Joe Abercrombie - Half a War

‘The alliance was faltering. King Uthil’s resolve was waning. My mother saw more profit in peace. I could not trust Gorm and Scaer.’ He made a crooked fist of his left hand. ‘But I had sworn an oath. A sun-oath and a moon-oath. To be revenged on the killers of my father. I could not have peace.’ He blinked stupidly, tears rolling down his pale face, and Skara realized, perhaps for the first time, how young he was. Only a few years older than she.

‘And so I told Bright Yilling to attack Thorlby,’ he whispered. ‘To make an outrage from which there could be no turning back. I told him when and how. I did not mean for Brand to die. The gods know I did not mean it, but …’ He swallowed, the breath clicking in his throat, his shoulders hunched and his head hanging as though the weight of what he had done was crushing him. ‘A hundred decisions made, and every time the greater good, the lesser evil. A thousand steps taken and each one had to be taken.’ He stared down at the elf-staff on the ground, and his mouth twisted with disgust. ‘How could they lead me here?’

Skara felt no hate for him then, only pity. She was up to her neck in her own regrets, knew she could give him no worse punishment than he would give himself. She could give him no punishment at all. She needed him too badly.

She knelt before him, the chain of pommels rattling against her chest, and took his tear-stained face in her hands. Now she had to show her compassion. Her generosity. Her mercy. ‘Listen to me.’ And she shook his head so that his glazed eyes flicked to hers. ‘Nothing is lost. Nothing is broken. I understand. I know the weight of power and I do not judge you. But we must be together in this.’

‘As a slave is chained to his mistress?’ he muttered.

‘As allies are bound to each other.’ She brushed away his tears with her thumb-tips. Now she had to show her cunning, and strike a deal the Golden Queen herself would be proud of. ‘I will be Queen of Throvenland not only in name but in fact. I will kneel to no one and have the full support of the Ministry. I will make my own decisions for my own people. I will choose my own husband in my own time. The straits belong as much to Throvenland as to Yutmark. Half the levies your mother is collecting from the ships that pass through it shall go to my treasury.’

‘She will not-’

Skara shook his face again, hard. ‘One right word severs a whole rope of will-nots, you know that. Throvenland bore the worst of your war. I need gold to rebuild what Bright Yilling burned. Silver to buy my own warriors and my own allies. Then you shall be Grandfather of the Ministry, and your secrets just as safe in my hands as in yours.’ She leaned down, took his staff from the ground, and offered it to him. ‘You are a minister, but you have stood for Mother War. We have had blood enough. Someone must stand for Father Peace.’

He curled his fingers around the elf-metal, mouth scornfully twisting. ‘So we will dance into your bright future hand in hand, and keep the balance of the Shattered Sea between us.’

‘We could destroy each other instead, but why? If Grandmother Wexen has taught me one lesson, it is that you are a dire enemy to have. I would much rather be your friend.’ Skara stood, looking down. ‘You may need one. I know I will.’

The pale eyes of the First of Ministers were dry again. ‘It is hardly as if I have a choice, is it?’

‘I cannot tell you how refreshing it is to talk to someone who sees straight to the heart of things.’ She brushed a few stray leaves from her dress, thinking how proud her grandfather would have been. ‘There is only one vote, Grandfather Yarvi. And it is mine.’

Raith heard laughter. Skara’s big, wild laughter, and the sound alone made him smile.

He peered from the dripping doorway and saw her walking, fine cloak flapping with the hood up against the drizzle, Mother Owd beside her, guards and thralls around her, an entourage fit for the queen she was. He waited until they were passing before he eased out, scraping back his wet hair.

‘My queen.’ He’d meant it to sound light-hearted. It came out a needy bleat.

Her head snapped around and he felt the same breathless shock as when he first saw her face, only stronger than ever and, soon enough, with a bitter edge too. She cracked no delighted smile of recognition, no look of haunted guilt even, only a pained grimace. Like he reminded her of something she’d much rather forget.

‘One moment,’ she said to Mother Owd, who was frowning at Raith as if he was a barrow full of plague corpses. The queen stepped away from her servants, glancing both ways down the wet street. ‘I can’t speak to you like this.’

‘Maybe later-’

‘No. Never.’ She’d told him once words can cut deeper than blades, and he’d laughed, but that never was a dagger in him. ‘I’m sorry, Raith. I can’t have you near me.’

He felt like his belly was ripped open and he was pouring blood all over the street. ‘Wouldn’t be proper, eh?’ he croaked.

‘Damn “proper”!’ she hissed. ‘It wouldn’t be right . Not for my land. Not for my people.’

His voice was a desperate whisper. ‘What about for you?’

She winced. Sadness. Or maybe just guilt. ‘Not for me either.’ She leaned close, looking up from under her brows, but her words came iron-hard and, however eager he was to trick himself, they left no room for doubts. ‘Best we think of our time together as a dream. A pleasant dream. But it’s time to wake.’

He would’ve liked to say something clever. Something noble. Something spiteful. Something, anyway. But talk had never been Raith’s battlefield. He’d no idea how to bind all this up into a few words. So in helpless silence he watched her turn. In helpless silence he watched her sweep away. Back to her thralls, and her guards, and her disapproving minister.

He saw how it was, now. Should’ve known how it was all along. She’d liked his warmth well enough in winter, but now summer came she’d shrugged him off like an old coat. And he could hardly blame her. She was a queen, after all, and he was a killer. It wasn’t right for anyone but him. He would’ve felt lucky to have got what he had, if it hadn’t left him so raw and hurting, and with no idea how he could ever feel any other way.

Maybe he should’ve made some vengeful scene. Maybe he should’ve airily strode off, as if he’d a hundred better women begging for his attentions. But the sorry fact was he loved her too much to do either one. Loved her too much to do anything but stand, nursing his aching hand and his broken nose and staring hungrily after her like a dog shut out in the cold. Hoping she’d stop. Hoping she’d change her mind. Hoping she’d just so much as look back.

But she didn’t.

‘What happened between the two of you?’ Raith turned to see Blue Jenner at his shoulder. ‘And don’t tell me nothing, boy.’

‘Nothing, old man.’ Raith tried to smile, but he didn’t have it in him. ‘Thanks.’

‘For what?’

‘Giving me a chance to be better. More’n I deserve, I reckon.’

And he hunched his shoulders and pressed on into the rain.

Raith stood across the street from the forge, watching the light spill around the shutters, listening to the anvil music clattering from inside, wondering if it was Rin that swung the hammer.

Seemed wherever she went she soon found a place for herself. But then she was a good person to have around. Someone who knew what she wanted and was willing to work for it. Someone who made things from nothing, mended things that were broken. She was just what Raith wasn’t.

He knew he’d no right to ask for anything from her, but she’d had some comfort for him after his brother died. The gods knew he needed some comfort, then. He didn’t know where else to look for it.