Joe Abercrombie: Half a King

“True, but-”

“I’ve heard she has a mighty scheme to stamp every coin of one weight, and these coins will pass through all the lands about the Shattered Sea, so that every trade will be made with her face, and make her richer even than the High King in Skekenhouse! How will … I ?” Isriun’s shoulders slumped and she flicked at the key on her chest and set it swinging by its chain. “How can the likes of me -”

“There’s always a way.” Yarvi caught Isriun’s hand in his before she could get her vanishing nails to her teeth again. “My mother will help you. She’s your aunt, isn’t she?”

“ She’ll help me ?” Instead of pulling her hand away she drew him closer by it. “Your father may have been a great warrior but I rather think he was your less fearsome parent.”

Yarvi smiled, but he did not deny it. “You were luckier. My uncle’s always as calm as still water.”

Isriun glanced nervously towards the door. “You don’t know my father like I do.”

“Then … I’ll help you.” He had held her hand half the morning and it could have been a dead fish in his clammy palm. Now it felt like something else entirely-strong, and cool, and very much alive. “Isn’t that the point of a marriage?”

“Not just that.” She seemed suddenly very close, taper-light reflected in the corners of her eyes, teeth shining between parted lips.

There was a smell to her, not sweet and not sour, he could not name it. Faint, but it made his heart jump.

He did not know if he should close his eyes, then she did, so he did, and their noses bumped awkwardly.

Her breath tickled at his cheek and made his skin flush hot. Frighteningly hot.

Her lips just barely brushed his and he broke away with all the dignity of a startled rabbit, caught his leg on his sword and nearly fell over it.

“Sorry,” she said, shrinking back and staring at the floor.

“It’s me who should be sorry.” For a king Yarvi spent a great deal of his time apologizing. “I’m the sorriest man in Gettland. No doubt my brother gave you a better kiss. More practice … I suppose.”

“All your brother did was talk about the battles he’d win,” she muttered at her feet.

“No danger of that with me.” He could not have said why he did it-to shock her, or as revenge for the failed kiss, or simply to be honest-but he held up his crooked hand, shaking his sleeve free so it was between them in all its ugliness.

He expected her to flinch, to pale, to step away, but she only looked thoughtfully at it. “Does it hurt?”

“Not really … sometimes.”

She reached out, then, sliding her fingers around his knobbled knuckles and pressing at the crooked palm with her thumb while the breath stopped in his throat. No one had ever touched that hand as if it was just a hand. A piece of flesh with feelings like any other.

“I heard you beat Keimdal in the square even so,” she said.

“I only gave the order. I learned a long time ago that I’m not much good at fair fights.”

“A warrior fights,” she said, looking him in the eye. “A king commands.” And with a grin she drew him up the dais. He went uneasily, for even though this was his hall, with every step he felt more like a trespasser.

“The Black Chair,” he muttered as they reached it.

“Your chair,” said Isriun, and to his horror she reached out and swept her fingertips down the perfect metal of the arm with a hiss that made Yarvi’s skin prickle. “Hard to believe it’s the oldest thing here. Made by the hands of elves before the Breaking of the World.”

“You’re interested in the elves?” he squeaked, terrified she might make him touch it or, more awful yet, sit in it, and desperate for a distraction.

“I’ve read every book Mother Gundring has about them,” she said.

Yarvi blinked. “You read?”

“I once trained to be a minister. I was Mother Gundring’s apprentice, before you. Bound for a life of books, and plants, and soft words spoken.”

“She never said so.” It seemed they had more in common than he had imagined.

“I was promised to your brother, and that was the end of it. We must do what’s best for Gettland.”

They gave much the same sigh at much the same time. “So everyone tells me,” said Yarvi. “We’ve both lost the Ministry.”

“But gained each other. And we’ve gained this.” Her eyes shone as she gave the perfect curve of the Black Chair’s arm one last stroke. “No mean wedding present.” Her light fingertips slipped from the metal and onto the back of his hand, and he found that he very much liked having them there. “We were meant to discuss when we’ll be married.”

“As soon as I get back,” he said, voice slightly hoarse.

She gave his withered hand one last squeeze then let it fall. “I’ll expect a better kiss after your victory, my king.”

As he watched her walk away Yarvi was almost glad neither one of them had joined the Ministry. “I’ll try not to trip over my sword!” he called as she reached the doorway.

She smiled at him over her shoulder as she slipped through, the daylight setting a glow in her hair. Then the doors shut softly behind her. Leaving Yarvi marooned on the dais, in the midst of all that silent space, his doubts suddenly looming even higher than the Tall Gods above. It took a fearsome effort to turn his head back towards the Black Chair.

Could he truly sit in it, between gods and men? He, who could hardly bring himself to touch it with his crippled joke of a hand? He made himself reach out, his breath coming shallow. Made himself lay his one trembling fingertip upon the metal.

Very cold and very hard. Just as a king must be.

Just as Yarvi’s father used to be, sitting there with the King’s Circle on his furrowed brow. His scarred hands gripping the arms, the pommel of his sword never far out of reach. The sword that hung at Yarvi’s belt now, dragging at him with its unfamiliar weight.

I didn’t ask for half a son.

And Yarvi shrank from the empty chair with even less dignity than when his father still sat in it. Not towards the doors of the Godshall and the waiting crowd beyond, but away towards the statue of Father Peace, pressing himself to the stone and working his fingers into the crack beside the giant leg of the patron god of ministers. In silence the hidden door sprang open, and like a thief fleeing the scene of his crime Yarvi slipped into the blackness beyond.

The citadel was full of secret ways, but nowhere so riddled as the Godshall. Passages passed under its floor, inside its walls, within its very dome. Ministers of old had used them to show the will of the gods with the odd little miracle-feathers fluttering down, or smoke rising behind the statues. Once blood had been dripped on Gettland’s reluctant warriors as the king called for war.

The passageways were dark and full of sounds, but Yarvi had no fear of them. These tunnels had long been his domain. He had hidden from his father’s blazing anger in the darkness. From his brother’s crushing love. From his mother’s chill disappointment. He could find his way from one end of the citadel to the other without once stepping into the light.

Here he knew all the ways, as any good minister should.

Here he was safe.

The dovecote was perched in the top of one of the citadel’s highest towers, streaked inside and out with centuries of droppings, and through its many windows a chill wind blew.

As Mother Gundring’s apprentice, feeding the doves had been Yarvi’s task. Feeding them, and teaching them the messages they were to speak, and watching them clatter into the sky to take news, and offers, and threats to other ministers about the Shattered Sea.