked a little dirt from the seat with the side of his hand.
It was a simple old thing, and a little rickety, the wood blackened in places by fire.
‘It is not the chair that makes the queen,’ said Mother Owd. ‘But the queen that makes the chair.’
‘It must’ve come through the night Bright Yilling came,’ murmured Blue Jenner, ‘and survived.’
‘Yes.’ Skara smiled as she stroked its arm. ‘But so has Throvenland. And so have I.’
She sat, facing the sea, with Mother Owd at her left hand and Blue Jenner at her right. Chest up, shoulders down, chin high, the way Mother Kyre had taught her. Strange, how what had seemed so awkward once could feel so natural now.
‘Warn the emissaries my hall is still a little draughty,’ said Skara. ‘But the Queen of Throvenland is ready to receive them.’
Acknowledgements
As always, four people without whom: Bren Abercrombie,
whose eyes are sore from reading it.
Nick Abercrombie,
whose ears are sore from hearing about it.
Rob Abercrombie,
whose fingers are sore from turning the pages.
Lou Abercrombie,
whose arms are sore from holding me up.
Then, because no man is an island, especially this one, my heartfelt thanks: For planting the seed of this idea: Nick Lake.
For making sure the sprout grew to a tree: Robert Kirby.