“Never been much good at toying,” said Brand. “I had a short childhood.”
Mother Scaer slowly unfolded her long limbs and stood, bare feet flapping on damp stone as she walked to the bars until the chains were taut, then leaned a little farther, shadows shifting in the hollows of her gaunt face.
“Are you offering me my life, Father Yarvi?”
“I find it in my hands, and have no better use for it.”
“Huh.” Mother Scaer raised her brows very high. “What tasty bait. And no hook in it, I suppose?”
Yarvi leaned closer to the bars himself, so the two minister’s faces were no more than a foot’s length apart. “I want allies.”
“Against the High King? What allies could I bring you?”
“There is a Vansterman on our crew. A good man. Strong at the oar. Strong in the wall. Would you say so, Brand?”
“Strong at the oar.” Brand remembered Fror bellowing out the Song of Bail on that hill above the Denied. “Strong in the wall.”
“Seeing him fight beside men of Gettland made me realize again how much alike we are,” said Yarvi. “We pray to the same gods under the same skies. We sing the same songs in the same tongue. And we both struggle under the ever-weightier yoke of the High King.”
Mother Scaer’s lip curled. “And you would free Vansterland from her bondage, would you?”
“Why not? If at the same time I can free Gettland from hers. I did not enjoy wearing a galley captain’s thrall-collar. I enjoy being slave to some drooling old fool in Skekenhouse no more.”
“An alliance between Gettland and Vansterland?” Brand grimly shook his head. “We’ve been fighting each other since before there was a High King. Since before there was a Gettland. Madness, surely.”
Yarvi turned to look at him, a warning in his eye. “The line between madness and deep-cunning has ever been a fine one.”
“The boy is right.” Mother Scaer pushed her arms through the bars and let them dangle. “There are ancient feuds between us, and deep hatreds—”
“There are petty squabbles between us, and shallow ignorance. Leave the wrathful words to the warriors, Mother Scaer, you and I know better. Grandmother Wexen is our true enemy. She is the one who tore you from your place to do her slave-work. She cares nothing for Vansterland, or Gettland, or any of us. She cares only for her own power.”
Mother Scaer let her head fall on one side, blue eyes narrowed. “You will never win. She is too strong.”
“Duke Mikedas was too strong, and both his power and his skull lie in ruins.”
They narrowed further. “King Uthil will never agree.”
“Let me worry about King Uthil.”
Further still. “Grom-gil-Gorm will never agree.”
“Do not underestimate yourself, Mother Scaer, I do not doubt your own powers of persuasion are formidable.”
Blue slits, now. “Less so than yours, I think, Father Yarvi.” Of a sudden she opened her eyes wide, and pushed her hand out through the bars so fast that Brand flinched back and nearly dropped his torch. “I accept your offer.”
Father Yarvi took her hand and, stronger than she looked, she pulled him close by it. “You understand I can promise nothing.”
“I am less interested in promises than I used to be. The way to bend someone to your will is to offer them what they want, not to make them swear an oath.” Yarvi twisted his hand free. “It will be cold on the Divine, as the year grows late. I’d pack something warm.”
As they walked off into the darkness, Father Yarvi put his hand on Brand’s shoulder. “You did well.”
“I scarcely said a thing.”
“No. But the wise speaker learns first when to stay silent. You’d be surprised how many clever people never take the lesson.”
Sumael was waiting for them at the gate. “Did you get what you wanted?”
Yarvi stopped in front of her. “Everything I wanted and far more than I deserved. But now it seems I must leave it behind.”
“Fate can be cruel.”
“It usually is.”
“You could stay.”
“You could come.”
“But in the end we must all be what we are. I am counselor to an empress.”
“I am minister to a king. We both have our burdens.”
Sumael smiled. “And when you’ve a load to lift …”
“You’re better lifting than weeping.”
“I will miss you, Yarvi.”
“It will be as if I left the best piece of myself behind.”
They looked at each other for a moment longer, then Sumael dragged in a sharp breath. “Good luck on the journey.” And she strode away, shoulders back.
Father Yarvi’s face twisted and he leaned against the gate as if he might fall. Brand was on the point of offering his hand, but the wise speaker learns first when to stay silent. Soon enough the minister drew himself up without help.
“Gather the crew, Brand,” he said. “We’ve a long way to go.”
FAREWELLS