‘Don’t be. He died as he would have wanted to, with steel in his hand. The Iron King! And yet … there was so much more in him than iron. I only wish … that I had been beside him at the end.’ Laithlin shook herself, pulled her hand free of Skara’s to briskly wipe her eyes. ‘But I know what things are worth, cousin, and you will buy nothing with wishes.’
Then the queen-regent clapped her hands and the slaves with clinking collar-chains began to dig the earth over the still-smouldering pyre, raising a great howe that would stand tall beside that of Queen Skara’s father, killed in battle, and her great-grandfather Horrenhod the Red, and kings and queens of Throvenland, the descendants of Bail the Builder himself, dwindling away into the mist of history.
Laithlin stood, adjusting the great key of Gettland’s treasury, and spoke in a voice that betrayed neither doubt nor sorrow. ‘Gather the men. We sail for Skekenhouse.’
Away down the road, the High King’s captured warriors were still heaping the High King’s fallen warriors on poorer pyres. Pyres for a dozen, pyres for a hundred, their smoke smudging the sky for miles around.
Koll had become a minister to learn, not to kill. To change the world, not to break it. ‘When does it end?’ he muttered.
‘When I fulfil my oath.’ Father Yarvi’s eyes were dry as he stared out towards grey Mother Sea. ‘Not a moment before.’
Until he reached the bottom step, Koll was still arguing with himself over whether to go down.
He could hear the tapping of Rin’s hammer. Her tuneless humming under her breath as she worked. Time was that seemed a welcome as he stepped through her door. A song sung just for him. Now he felt like an eavesdropper, prying on a private conversation between her and the anvil.
She was frowning as she worked, a warm yellow glimmer across her face, mouth pressed into a firm line and the key she wore tossed over her shoulder so the chain was tight around her sweaty neck. She never did things by halves. He’d always loved that about her.
‘You took to working gold?’ he said.
She looked up, and when her eyes met his they seemed to steal his breath. He thought how much he’d missed her. How much he wanted to hold her. Be held by her. He’d always thought, hating to admit it to himself, that maybe she wasn’t pretty enough. That maybe someone prettier would trip and fall into his arms. Now he couldn’t believe he’d ever felt that way.
Gods, he was a fool.
‘King Druin’s head is smaller than his father’s.’ Rin held up the resized King’s Circle in her pliers, then set it back and carried on tapping.
‘I thought you were only interested in steel?’ He tried to wander into the forge the same carefree way he used to, but every step was a nervy challenge. ‘Swords for kings and mail for queens.’
‘After what those elf-weapons did, I’ve a feeling swords and mail might not be quite so popular. You have to change. Make the best of what life deals you. Face your misfortunes with a smile, eh?’ Rin snorted. ‘That’s what Brand would’ve said.’
Koll flinched at the name. At the thought he’d let Brand down, who’d treated him like a brother.
‘Why did you come here, Koll?’
He swallowed at that. Folk always said he’d a gift with words. But the truth was he’d a gift with ones that meant nothing. At saying what he actually felt he’d no gift at all. He pushed his hand into his pocket, felt the cool weight of the golden elf-bangle he’d taken from Strokom. A peace offering, if she’d have it.
‘I guess I’ve been thinking … maybe …’ He cleared his throat, mouth dry as dust as he glanced up guiltily at her. ‘I made the wrong choice?’ He’d meant it to be a firm admission. An open confession. Came out a self-justifying little squeak.
Rin looked less than impressed. ‘Did you tell Father Yarvi you made the wrong choice?’
He winced down at his feet but his shoes didn’t have the answers. Shoes don’t tend to. ‘Not yet …’ He couldn’t get the breath to say he would do, if she asked him to.
She didn’t. ‘Last thing I want to do is upset you, Koll.’ He winced harder at that. Something folk only say when upsetting you is their first priority. ‘But I reckon whatever choice you make, you soon get to thinking you made the wrong one.’
He would’ve liked to say that wasn’t fair. Would’ve liked to say he was so caught up between what Father Yarvi wanted, and what Rin wanted, and what Brand would’ve wanted, and what his mother would’ve wanted, he hardly knew what he wanted at all any more.
But all he managed was to croak out, ‘Aye. I’m not proud of myself.’
‘Nor am I.’ She tossed her hammer down, and when he met her eye she didn’t look angry. Sad. Guilty, even. He was starting to hope that might mean she’d forgive him when she said, ‘I laid with someone else.’
Took him a moment to catch up, and when he did he wished he hadn’t. His fist closed painful tight around the elf-bangle in his pocket. ‘You … Who?’
‘What does it matter? It wasn’t about him.’
He stood staring at her, suddenly furious. He felt ambushed. Wronged. He knew he had no right to feel that way, and that only made him feel worse. ‘You think I want to hear that?’