She was not sure if you could call it love. It was nothing like the bards sing of. But whatever she felt was too powerful to risk having him outside her door every day, every night. That way she would have to be strong every moment, and sooner or later she would weaken. This way, she had to be strong only once.
It hurt her to push him away. It hurt her more to see how much she hurt him. But Mother Kyre had always told her hurts are part of life. All you can do is shoulder them, and carry on. She had her land, and her people, and her duty to think of. Taking him into her bed had been foolish. Selfish. A reckless mistake, and she could not afford to make another.
Blue Jenner gave Skara a nod from the steering platform of the Black Dog, and as she raised her arm in reply a rousing cheer went up from the crews of Throvenland. Men had been flooding into Bail’s Point since the victory to kneel before her and swear loyalty, and though the ships might have been taken from the High King, the warriors were hers.
‘You must have twenty crews, now, cheering for you,’ said Laithlin.
‘Twenty-two,’ said Skara, as she watched her ships follow the Gettlanders out of the harbour.
‘No meagre force.’
‘When I came to you I had nothing. I will never forget how much I owe you.’ Wanting to make some kind of gesture, Skara beckoned to her thrall. ‘You should take back the slave you lent me—’
‘Has she displeased you?’
Skara saw the fear in the girl’s eyes. ‘No. No, I just—’
‘Keep her.’ Laithlin waved her back. ‘A gift. The first of many. You will soon be High Queen over the whole Shattered Sea, after all.’
Skara stared at her. ‘What?’
‘If the wind blows our way, Grandmother Wexen will be toppled from her high perch in the Tower of the Ministry. The priests of the One God will be driven back to the south. The High King will fall. Have you spared no thought for who will replace him?’
‘I was a little distracted with getting through each day alive.’
Laithlin snorted as if that was a petty reason to ignore the turning of the wheels of power. Perhaps it was. ‘The Breaker of Swords is the most famous warrior left alive. The one king never defeated in battle or duel.’ She nodded towards the wharves, and Skara saw him striding up the long ramp towards them, men ducking out of his way like scattering pigeons. ‘Grom-gil-Gorm will be High King. And you will be his wife.’
Skara put a hand on her churning stomach. ‘I hardly feel ready to be queen of Throvenland.’
‘Who is ever ready? I was a queen at fifteen. My son is a king at two.’
‘It’s sore,’ piped Druin, jerking the King’s Circle from his head.
‘He feels its weight already,’ murmured Laithlin, easing it gently back down over his wispy yellow hair. ‘I have buried two husbands. Those marriages began with what was best for Gettland, but they gave me my two sons. And, almost without realizing it, respect can develop. Liking. Even love.’ Laithlin’s voice seemed suddenly broken. ‘Almost … without realizing it.’
Skara said nothing. To be High Queen, and wear the key to the whole Shattered Sea. To kneel to no one, ever. To have whole nations look to her for an example. A girl just turned eighteen who could scarcely make her own stomach obey. She tried to calm her nervous guts as the Breaker of Swords stopped before them. Puking over the boots of her husband-to-be would make a poor omen.
‘Queen Laithlin,’ he said, bowing awkwardly. ‘Queen Skara … I wished to trade a few words, before I leave for Skekenhouse. We are …’ He winced towards the jostling ships, one hand fussing at the grips of the daggers that bristled from his belt.
‘To be married?’ Skara finished for him. She had always known she would not get to choose her own husband but somehow, as a girl, she had fancied the perfect prince would be offered up and her head and her heart would be in blissful accord. Now she saw how na?ve she had been. Her head knew Gorm was a good match. Her heart would have to make the best of it.
‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘if lover’s words are … heavy in my mouth. I have always been more of a fighter.’
‘That is no secret.’ Strange how his nervousness made her feel calmer. ‘It is not a chain of conquered ladies’ keys you wear.’
‘No, and nor will my wife.’ The Breaker of Swords held up a chain, the low sun glinting on gold and silver, glittering on polished stones. ‘The pommels of Bright Yilling and his Companions,’ he said, as he lifted them over Skara’s head. ‘You have claimed a famous vengeance for your grandfather.’ He settled the chain upon the fur on her shoulders, ‘and deserve to wear them as proudly as I wear mine.’