Half a War

Head and Heart

The dawn was crisp and clear, and Skara’s breath, and Laithlin’s breath, and Druin’s breath, and the breath of their gathered guards and slaves and attendants made a gently rising cloud of smoke as they looked down from the ramp leading to the harbour.

King Uthil was ashes and King Druin too young for the task, so it fell to Father Yarvi to lead the fleet to their reckoning with the High King in Skekenhouse. Standing for Father Peace did not prevent the young minister of Gettland from doing Mother War’s work that morning, and as well as any warrior.

As Mother Sun showed herself bright over the looming walls of Bail’s Point she cast long shadows from dozens of prow-beasts, lined up neatly as the heads of horses on parade, every oarsman calm and ready. Father Yarvi gave one grim wave to Queen Laithlin, then his high, hard call rang out across the silent harbour, and as though all those hundreds of men had one mind and one body, the ships began to move.

‘It seems Father Yarvi has become our leader,’ said Skara.

‘War has a way of revealing things in people.’ The pride was plain in Laithlin’s voice as she watched the ships of Gettland glide out to sea, two by two. ‘Some flourish and some falter. But I always knew Yarvi had resolve in him. Yours has surprised me more.’

‘Mine?’

‘Did you not stand firm here against the numberless armies of the High King? You are very much changed, cousin, from the girl brought wet-eyed and weary into my chambers.’

‘We all are changed,’ murmured Skara.

She saw Thorn Bathu stand scowling at the prow of her ship, one boot up on the rail as though she could not get to Skekenhouse fast enough. The boat had belonged to one of Bright Yilling’s Companions, a golden ram for a prow-beast, but Thorn had charred it black so it better fitted her black mood and, if you stood on the High King’s side, her black reputation. Skara’s eyes moved down the crew on their sea-chests, dangerous men all bent on vengeance, until she saw a white head bobbing with the stroke and made herself look away.

Yesterday, in Bail’s Hall, she had wanted to ask him to stay. To order him to stay. She had opened her mouth to do it, but at the last moment, she had let him go. She had made him go. She had not even been able to say a true goodbye. It would not have been proper.

She was not sure if you could call it love. It was nothing like the bards sing of. But whatever she felt was too powerful to risk having him outside her door every day, every night. That way she would have to be strong every moment, and sooner or later she would weaken. This way, she had to be strong only once.

It hurt her to push him away. It hurt her more to see how much she hurt him. But Mother Kyre had always told her hurts are part of life. All you can do is shoulder them, and carry on. She had her land, and her people, and her duty to think of. Taking him into her bed had been foolish. Selfish. A reckless mistake, and she could not afford to make another.

Blue Jenner gave Skara a nod from the steering platform of the Black Dog, and as she raised her arm in reply a rousing cheer went up from the crews of Throvenland. Men had been flooding into Bail’s Point since the victory to kneel before her and swear loyalty, and though the ships might have been taken from the High King, the warriors were hers.

‘You must have twenty crews, now, cheering for you,’ said Laithlin.

‘Twenty-two,’ said Skara, as she watched her ships follow the Gettlanders out of the harbour.

‘No meagre force.’

‘When I came to you I had nothing. I will never forget how much I owe you.’ Wanting to make some kind of gesture, Skara beckoned to her thrall. ‘You should take back the slave you lent me-’

‘Has she displeased you?’

Skara saw the fear in the girl’s eyes. ‘No. No, I just-’

‘Keep her.’ Laithlin waved her back. ‘A gift. The first of many. You will soon be High Queen over the whole Shattered Sea, after all.’

Skara stared at her. ‘What?’

‘If the wind blows our way, Grandmother Wexen will be toppled from her high perch in the Tower of the Ministry. The priests of the One God will be driven back to the south. The High King will fall. Have you spared no thought for who will replace him?’

‘I was a little distracted with getting through each day alive.’

Laithlin snorted as if that was a petty reason to ignore the turning of the wheels of power. Perhaps it was. ‘The Breaker of Swords is the most famous warrior left alive. The one king never defeated in battle or duel.’ She nodded towards the wharves, and Skara saw him striding up the long ramp towards them, men ducking out of his way like scattering pigeons. ‘Grom-gil-Gorm will be High King. And you will be his wife.’

Skara put a hand on her churning stomach. ‘I hardly feel ready to be queen of Throvenland.’

‘Who is ever ready? I was a queen at fifteen. My son is a king at two.’

‘It’s sore,’ piped Druin, jerking the King’s Circle from his head.

‘He feels its weight already,’ murmured Laithlin, easing it gently back down over his wispy yellow hair. ‘I have buried two husbands. Those marriages began with what was best for Gettland, but they gave me my two sons. And, almost without realizing it, respect can develop. Liking. Even love.’ Laithlin’s voice seemed suddenly broken. ‘Almost … without realizing it.’

Skara said nothing. To be High Queen, and wear the key to the whole Shattered Sea. To kneel to no one, ever. To have whole nations look to her for an example. A girl just turned eighteen who could scarcely make her own stomach obey. She tried to calm her nervous guts as the Breaker of Swords stopped before them. Puking over the boots of her husband-to-be would make a poor omen.

‘Queen Laithlin,’ he said, bowing awkwardly. ‘Queen Skara … I wished to trade a few words, before I leave for Skekenhouse. We are …’ He winced towards the jostling ships, one hand fussing at the grips of the daggers that bristled from his belt.

‘To be married?’ Skara finished for him. She had always known she would not get to choose her own husband but somehow, as a girl, she had fancied the perfect prince would be offered up and her head and her heart would be in blissful accord. Now she saw how naïve she had been. Her head knew Gorm was a good match. Her heart would have to make the best of it.

‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘if lover’s words are … heavy in my mouth. I have always been more of a fighter.’

‘That is no secret.’ Strange how his nervousness made her feel calmer. ‘It is not a chain of conquered ladies’ keys you wear.’

‘No, and nor will my wife.’ The Breaker of Swords held up a chain, the low sun glinting on gold and silver, glittering on polished stones. ‘The pommels of Bright Yilling and his Companions,’ he said, as he lifted them over Skara’s head. ‘You have claimed a famous vengeance for your grandfather.’ He settled the chain upon the fur on her shoulders, ‘and deserve to wear them as proudly as I wear mine.’

Skara blinked down at the flashing jewel in the chain’s centre, a diamond the size of an acorn in a claw of gold. She knew it well. Had seen it every night in her dreams. It had gleamed with reflected fire on the hilt of Bright Yilling’s sword as he killed Mother Kyre and King Fynn.

She felt a shiver of disgust, wanted to tear the chain off and fling it in the sea along with the memories of that night. But for better or worse they were part of her, and she could not refuse the gift. She straightened, and worked her shoulders back, and wondered if she did not like the weight of the chain upon them after all.

To her, it murmured a reassurance. She had been through the fire, and like the best steel come out stronger.

To others, it spoke a threat. No matter your fame, make an enemy of this woman and you will end up one more lump of metal on her chain.

‘A gift fit for a High Queen of the Shattered Sea,’ she said, pressing it to her chest.

‘I wished to set your mind at rest since I am … perhaps not the man you would have chosen. I wished to tell you that I mean to be a good husband. To defer to you in matters of the coin and the key. To give you sons.’

Skara swallowed at that, but it was a proper thing to say, and Mother Kyre would never have forgiven her if she had not made a proper reply. ‘No less do I mean to be a good wife to you. To defer to you in matters of the plough and the sword. To give you daughters.’

Gorm’s craggy face broke out in a strange grin. ‘I hope so.’ He glanced down at Druin, staring up at him from so far below. ‘Small people, at your feet, to whom you can give the future. That seems a fine thing.’

Skara tried not to let her doubts show. Tried to give a winning, willing smile. ‘We will find our way through it together, hand in hand.’ And she held hers out to him.

It looked tiny, and white, and smooth in his great scarred paw. It looked like a child’s hand. But its grip was the firmer. It seemed his trembled.

‘I have no doubt you will make as fine a husband as you do a warrior,’ she said, putting her other hand under his to still it.

‘We will be as formidable together as Mother Sea and Father Earth.’ He brightened as he moved to more familiar ground. ‘And I will start by bringing you the High King’s head as a wedding gift!’

Skara winced. ‘I would prefer peace.’

‘Peace comes when you have killed all your enemies, my queen.’ Gorm took back his hand, bowed again, and strode off towards his ship.

‘If that chain around his neck should have taught him anything,’ murmured Laithlin, ‘it is that there are always more enemies.’