Jenner blinked. ‘But … he fought for you at the straits. Saved my life at Bail’s Point. I said we’d always have a place for him—’
‘You shouldn’t have. It is not up to me to keep your promises.’
It hurt her, to see how hurt he looked at that. ‘Of course, my queen,’ he muttered, and walked stiffly into the house, leaving Skara alone with her minister.
The wind swirled up chill, leaves chasing each other about the old stones. A bird twittered somewhere in the dry ivy. Mother Owd cleared her throat.
‘My queen, I must ask. Is your blood coming regularly?’
Skara felt her heart suddenly thudding, her face burning, and she looked down at the ground.
‘My queen?’
‘No.’
‘And … might that be … why you are reluctant to give an oar to King Gorm’s sword-bearer?’ Blue Jenner might be baffled but plainly Mother Owd guessed the truth. The trouble with a shrewd advisor is they see through your own lies as easily as your enemy’s.
‘His name’s Raith,’ muttered Skara. ‘You can use his name, at least.’
‘He Who Sprouts the Seed has blessed you,’ said the minister softly.
‘Cursed me.’ Though Skara knew she had no one else to blame. ‘When you doubt you’ll live through tomorrow you spare few thoughts for the day after.’
‘One cannot do the wise thing every time, my queen. What do you want to do?’
Skara dropped her head into her hands. ‘Gods help me, I’ve no idea.’
Mother Owd knelt in front of her. ‘You could carry the child. We might even keep it secret. But there are risks. Risks to you and risks to your position.’
Skara met her eyes. ‘Or?’
‘We could make your blood come. There are ways.’
Skara’s tongue felt sticky as she spoke. ‘Are there risks to that?’
‘Some.’ Mother Owd looked evenly back. ‘But I judge them less.’
Skara set her palm on her belly. It felt no different. No more sickness than usual. No sign of anything growing. When she thought of it gone it gave her nothing but relief, and a trace of queasy guilt that she felt nothing more.
But she was getting practised at storing away regrets. ‘I want it gone,’ she whispered.
Mother Owd gently took her hands. ‘When we get back to Throvenland, I will make the preparations. Don’t spare it another thought. You have enough to carry. Let me carry this.’
Skara had to swallow tears. She had faced threats, and rage, and even Death, with eyes dry, but a little kindness made her want to weep. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
‘A touching scene!’
Mother Owd stood quickly, twisting around as Grandfather Yarvi stepped out into their little garden.
He still wore the same plain coat. The same worn sword. He still carried the elf-metal staff he used to, though it sent a very different message since he killed Bright Yilling with it. But he had around his neck the chain Grandmother Wexen once wore, a rustling mass of papers of his own already threaded on it. And his face had changed. There was a bitter brightness in his eye Skara had not seen before. Perhaps he had put on a ruthless mask, since he moved into the Tower of the Ministry. Or perhaps, no longer needed, he had let a soft mask fall away.
All too often when we topple something hateful, rather than breaking it and starting fresh, we raise ourselves up in its place.
‘Even my battered little stone of a heart is warmed to see such closeness between ruler and minister.’ And Yarvi gave a smile with no warmth in it at all. ‘You are a woman who inspires loyalty, Queen Skara.’
‘There is no magic to it.’ She stood herself, carefully smoothing the front of her dress, carefully smoothing her face too, giving nothing away, the way Mother Kyre had taught her. She had a feeling she might need all of Mother Kyre’s lessons and more in the next few moments. ‘I try to treat people the way I would want to be treated. The powerful cannot only be ruthless, Grandfather Yarvi. They must be generous too. They must have some mercy in them.’
The First of Ministers smiled as if at the innocence of a child. ‘Charming sentiments, my queen. I understand you will soon be leaving for Throvenland. I need to speak to you first.’
‘Wishes for good weatherluck, most honoured Grandfather Yarvi?’ Mother Owd folded her arms as she faced him. ‘Or matters of state?’
‘Matters best discussed in private,’ he said. ‘Leave us.’
She gave a questioning sideways glance, but Skara returned it with the faintest nod. Some things must be faced alone. ‘I will be just inside,’ said Mother Owd as she stepped through the door. ‘If you need me for anything.’
‘We won’t!’ The pale eyes of the First of Ministers settled on Skara, cold as new snow. The look of a man who knows he has won before the game is even played. ‘How did you poison Grom-gil-Gorm?’
Skara raised her brows. ‘Why would I? He suited me much better on this side of the Last Door. The one who gained most from his death is you.’
‘Not every scheme is mine. But I’ll admit the dice have fallen well for me.’