Raith didn’t. He would’ve loved to be part of that fine future, but he’d seen what life was. He hadn’t been brought up in a fortress or a king’s hall with slaves hanging on his every whim. He’d clawed himself up with no one but his brother beside him.
He put one hand to his shirt, felt the lump of the little vial under the cloth. He knew what he was. Knew what he had to do.
Then Skara smiled at him, that smile that made him feel like Mother Sun had picked him alone to shine upon. ‘How do you fight in this?’ she said, shaking herself and making the mail rattle. ‘The weight of it!’
Raith’s resolve melted like butter on a hearthstone. ‘You get used to it, my queen,’ he croaked.
She frowned at him. ‘Are you ill?’
‘Me?’ he stammered. ‘Why?’
‘When did you learn manners? Gods, it’s hot.’ She tugged at the collar of the mailshirt and the padded jacket underneath. She’d never looked more alive – flushed, eyes bright and the faintest sheen on her face. She snapped her fingers at her thrall. ‘Bring me some wine, would you?’
‘I’ll do it,’ said Raith, stepping quickly over to the jug.
‘Might as well be served by the best.’ Skara nodded towards him, grinning at Rin. ‘He was a king’s cup-bearer.’
‘Was,’ muttered Raith. And would be again. If he could do this one thing.
He could hardly make out Skara’s words over the thudding of his heart. Slowly, carefully, trying to make sure his shaking hands didn’t give him away, he poured the wine. It looked like blood in the cup.
He’d wanted to be a warrior. A man who stood by his king and won glory on the battlefield. And what had he become? A man who burned farms. Who betrayed trust. Who poisoned women.
He told himself it had to be done. For his king. For his brother.
He could feel Mother Owd’s eyes on his back as he took the sip the cup-filler takes to make sure the wine’s safe for better lips than his. He heard her take a step towards him, then Skara said, ‘Mother Owd! You knew Father Yarvi before he was a minister, didn’t you?’
‘I did, my queen, briefly. He could be ruthless even then …’
Raith heard the minister turn away, and without daring even to breathe he slipped Mother Scaer’s vial from his shirt, eased the stopper out and let one drop fall into the cup. One drop was all it would take. He watched the ripples spread, and vanish, and tucked the vial away. His knees felt weak of a sudden. He leaned on his fists.
He told himself there was no other way.
He took the cup in both hands and turned.
Skara was shaking her head as she watched Rin tucking the mail at her waist, folding it with quick fingers to fit her, fixing it with twisted wire.
‘I swear, you’re as nimble with steel as my old dressmaker was with silk.’
‘Blessed by She Who Strikes the Anvil, my queen,’ muttered Rin, stepping back to consider the results of her work. ‘Don’t feel too blessed lately, though.’
‘Things will change. I know they will.’
‘You sound like my brother.’ Rin gave a sad little smile as she walked around behind Skara. ‘Reckon we’re done. I’ll unlace it and make the adjustments.’
Skara drew herself up as Raith came close with the wine, setting one hand on the dagger at her belt, mail gleaming in the lamplight. ‘Well? Would I pass for a warrior?’
Gods, he could hardly speak. His knees were trembling as he knelt before her, the way he used to before Gorm, after every duel and battle. The way he would again. ‘If every shield-wall looked like that,’ he managed by some great effort to say, ‘you’d have no problem getting men to charge at the bastards.’ And he lifted the cup in both hands towards her.
He told himself he had no choice.
‘I could get used to handsome men kneeling at my feet.’ She gave that laugh. That big, wild laugh she had. And she reached for the cup.
Deals
‘Where is she?’ muttered Father Yarvi, glancing towards the door again.
Koll wasn’t used to seeing his master nervous and it was making him nervous too. As if he wasn’t nervous enough already, what with the fate of the world to be decided and all.
‘Maybe she’s dressing,’ he whispered back. ‘Strikes me as the sort of person who’d take a long time dressing for this sort of thing.’
Father Yarvi turned to glare at him and Koll found himself wilting into his chair. ‘She strikes me also as the sort of person who would account for the time it takes to dress for this sort of thing.’ He leaned closer. ‘Don’t you think?’
Koll cleared his throat, glancing towards the door again. ‘Where is she?’
Over on the other side of Bail’s Hall at Grom-gil-Gorm’s shoulder, Mother Scaer was beginning to look distinctly pleased with herself. It was as if she and Yarvi sat on a giant set of scales – one couldn’t fall without hoisting the other up.
‘There is a war to be fought!’ she called, and around her the warriors of Vansterland grumbled their annoyance. ‘Bright Yilling will not wait for the young queen, on that we can depend. We must choose our course soon or we will drift to disaster.’