Half a War

Safe

The comb of polished whalebone swish-swish-swished through Skara’s hair.

Prince Druin’s toy sword click-clack-scraped against a chest in the corner.

Queen Laithlin’s voice spilled out blab-blab-blab. As though she sensed that if she left a silence Skara might start screaming, and screaming, and never stop.

‘Outside that window, on the south side of the city, my husband’s warriors are camped.’

‘Why didn’t they help us?’ Skara wanted to shriek as she stared numbly at the sprawling tents, but her mouth drooled out the proper thing, as always. ‘There must be very many.’

‘Two and a half thousand loyal Gettlanders, called in from every corner of the land.’

Skara felt Queen Laithlin’s strong fingers turn her head, gently but very firmly. Prince Druin gave a piping toddler’s war-cry and attacked a tapestry. The comb began to swish-swish-swish again, as though the solution to every problem was the right arrangement of hair.

‘Outside this window, to the north, is Grom-gil-Gorm’s camp.’ The fires glimmered in the gathering dusk, spread across the dark hills like stars across heaven’s cloth. ‘Two thousand Vanstermen in sight of the walls of Thorlby. I never thought to see such a thing.’

‘Not with their swords sheathed, anyway,’ tossed out Thorn Bathu from the back of the room, as harshly as a warrior might toss an axe.

‘I saw a quarrel on the docks …’ mumbled Skara.

‘I fear it will not be the last.’ Laithlin clicked her tongue as she teased out a knot. Skara’s hair had always been unruly, but the Queen of Gettland was not a woman to be put off by a stubborn curl or two. ‘There is to be a great moot tomorrow. Five hours straight of quarrelling, that will be. If we get through it with no one dead I will count it a victory for the songs. There.’

And Laithlin turned Skara’s head towards the mirror.

The queen’s silent thralls had bathed her, and scrubbed her, and swapped her filthy shift for green silk brought on the long voyage from the First of Cities, nimbly altered to fit her. It was stitched with golden thread about the hem, as fine as anything she had ever worn, and Skara had worn some fine things. So many, and so carefully arranged by Mother Kyre, she had sometimes felt the clothes wore her.

She was surrounded by strong walls, strong warriors, slaves and luxury. She should have felt giddy with relief. But like a runner who stops to rest and finds they cannot stand again, the comfort made Skara feel dizzy-weak and aching-raw, battered outside and in as if she was one great bruise. She almost wished she was back aboard Blue Jenner’s ship, the Black Dog, shivering, and staring into the rain, and thrice an hour crawling on grazed knees to puke over the side.

‘This belonged to my mother, King Fynn’s sister.’ Laithlin carefully arranged the earring, golden chains fine as cobweb that spilled red jewels almost to Skara’s shoulder.

‘It’s beautiful,’ Skara croaked out, struggling not to spray sick all over the mirror. She scarcely recognized the haunted, pink-eyed, brittle-looking girl she saw there. She looked like her own ghost. Perhaps she never escaped Yaletoft. Perhaps she was still trapped there, Bright Yilling’s slave, and always would be.

At the back of the room she saw Thorn Bathu squat beside the prince, shift his tiny hands around the grip of his wooden sword, murmur instructions on how to swing it properly. She grinned as he whacked her across the leg, the star-shaped scar on her cheek puckering, and ruffled his pale blonde hair. ‘Good boy!’

All Skara could think of was Bright Yilling’s sword, that diamond pommel flashing in the darkness of the Forest, and in the mirror the pale girl’s chest began to heave and her hands to tremble-

‘Skara.’ Queen Laithlin took her firmly by the shoulders, fixed her with those hard, sharp, grey-blue eyes, jerking her back to the present. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

‘My grandfather waited for help from his allies.’ The words burbled out flat as a bee’s droning. ‘We waited for Uthil’s warriors, and Gorm’s. They never came.’

‘Go on.’

‘He lost heart. Mother Kyre persuaded him to make peace. She sent a dove and Grandmother Wexen sent an eagle back. If Bail’s Point was given up, and the warriors of Throvenland sent home, and the High King’s army given free passage across our land, she would forgive.’

‘But Grandmother Wexen does not forgive,’ said Laithlin.

‘She sent Bright Yilling to Yaletoft to settle the debt.’ Skara swallowed sour spit, and in the mirror the pale girl’s stringy neck shifted. Prince Druin’s little face was crumpled with warrior’s determination as he hacked at Thorn with his toy sword and she pushed it away with her fingers. His little war-cries sounded like the howls of pain and fury in the darkness, coming closer, always closer.

‘Bright Yilling cut Mother Kyre’s head off. He stabbed my grandfather right through and he fell in the firepit.’

Queen Laithlin’s eyes widened. ‘You … saw it happen?’

The dusting of sparks, the glow on the warriors’ smiles, the thick blood dripping from the tip of Yilling’s sword. Skara took a shuddering breath, and nodded. ‘I got away disguised as Blue Jenner’s slave. Bright Yilling flipped a coin, to decide whether he would kill him too … but the coin …’

She could still see it spinning in the shadows, flashing with the colours of fire.

‘The gods were with you that night,’ breathed Laithlin.

‘Then why did they kill my family?’ Skara wanted to shriek, but the girl in the mirror gave a queasy smile instead, and muttered a proper prayer of thanks to He Who Turns the Dice.

‘They have sent you to me, cousin.’ The queen squeezed hard at Skara’s shoulders. ‘You are safe here.’

The Forest that had been about her all her life, certain as a mountain, was made ashes. The high gable that had stood for two hundred years fallen in ruin. Throvenland was torn apart like smoke on the wind. Nowhere would be safe, ever again.

Skara found she was scratching at her cheek. She could still feel Bright Yilling’s cold fingertips upon it.

‘You have all been so kind,’ she croaked out, and tried to smother an acrid burp. She had always had a weak stomach, but since she clambered from the Black Dog her guts had felt as twisted as her thoughts.

‘You are family, and family is all that matters.’ With a parting squeeze, Queen Laithlin let go of her. ‘I must speak to my husband and my son … to Father Yarvi, that is.’

‘Could I ask you … is Blue Jenner still here?’

The queen’s displeasure was palpable. ‘The man is little better than a pirate-’

‘Could you send him to me? Please?’

Laithlin might have seemed hard as flint, but she must have heard the desperation in Skara’s voice. ‘I will send him. Thorn, the princess has been through an ordeal. Do not leave her alone. Come, Druin.’

The thigh-high prince looked solemnly at Skara. ‘Bye bye.’ And he dropped his wooden sword and ran after his mother.

Skara was left staring at Thorn Bathu. Staring up, since the Chosen Shield towered over her. Plainly she had no use for combs herself, the hair on one side clipped to dark stubble and on the other twisted into knots and braids and matted tangles bound up with a middle-sized fortune in gold and silver ring-money.

Here was a woman said to have fought seven men alone and won, the elf-bangle that had been her reward glowing fierce yellow on her wrist. A woman who wore blades instead of silks and scars instead of jewels. Who ground propriety under her boot heels and made no apologies for it, ever. A woman who would sooner break a door down with her face than knock.

‘Am I a prisoner?’ Skara meant it as a challenge, but it came out a mouse’s squeak.

Thorn’s expression was hard to read. ‘You’re a princess, princess.’

‘In my experience there’s not much difference between the two.’

‘I’m guessing you’ve never been a prisoner.’

Contempt, and who could blame her? Skara’s throat felt so closed up she could hardly speak. ‘You must be thinking what a soft, weak, pampered fool I am.’

Thorn took a sharp breath. ‘Actually I was thinking … of how it felt when I saw my father dead.’ Her face might have had no softness in it, but her voice did. ‘I was thinking what I might have felt to see him killed. To see him killed in front of me, and nothing I could do but watch.’

Skara opened her mouth, but no words came. It was not contempt but pity, and it choked her worse than scorn.

‘I know how it feels to wear a brave face,’ said Thorn. ‘Few better.’

Skara felt as if her head was going to burst.

‘I was thinking … standing where you’re standing … I’d be crying a sea.’

And Skara heaved up a great, stupid sob. Her eyes screwed shut, and burned, and leaked. Her ribs shuddered. Her breath whooped and gurgled. She stood with her hands dangling, her whole face hurting she was crying so violently. Some tiny part of her fussed that this was far from proper behaviour, but the rest of her could not stop.

She heard quick footsteps and was gathered up like a child, held tight, held firm, the way her grandfather had held her when they watched her father burn on the pyre. She clung to Thorn, blubbering into her shirt, howling half-words not even she understood.

Thorn did not move, made no sound, only held Skara for a long time. Until her shuddering stopped. Until her sobs calmed to whimpers, and her whimpers to jagged breaths. Then, ever so gently, Thorn eased her away, pulled out a scrap of white cloth and, even though her own shirt was soaked with slobber, dabbed a tiny speck on the front of Skara’s dress, and offered it to her. ‘It’s for cleaning my weapons but I reckon your face is a good deal more valuable. Maybe more dangerous too.’

‘I’m sorry,’ whispered Skara.

‘No need.’ Thorn flicked at the golden key around her neck. ‘I cry harder than that every morning when I wake up and remember who I married.’

And Skara laughed and sobbed at once and blew a great snotty bubble out of her nose. For the first time since that night she felt something like herself again. Perhaps she had escaped from Yaletoft after all. As she wiped her face there was a hesitant knock at the door.

‘It’s Blue Jenner.’

When he shuffled hunched into the room there was something reassuring in his shabbiness. At a ship’s helm or in a queen’s chambers he was the same man. Skara felt stronger at the sight of him. That was the man she needed.

‘You remember me?’ asked Thorn.

‘You’re a hard woman to forget.’ Jenner glanced down at the key around her neck. ‘Congratulations on your marriage.’

She snorted. ‘Long as you don’t congratulate my husband. He’s still in mourning over it.’

‘You sent for me, princess?’

‘I did.’ Skara sniffed back her tears and set her shoulders. ‘What are your plans?’

‘Can’t say I’ve ever been much of a planner. Queen Laithlin’s offered me a fair price to fight for Gettland but, well, war’s young man’s work. Maybe I’ll take the Black Dog back down the Divine …’ He glanced up at Skara, and winced. ‘I promised Mother Kyre I’d see you to your cousin-’

‘And you kept your promise, in spite of the dangers. I shouldn’t ask you for more.’

He winced harder. ‘You’re going to, then?’

‘I was hoping you might stay with me.’

‘Princess … I’m an old raider twenty years past my best and my best was none too pretty.’

‘Doubtless. When I first saw you I thought you were as worn as an old prow-beast.’

Jenner scratched at the side of his grizzled jaw. ‘A fair judgment.’

‘A fool’s judgment.’ Skara’s voice cracked, but she cleared her throat, and took a breath, and carried on. ‘I see that now. The worn prow-beast is the one that’s braved the worst weather and brought the ship home safe even so. I don’t need pretty, I need loyal.’

Jenner winced harder still. ‘All my life I’ve been free, princess. Looked to no one but the next horizon, bowed to no one but the wind-’

‘Has the horizon thanked you? Has the wind rewarded you?’

‘Not hugely, I’ll confess.’

‘I will.’ She caught his calloused hand in both of hers. ‘To be free a man needs a purpose.’

He stared down at his hand in hers, then over at Thorn.

She shrugged. ‘A warrior with nothing but themselves to fight for is no more than a thug.’

‘I’ve seen you tested and I know I can trust you.’ Skara brought the old raider’s gaze back to hers and held it. ‘Stay with me. Please.’

‘Oh, gods.’ The leathery skin around Jenner’s eyes creased as he smiled. ‘How do I say no to that?’

‘You don’t. Say you’ll help me.’

‘I’m your man, princess. I swear it. A sun-oath and a moon-oath.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Help you do what, though?’

Skara took a ragged breath. ‘I said I would see Throvenland free, and my grandfather’s hall rebuilt, and Bright Yilling’s carcass left for the crows, remember?’

Blue Jenner raised his craggy brows very high. ‘Bright Yilling has all the High King’s strength behind him. Fifty thousand swords, they say.’

‘Only half a war is fought with swords.’ She pressed her fingertip into the side of her head, so hard it hurt. ‘The other half is fought here.’

‘So … you’ve a plan?’

‘I’ll think of something.’ She let go of Blue Jenner’s hand and looked over at Thorn. ‘You sailed with Father Yarvi to the First of Cities.’

Thorn frowned at Skara down a nose twisted from many breakings, trying to work out what moved beneath the question. ‘Aye, I sailed with Father Yarvi.’

‘You fought a duel against Grom-gil-Gorm.’

‘That too.’

‘You’re Queen Laithlin’s Chosen Shield.’

‘You know I am.’

‘And standing at her shoulder you must see a great deal of King Uthil too.’

‘More than most.’

Skara wiped the last wetness from her lashes. She could not afford to cry. She had to be brave, and clever, and strong, however weak and terrified she felt. She had to fight for Throvenland now there was no one else, and words had to be her weapons.

‘Tell me about them,’ she said.

‘What do you want to know?’

Knowledge is power, Mother Kyre used to say when Skara complained about her endless lessons. ‘I want to know everything.’