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“Where is your ship?” “At sea.” “Why are you not aboard?” “I thought it wise to leave before it touched the bottom.”
“If you have a plan,” hissed Sumael from the corner of her mouth, “now would be the time.” “I have a plan,” said Nothing. “Does it involve a sword?” asked Jaud. A pause. “All my plans do.” “Do you have a sword?” Another. “No.” “How will your plan work without one?” muttered Sumael. A third. “Death waits for us all.”
Someone has to row.
“Mother Scaer says the wise minister knows her enemy’s house better than her own.”
“A man can still rush at the Last Door naked and screaming or tread softly the other way.”
“The King of Gettland,” he muttered to himself. “Urging an army of Vanstermen to Thorlby.” “The gods cook strange recipes,” said Sumael.
“I’ve rarely prayed to you, I know,” Yarvi whispered at her image. “Father Peace always suited me better. But give me victory this day. Give me back the Black Chair. You’ve tested me and I stand ready. I’m not the fool I was, not the coward, not the child. I am the rightful king of Gettland.”
“What can you think about a cause,” muttered Jaud, “when all the decent folk stand on the other side?” “Many tasks call for decent folk.” Nothing twisted his helmet carefully back and forth. “The murder of a king is not one such.”
“Have care,” whispered Yarvi, pausing at the hidden door, though his throat was almost too tight to force words through. “The men in there aren’t our enemies—” “They will do for today,” said Nothing. “And Mother War hates care.” He kicked the door wide and ducked through.
“Did you have to kill them?” “No.” Nothing carefully wiped clean his sword. “We could have let Odem be king.”
“Your mother was right.” He saw Nothing’s eyes glint in the darkness of his helmet’s slot. “You have become a deep-cunning man.”
Battle makes all men animals,
His skin was flushed and prickling. The breath tore at his throat. Lights danced in his eyes, his limbs heavy, bruised chest throbbing. He wanted only to sit down. To sit in the darkness and cry.
“Men of Gettland!” he shouted. “You know me! I am Yarvi, son of Uthrik!” And he pointed at Odem with the one stubby finger of his left hand. “This treacherous thing tried to steal the Black Chair, but the gods will not suffer a usurper to sit upon it for long!” He dug his thumb into his chest. “The rightful king of Gettland has returned!”
“Blood cannot be shed in the Godshall!” shouted Mother Gundring. Uthil only smiled. “The gods love nothing better than blood, my minister. What better place to shed it?”
“This new king is very rude,” he said. “He is,” said Mother Scaer. “Did you not teach him diplomacy, Mother Gundring?” The old minister gazed sternly at them from her place beside the Black Chair. “I did. And who deserves it.”
“I thank you for your winning hospitality, Gettlanders! You will hear from me!” He paused for a moment on the threshold, a great black outline against the daylight. “And on that day, I shall speak in thunder.”
A wise king always has someone to blame,
“You don’t blame me?” he whispered. “Why would I?” She gave him a last parting squeeze, then let him go. “It’s better if you do it.”
“If life has taught me one thing, it’s that there are no villains. Only people, doing their best.”
“My best has proved disastrous.” “Could’ve been far worse.” Rulf curled his tongue and spat. “And you’re young. Try again. Might be you’ll improve.”
“What could a one-handed minister and a rogue fifteen years past his best not achieve together?”
She smiled a twisted smile, then. A mockery of the one she gave him when she left the Godshall on the day they were promised. “So you see, a woman can swear the same oath as a man.” “If she’s fool enough,” said Yarvi, as he turned away.
“Shall I spin a tale for you?” “What manner of tale, Brother Yarvi?” “A tale of blood and deceit, of money and murder, of treachery and power.” Mother Gundring laughed, and took another sip from her cup. “The only sort I enjoy. Has it elves in it? Dragons? Trolls?” Yarvi shook his head. “People can do all the evil we’ll need.”
“This story has the smack of truth.” “The best ones do. You taught me that.” Now
“Oh, I’m forever swearing oaths: I hardly know which ones to honor.
“I swore an oath, Mother Gundring, to be avenged on the killers of my father. I may be half a man, but I swore a whole oath.”
