‘Wisdom and cowardice can be hard to tell apart,’ snapped Skara.
The minister clenched her jaw. ‘I swear I taught you wiser manners than to insult a guest. Nobility is shown not by the respect one is given by the highest, but the respect one gives to the lowly. Words are weapons. They should be handled with proper care.’
Jenner waved any suggestion of offence gently away. ‘No doubt Princess Skara has the right of it. I’ve known many men far braver’n me.’ He gave a sad smile, displaying a crooked set of teeth with several gaps. ‘And seen most buried, one by one.’
‘Bravery and long life rarely make good bedfellows,’ said the king, draining his cup again.
‘Kings and ale pair up no better,’ said Skara.
‘I have nothing left but ale, granddaughter. My warriors have abandoned me. My allies have deserted me. They swore fair-weather oaths, oak-firm while Mother Sun shone, prone to wilt when the clouds gather.’
That was no secret. Day after day Skara had watched the docks, eager to see how many ships the Iron King Uthil of Gettland would bring, how many warriors would accompany the famous Grom-gil-Gorm of Vansterland. Day after day, as the leaves budded, then the leaves cast dappled shade, then the leaves turned brown and fell. They never came.
‘Loyalty is common in dogs but rare in men,’ observed Mother Kyre. ‘A plan that relies on loyalty is worse than none at all.’
‘What then?’ asked Skara. ‘A plan that relies on cowardice?’
Old, her grandfather looked as he turned to her with misty eyes and brewer’s breath. Old and beaten. ‘You have always been brave, Skara. Braver than I. No doubt the blood of Bail flows in your veins.’
‘Your blood too, my king! You always told me only half a war is fought with swords. The other half is fought here.’ And Skara pressed one fingertip into the side of her head, so hard it hurt.
‘You have always been clever, Skara. Cleverer than I. The gods know you can talk the birds down from the sky when it pleases you. Fight that half of the war, then. Give me the deep cunning that can turn back the High King’s armies and save our land and our people from Bright Yilling’s sword. That can spare me from the shame of Grandmother Wexen’s terms.’
Skara looked down at the straw-covered floor, face burning. ‘I wish I could.’ But she was a girl seventeen winters old and, Bail’s blood or no, her head held no hero’s answers. ‘I’m sorry, Grandfather.’
‘So am I, child.’ King Fynn slumped back and beckoned for more ale. ‘So am I.’
‘Skara.’
She was snatched from troubled dreams and into darkness, Mother Kyre’s face ghostly in the light of one flickering candle.
‘Skara, get up.’
She fumbled back the furs, clumsy with sleep. Strange sounds outside. Shouting and laughter.
She rubbed her eyes. ‘What is it?’
‘You must go with Blue Jenner.’
Skara saw the trader then, lurking in the doorway of her bedchamber. A black figure, shaggy-headed, eyes turned to the floor.
‘What?’
Mother Kyre pulled her up by her arm. ‘You must go now.’
Skara was about to argue. As she always argued. Then she saw the minister’s expression and it made her obey without a word spoken. She had never seen Mother Kyre afraid before.
It did not sound like laughter any more, outside. Crying. Wild voices. ‘What’s happening?’ she managed to croak.
‘I made a terrible mistake.’ Mother Kyre’s eyes darted to the door and back. ‘I trusted Grandmother Wexen.’ She twisted the gold ring from Skara’s arm. The one Bail the Builder once wore into battle, its ruby glistening dark as new-spilled blood in the candlelight. ‘This is for you.’ She held it out to Blue Jenner. ‘If you swear to see her safe to Thorlby.’
The raider’s eyes flickered guiltily up as he took it. ‘I swear it. A sun-oath and a moon-oath.’
Mother Kyre clutched painfully hard at both of Skara’s hands. ‘Whatever happens, you must live. That is your duty now. You must live and you must lead. You must fight for Throvenland. You must stand for her people if … if there is no one else.’
Skara’s throat was so tight with fear she could hardly speak. ‘Fight? But—’
‘I have taught you how. I have tried to. Words are weapons.’ The minister wiped tears from Skara’s face that she had not even realized she had cried. ‘Your grandfather was right, you are brave and you are clever. But now you must be strong. You are a child no longer. Always remember, the blood of Bail flows in your veins. Now go.’
Skara padded barefoot through the darkness at Blue Jenner’s heels, shivering in her shift, Mother Kyre’s lessons so deep-rooted that even fearing for her life she worried over whether she was properly dressed. Flames beyond the narrow windows cast stabbing shadows across the straw-scattered floor. She heard panicked shouts. A dog barking, suddenly cut off. A heavy thudding as of a tree being felled.