‘History,’ he muttered, looking guiltily at the floor. ‘I reckon …’
Raith was bored out of his mind.
Wars were meant to be a matter of fighting. And a war against the High King surely the biggest fight a man could ever hope for. But now he learned the bigger the war, the more it was all made of talk. Talk, and waiting, and sitting on your arse.
The high folk sat around three long tables set in a horseshoe, status proclaimed by the value of their drinking cups – the Vanstermen on one side, the Gettlanders opposite, and in the middle a dozen chairs for the Throvenmen. Empty chairs, because the Throvenmen hadn’t come, and Raith wished he’d followed their example.
Father Yarvi droned on. ‘Seven days ago I met with a representative of Grandmother Wexen.’
‘I should have been there!’ Mother Scaer snapped back.
‘I wish you could have been, but there was no time.’ Yarvi showed his one good palm as if you could never find a fairer man than he. ‘But you did not miss much. Mother Adwyn tried to kill me.’
‘I like her already,’ Raith whispered to his brother and made him snigger.
Raith would sooner have bedded a scorpion than traded ten words with that one-fisted bastard. Rakki had taken to calling him the Spider, and no doubt he was lean and subtle and poisonous. But unless you were a fly, spiders would let you be. Father Yarvi’s webs were spun for men and there was no telling who’d be trapped in them.
His apprentice was little better. A lanky boy with scarecrow hair, a patchy prickling of beard no particular colour and a twitchy, jumpy, blinky way about him. Grinning, always grinning like he was everyone’s friend but Raith was nowhere near won over. A look of fury, a look of pain, a look of hatred you can trust. A smile can hide anything.
Raith let his head hang back while the voices burbled on, staring up at the great domed ceiling of the Godshall. Quite a building, but aside from setting them on fire he didn’t have much use for buildings. The statues of the Tall Gods frowned down disapprovingly from on high and Raith sneered back. Aside from the odd half-hearted prayer to Mother War he didn’t have much use for gods either.
‘Grandmother Wexen has proclaimed us sorcerers and traitors, and issued a decree that we are all to be cut from the world.’ Father Yarvi tossed a scroll onto the table before him and Raith groaned. He’d even less use for scrolls than gods or buildings. ‘She is set on crushing us.’
‘No offer of peace?’ asked Queen Laithlin.
Father Yarvi glanced sideways at his apprentice, then shook his head. ‘None.’
The queen gave a bitter sigh. ‘I had hoped she might give us something we could bargain with. There is scant profit in bloodshed.’
‘That all depends on whose blood is shed and how.’ Gorm frowned darkly towards the empty chairs. ‘When will King Fynn lend us his wisdom?’
‘Not in a thousand years,’ said Yarvi. ‘Fynn is dead.’
The echoes of his words died in the high spaces of the Godshall to leave a shocked silence. Even Raith pricked up his ears.
‘Mother Kyre gave up the key to Bail’s Point in return for peace, but Grandmother Wexen betrayed her. She sent Bright Yilling to Yaletoft to settle her debts, and he killed King Fynn and burned the city to the ground.’
‘We can expect no help from Throvenland, then.’ Sister Owd, Mother Scaer’s fat-faced apprentice, looked like she might burst into tears at the news, but Raith was grinning. Maybe now they’d get something done.
‘There was one survivor.’ Queen Laithlin snapped her fingers and the doors of the Godshall were swung open. ‘King Fynn’s granddaughter, Princess Skara.’
There were two black figures in the brightness of the doorway, their long shadows stretching out across the polished floor as they came on. One was Blue Jenner, looking every bit as shabby and weatherworn as he had on the docks. The other had made more effort.
She wore a dress of fine green cloth that shone in the torchlit dimness, shoulders back and shadows gathered in the hollows about her sharp collarbones. An earring spilled jewels down her long neck and, high on one thin arm, a blood-red gem gleamed on a ring of gold. The dark hair that had floated in a ghostly cloud was oiled and braided and bound into a shining coil.
Gods, she was changed, but Raith knew her right away. ‘That’s her,’ he breathed. ‘The girl I saw on the docks.’
Rakki leaned close to whisper. ‘I love you, brother, but you might be reaching a bit high.’
‘I must give thanks.’ She looked pale and brittle as eggshell, but Skara’s voice rang out strong and clear as she turned those great green eyes up at the looming statues of the Tall Gods. ‘To the gods for delivering me from the hands of Bright Yilling, to my hosts for giving me shelter when I stood alone. To my cousin Queen Laithlin, whose deep-cunning is well known but whose deep compassion I have only lately discovered. And to the Iron King Uthil, whose iron resolve and iron justice is whispered of all around the Shattered Sea.’
King Uthil raised one grey brow a fraction. A proper show of delight from that old bear-trap of a face. ‘You are welcome among us, princess.’
Skara gave a deep and graceful bow to the Vanstermen. ‘Grom-gil-Gorm, King of Vansterland, Breaker of Swords, I am honoured to stand in your long shadow. I would tell you how tales of your great strength and high weaponluck were often told in Yaletoft, but your chain tells that story more eloquently than I ever could.’
‘I thought it eloquent indeed.’ Gorm fingered the chain of pommels cut from the blades of his dead enemies, looped four times around his trunk of a neck. ‘Until I heard you speak, princess. Now I begin to doubt.’
It was all just words. But even Raith, who could flatter no better than a dog, saw how carefully each compliment was fitted to the vanities of its target like a key to a lock. The mood in the Godshall was already brighter. Enough vinegar had been sprayed over this alliance. Skara offered honey, and they were eager to lap it up.
‘Great kings,’ she said, ‘wise queens, storied warriors and deep-cunning ministers are gathered here.’ She pressed a thin hand to her stomach and Raith thought he saw it trembling, but she caught it with the other and carried on. ‘I am young, and have no right to sit among you, but there is no one else to speak for Throvenland. Not for myself, but on behalf of my people, who are helpless before the High King’s warriors, I beg that you allow me to take my grandfather’s seat.’
Maybe it was that she stood on neither side. Maybe that she was young and humble and without friends. Maybe it was the music of her voice, but there was some magic when she spoke. No one could have rammed a word in on the end of a spear a moment before, now this room of bristling heroes sat in thoughtful silence.
When King Uthil spoke, it came harsh as a crow’s call after a nightingale’s song. ‘It would be churlish to refuse a request so gracefully made.’
The two kings had finally found one thing they could agree on. ‘We should be begging you for seats, Princess Skara,’ said Gorm.
Raith watched the princess glide to the high chair King Fynn would have taken, walking so smoothly you could have balanced a jug of ale on her head. Blue Jenner somewhat spoiled the grace of it by dropping onto the seat beside her as if it was an oarsman’s sea-chest.
Gorm frowned towards the old trader. ‘It is not fitting that the princess be so lightly attended.’