Half a King

He swallowed then, knowing how disappointed she must be. How disappointed he was himself. In the songs great kings rarely crawled off to hide from their own people. He caught sight of the eagle as he looked away, huge and serene in its cage.

“Grandmother Wexen has sent a message?”

“A message,” echoed one of the doves in its scratching mockery of a voice. “A message. A message.”

Mother Gundring frowned up at the eagle, still as a stuffed trophy. “It came from Skekenhouse five days ago. Grandmother Wexen sent to ask when you would arrive for your test.”

Yarvi remembered the one time he had seen the First of Ministers, a few years before when the High King had visited Thorlby. The High King had seemed a grim and grasping old man, offended by everything. Yarvi’s mother had been obliged to soothe him when someone did not bow in quite the manner he liked. Yarvi’s brother had laughed that such a feeble little wisp-haired man should rule the Shattered Sea, but his laughter died when he saw the number of warriors that followed him. Yarvi’s father had raged because the High King took gifts and gave none. Mother Gundring had clicked her tongue and said, The wealthier a man is, the more he craves wealth.

Grandmother Wexen had scarcely left her proper place at the High King’s side, ever smiling like a kindly grandparent. When Yarvi knelt before her she had looked at his crippled hand, and leaned down to murmur, My prince, have you considered joining the Ministry? And for a moment he had seen a hungry brightness in her eye which scared him more than all the High King’s frowning warriors.

“So much interest from the First of Ministers?” he muttered, swallowing an aftertaste of that day’s fear.

Mother Gundring shrugged. “It is rare to have a prince of royal blood join the Ministry.”

“No doubt she’ll be as disappointed as everyone else that I’ve taken the Black Chair instead.”

“Grandmother Wexen is wise enough to make the best of what the gods serve her. As must we all.”

Yarvi’s eyes slid across the rest of the cages, seeking a distraction. Pitiless though they were, the eyes of the birds were easier to bear than those of his disappointed subjects.

“Which dove brought the message from Grom-gil-Gorm?”

“I sent it back to Vansterland. To his minister, Mother Scaer, carrying your father’s agreement to a parley.”

“Where was the meeting to be?”

“On the border, near the town of Amwend. Your father never reached the place.”

“He was ambushed in Gettland?”

“So it appears.”

“It does not seem like my father, to be so keen to end a war.”

“War,” croaked one of the doves. “End a war.”

Mother Gundring frowned at the gray-spattered floor. “I counselled him to go. The High King has asked for all swords to be sheathed until his new temple to the One God is completed. I never suspected even a savage like Grom-gil-Gorm would betray the sacred word given.” She made a fist, as though she would strike herself, then slowly let it uncurl. “It is a minister’s task to smooth the way for Father Peace.”

“But had my father no men with him? Had he-”

“My king.” Mother Gundring looked at him from under her brows. “We must go down.”

Yarvi swallowed, his stomach seeming to jump up his throat and wash his mouth with sour spit. “I’m not ready.”

“No one ever is. Your father was not.”

Yarvi made a sound then, half a laugh, half a sob, and wiped tears on the back of his crooked hand. “Did my father weep after he was betrothed to my mother?”

“In fact, he did,” said Mother Gundring. “For several years. She, on the other hand …”

And Yarvi gurgled up a laugh despite himself. “My mother’s even meaner with her tears than her gold.” He looked up at the woman who had been his teacher, would now be his minister, that face full of kindly lines, the bright eyes filled with concern, and found he had whispered, “You’ve been like a mother to me.”

“And you like a son to me. I am sorry, Yarvi. I am sorry for everything but … this is the greater good.”

“The lesser evil.” Yarvi fussed at his stub of a finger, and blinked up at the birds. The many doves, and the one great eagle. “Who will feed them now?”

“I will find someone.” And Mother Gundring offered her bony hand to help him up. “My king.”

6

PROMISES

It was a great affair.

Many powerful families in the far reaches of Gettland would be angered that news of King Uthrik’s death had barely reached them before he was burned, denying them the chance to have their importance noted at an event that would live so long in the memory.