Half a King

“Then you passed the test?”

“Did you ever doubt?”

“Not I, Brother Yarvi, not I. And yet you wear a sword.” She frowned towards Shadikshirram’s blade, sheathed at his waist. “A kind word parries most blows.”

“I carry this for the others. It reminds me where I’ve come from. A minister stands for Father Peace, but a good one is no stranger to Mother War.”

“Hah! True enough.” Mother Gundring held out her hand to the stool on the other side of the firepit. The one where Yarvi had so often sat, following the old minister’s stories with rapt attention, learning tongues, and history, and the lore of plants, and the proper way to speak to a king. Could it really be only a few months since he last sat there? It seemed he had done so in a different world. In a dream.

And now he had woken.

“I am glad you are back,” said Mother Gundring, “and not just because of your tea. We have much to do in Thorlby.”

“I don’t think people love me here.”

Mother Gundring shrugged it off. “Already they forget. Folk have short memories.”

“The minister’s task is to remember.”

“And to advise, to heal, to speak truth and know the secret ways, to find the lesser evil and weigh the greater good, to smooth the path for Father Peace in every tongue, to spin tales-”

“Shall I spin a tale for you?”

“What manner of tale, Brother Yarvi?”

“A tale of blood and deceit, of money and murder, of treachery and power.”

Mother Gundring laughed, and took another sip from her cup. “The only sort I enjoy. Has it elves in it? Dragons? Trolls?

Yarvi shook his head. “People can do all the evil we’ll need.”

“True again. Is it something you heard in Skekenhouse?”

“Partly. I’ve been working at this tale for a long time. Ever since that night my father died. But I think I have it now from start to end.”

“Knowing your talents it must be a fine tale indeed.”

“You will thrill to it, Mother Gundring.”

“Then begin!”

Yarvi sat forward, looking into the flames, rubbing at his twisted palm with his thumb. He had been rehearsing it ever since he passed the test, gave up his birthright and was accepted into the Ministry. Ever since he kissed the cheek of Grandmother Wexen, looked into her eyes, found them brighter and hungrier than ever, and knew the truth. “I find I hardly know where to begin.”

“Set it up. Let’s have the background.”

“Good advice,” said Yarvi. “But yours always has been. So … a High King well past his youth, and a grandmother of the Ministry no closer to hers, most jealous of their power, as the powerful often are, looked to the north from Skekenhouse, and saw a threat to their majesty. Not a great man wielding iron and steel, but a great woman wielding gold and silver. A golden queen, with a plan to stamp coins all of one weight, so that every trade about the Shattered Sea would be made with her face.”

Mother Gundring sat back, the many lines on her forehead deepening as she considered. “This story has the smack of truth.”

“The best ones do. You taught me that.” Now that he was begun the words spilled out easily. “The High King and his minister saw the merchants leave their wharves for those of this northern queen, and their revenues shrivelling month upon month, and their power shrivelling with them. They had to act. But kill a woman who could spin gold from the air? No. Her husband was too proud and wrathful to be dealt with. Kill him, then, and topple the queen from her lofty perch and take her for their own, so she could spin gold for them. That was their plan.”

“Kill a king?” muttered Mother Gundring, staring hard at Yarvi over the rim of her cup.

He shrugged. “It’s how these stories often start.”

“But kings are cautious and well-guarded.”

“This one especially. They needed the help of someone he trusted.” Yarvi sat forward, the fire warm on his face. “And so they taught a bronze-feathered eagle a message. The king must die. And they sent it to his minister.”

Mother Gundring blinked, and very slowly swallowed another mouthful of tea. “A heavy task to give a minister, killing the man she was sworn to serve.”

“But was she not sworn to serve the High King and her grandmother too?”

“We all are,” whispered Mother Gundring. “You among us, Brother Yarvi.”

“Oh, I’m forever swearing oaths: I hardly know which ones to honor. This minister had the same trouble, but if a king sits between gods and men, the High King sits between gods and kings, and has been thinking himself higher yet, of late. She knew he would not be denied. So she fashioned a plan. Replace her king with a more reasonable brother. Trim away any troublesome heir. Blame some old enemy from the utmost north where even the thoughts of civilized men rarely stray. Say that a dove came from another minister with an offer of peace, and drew this rash king into an ambush …”

“Perhaps that was the lesser evil,” said Mother Gundring. “Perhaps it was that or see Mother War spread her bloody wings across the whole Shattered Sea.”