Half a King

But the hugest thing of all, as he stepped between the scarred doors and into the house of his enemy, was his smile. The smile of a conqueror, who sees all his plans ripen, all his adversaries brought low, all the dice come up his number. The smile of a man greatly favoured by the gods.

Then he saw Yarvi standing on the steps of the dais between his mother and Mother Gundring, and his smile buckled. And then he saw who sat in the Black Chair, and it crumpled entire. He came to an uncertain halt in the center of that wide floor, on about the spot where Odem’s blood still stained the cracks in the stones, surrounded on all sides by the glowering great of Gettland.

Then he scratched at one side of his head, and said, “this is not the king we expected.”

“Many here might say so,” said Yarvi. “But it is the rightful one, even so. King Uthil, my eldest uncle, has returned.”

“Uthil.” Mother Scaer gave a hiss through her teeth. “The proud Gettlander. I thought I knew that face.”

“You might have mentioned it.” Gorm frowned around at the gathered warriors and wives, keys and cloak-buckles all aglitter in the shadows, and heaved up a weighty sigh. “I’ve an unhappy sense you will not be kneeling before me as my vassal.”

“I have spent long enough on my knees.” Uthil stood, his sword still cradled in his arms. That same plain sword he had taken up from the listing deck of the South Wind and polished until the blade glittered like moonlight on the chill sea. “If anyone kneels it should be you. You stand on my land, in my hall, before my chair.”

Gorm lifted the toes of his boots and peered down at them. “So it would seem. But I have always been stiff in the joints. I must decline.”

“A shame. Perhaps I can unstiffen you with my sword when I visit you in Vulsgard in the summer.”

Gorm’s face hardened. “Oh, I can guarantee any Gettlander who crosses the border a warm welcome.”

“Why wait for summer, then?” Uthil took the steps one by one, until he stood on the lowest, so that he looked straight into Gorm’s face on about a level footing. “Fight me now.”

A twitch began at the corner of Gorm’s eye and set his cheek to flutter. Yarvi saw his scarred knuckles white on the grip of his sword, the eyes of his warriors darting about the room, the gathered men of Gettland hardening their frowns. “You should know that Mother War breathed upon me in my crib,” growled the King of Vansterland. “It has been foreseen no man can kill me-”

“Then fight me, dog!” roared Uthil, the echoes crashing about the hall and every person holding their breath as if it would be their last. Yarvi wondered if they might see a second king die in the Godshall within a day, and he would not have cared to bet on which of these two it would be.

Then Mother Scaer rested her thin hand gently on Gorm’s fist. “The gods guard those who guard themselves,” she whispered.

The King of Vansterland took a long breath. His shoulders relaxed, and he peeled his fingers from his sword and gently combed them through his beard. “This new king is very rude,” he said.

“He is,” said Mother Scaer. “Did you not teach him diplomacy, Mother Gundring?”

The old minister gazed sternly at them from her place beside the Black Chair. “I did. And who deserves it.”

“I believe she means we don’t,” said Gorm.

“I take that to be the case,” answered Mother Scaer. “And find her rude also.”

“Is this how you keep a bargain, Prince Yarvi?”

This hall full of worthies had once lined up to kiss Yarvi’s hand. Now they looked as if they would happily queue to cut his throat. He shrugged. “I am prince no longer, and I have kept what I could. No one foresaw this turn of events.”

“There’s events for you,” said Mother Scaer. “They never flow quite down the channel you dig for them.”

“You will not fight me, then?” asked Uthil.

“Why so very bloodthirsty?” Gorm pushed out his bottom lip. “You are new in the job, but you will learn a king is more than just a killer. Let us give Father Peace his season, abide by the wishes of the High King in Skekenhouse and make of the fist an open hand. In summer, perhaps, on ground that suits me better, you can put Mother War’s breath to the test.” He turned away, and followed by his minister and his warriors, strode for the door. “I thank you for your winning hospitality, Gettlanders! You will hear from me!” He paused for a moment on the threshold, a great black outline against the daylight. “And on that day, I shall speak in thunder.”

The doors of the Godshall were swung shut upon them.

“The time may come when we wish we had killed him here today,” murmured Yarvi’s mother.

“Each man has his time,” said Uthil, lowering himself back into the Black Chair, sword still cradled in his arms. He had a way of sitting in it, slouched and easy, that Yarvi never could have managed. “And we have other matters to attend to.” The king’s eyes drifted across to Yarvi’s, bright as the day they met upon the South Wind. “My nephew. Once prince, once king, now-”

“Nothing,” said Yarvi, lifting his chin.