‘Lots of people leaving,’ said Koll.
‘True enough.’ Father Yarvi gave a satisfied sigh as he watched the hubbub. ‘But people arriving too.’
There were sharp-eyed merchant-women of Gettland, servants of the Golden Queen come to clamp levies on every ship that passed through the straits. There were zealous prayer-weavers fixed on driving out the One God and singing the songs of the many on every street-corner in Skekenhouse. And every day more landless warriors swaggered in, hired by Grandfather Yarvi from all across the Shattered Sea, the white eagle of the Ministry fresh-daubed on their shields.
‘They’re bringing plenty of swords with them,’ murmured Koll.
‘Indeed they are. We must keep Father Peace smiling for a while.’
‘Since when did Father Peace smile at swords?’
‘Only half a war is fought with swords, Koll, but only half a peace is won with ploughs.’ Yarvi propped his withered palm on the hilt of the curved sword he still wore. ‘A blade in the right hands can be a righteous tool.’
Koll watched a group of frowning warriors stroll past, weapons worn as proudly as a new wife might wear her key. ‘Who decides whose hands are right?’
‘We will. We must. It is the duty of the powerful to put aside childish notions and choose the lesser evil. Otherwise the world slides into chaos. You aren’t still having doubts are you, Koll?’
‘Doubts?’ Gods, he was made of them. ‘No, no, no. No.’ Koll cleared his throat. ‘Maybe. I know how much I owe you. I just … don’t want to let you down.’
‘I need you beside me, Koll. I promised your father I would free you, and I did. I promised your mother I would look after you, and I have.’ His voice dropped softer. ‘I have my doubts too and you … help me choose what is right.’ There was a weakness there Koll hadn’t heard before, had never expected to hear. A desperation, almost. ‘Rulf has gone back to Thorlby to be with his wife. I need someone I can trust. Someone who reminds me I can do good. Not just greater good, but … good. Please. Help me to stand in the light.’
‘I’ve so much still to learn—’ blathered Koll, but however he twisted there was no slipping free.
‘You will learn by doing. As I did. As every man must.’ Yarvi snapped his fingers. ‘Let us put aside the Test.’
Koll blinked up at him. ‘Put it aside?’
‘I am Grandfather of the Ministry, who will refuse me? You can swear your oath now. You can kneel here, Koll the woodcarver, and rise Father Koll, Minister of Gettland!’
He might not have pictured it kneeling on the quayside, but Koll had always known this moment would come. He’d dreamed of it, boasted of it, eagerly learned the words by heart.
He wobbled slowly down and knelt, Koll the woodcarver, damp soaking through his trousers. Grandfather Yarvi towered over him, smiling. There was no need for him to threaten. The faceless guards still lurking at his shoulders did it for him.
Koll only had to say the words to be a minister. Not only Brother Koll, but Father Koll. To stand beside kings and change the world. To be the best man he could be, just as his mother had always wanted. To never be an outsider. To never be weak. To have no wife and no family but the Ministry. To leave the light, and have one shoulder always in the shadows. At least one.
All he had to do was say the words, and stand.
One Vote
There was an overgrown courtyard at the heart of the house that Skara had taken for her own. It was choked with weeds and throttled with ivy but someone must have cared for it once, for late flowers were still blossoming in a sweet-smelling riot against the sunny wall.
Even though the leaves were falling and the year was growing cold, Skara liked to sit on a lichen-spattered stone bench there. It reminded her of the walled garden behind the Forest where Mother Kyre had taught her the names of herbs. Except there were no herbs. And Mother Kyre was dead.
‘The atmosphere in Skekenhouse is …’
‘Poisonous,’ Mother Owd finished for her.
As usual, her minister chose an apt word. The citizens were steeped in grudges and fear. The remains of the alliance were at one another’s throats. Grandfather Yarvi’s warriors were everywhere, the white dove of Father Peace on their coats but Mother War’s tools always close to twitchy fingers.
‘It is high time we left for Throvenland,’ said Skara. ‘We have much to do there.’
‘The ships are already being fitted, my queen,’ said Blue Jenner. ‘I was going to offer Raith an oar—’
Skara looked up sharply. ‘Has he asked for one?’
‘He’s not the kind to ask. But I heard it didn’t work out too well for him with Thorn Bathu, and it’s not as though he can carry Gorm’s sword any more—’
‘Raith made his choice,’ snapped Skara, her voice cracking. ‘He cannot come with us.’