Half the World (Shattered Sea #2)(110)

“The queen has had three sons and no daughters. I think she is becoming very much attached to her Chosen Shield. But I’m sure she could be persuaded.”

Brand gave those leaves another push. “No doubt folk think I’m the one should wear the key. I’m none too popular in Thorlby.”

“The king’s warriors are not all admirers of yours, it is true. Master Hunnan in particular. But I have heard it said enemies are the price of success. Perhaps they are the price of conviction too.”

“The price of cowardice, maybe.”

“Only a fool would reckon you a coward, Brand. To stand up before the warriors of Gettland and speak as you did?” Father Yarvi put his lips together and gave a faint whistle. “People may sing no hero’s songs of it, but that was rare courage.”

“You think so?”

“I do, and courage is not your only admirable quality.”

Brand hardly knew what to say to that, so he said nothing.

“Did you know Rulf melted down his earnings from our voyage and made a key of his own?”

“For who?”

“Thorn’s mother. They are being married in the Godshall next week.”

Brand blinked. “Oh.”

“Rulf is getting old. He would never say so, but he is keen to step back.” Yarvi looked sideways. “I think you would do well in his place.”

Brand blinked again. “Me?”

“I told you once that I might need a man beside me who thinks of doing good. I think so more than ever.”

“Oh.” Brand couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“You could join Safrit, and Koll, and be part of my little family.” Every word Father Yarvi let drop was carefully weighed out and these did not fall by accident. He knew just what to offer. “You would be close to me. Close to the queen. Close to the queen’s Chosen Shield. The helmsman of a minister’s ship.” He remembered that day on the steering platform, the crew thumping at their oars, the sunlight bright on the water of the Denied. “You would stand at the right hand of the man who stands at the right hand of the king.”

Brand paused, rubbing at his fingertips with his thumbs. No doubt he should’ve leapt at the chance. A man like him couldn’t expect too many like it. Yet something held him back. “You’re a deep-cunning man, Father Yarvi, and I’m not known for my wits.”

“You could be, if you used them. But it’s your strong arm and your strong heart I want you for.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“You can ask. But make sure you want the answer.”

“How long had you planned for Thorn to fight a duel with Grom-gil-Gorm?”

Yarvi narrowed his pale eyes a little. “A minister must deal in likelihoods, in chances, in possibilities. That one occurred to me long ago.”

“When I came to you in the Godshall?”

“I told you then the good thing is a different thing for every man. I considered the possibility that a woman who could use a sword might one day find a way to challenge Gorm. Great and storied warrior that he is, he would not be able to turn down a woman’s challenge. And yet he would fear one. More than any man.”

“You believe that prophecy?”

“I believe that he believes it.”

“That was why you had Skifr train her.”

“One reason. The Empress Theofora loved rare things, and also loved to watch blood spilled, and I thought a fighting girl from the far north might excite her curiosity long enough for me to speak to her, and present my gift. Death ushered Theofora through the Last Door before I got the chance.” Yarvi gave a sigh. “A good minister strives to look ahead, but the future is a land wrapped in fog. Events do not always flow down the channel you dig for them.”

“Like your deal with Mother Scaer.”

“Another hope. Another gamble.” Father Yarvi sat back against the trunk of the tree. “I needed an alliance with the Vanstermen, but Mother Isriun spoiled that notion. She gave the challenge, though, and a duel was better than a battle.” He spoke calmly, coldly, as though he spoke of pieces on a board rather than people he knew.

Brand’s mouth felt very dry. “If Thorn had died, what then?”

“Then we would have sung sad songs over her howe, and happy songs over her high deeds.” Yarvi’s were the eyes of a butcher who looks at livestock, judging where the profit is. “But we and the Vanstermen would not have wasted our strength fighting each other. Queen Laithlin and I would have prostrated ourselves at the feet of Grandmother Wexen and made golden apologies. King Uthil would have recovered, free of dishonor. In time we might have thrown the dice again.”

Something in Father Yarvi’s words niggled at Brand, like a hook in his head, tickling, tickling. “We all thought King Uthil was at the Last Door. How could you be sure he’d recover?”

Yarvi paused for a moment, his mouth half-open, then carefully shut it. He looked toward the doorway, the clanging of Rin’s hammer echoing from beyond, and back to Brand. “I think you are a more cunning man than you pretend.”

Brand had a feeling he stood on spring ice, cracks spreading beneath his boots, but there was no going back, only forward. “If I’m to stand at your shoulder I should know the truth.”