Half the World (Shattered Sea #2)(57)

“I wish I could say the same,” said Mother Scaer. “But none of our three meetings has been altogether pleasant.” She moved her ice-blue gaze to Thorn. “This woman I do not know.”

“In fact you met in Skekenhouse. She is Thorn Bathu, daughter of Storn Headland.”

Thorn was somewhat gratified to see Mother Scaer’s eyes widen. “Whatever have you been feeding her?”

“Fire and whetstones,” said Yarvi, smiling, “and she has quite the appetite. She is a proven warrior now, tested against the Uzhaks.”

“What curious warriors you have!” Duke Mikedas sounded more amused than impressed and his courtiers tittered obediently. “I’d like to see her matched against a man of my household guard.”

“How about two of ’em?” snapped Thorn, before she even realized her mouth was open. The voice hardly sounded like hers, a grating challenge echoing loud and savage from the silver-fretted marble walls.

But the duke only laughed. “Wonderful! The exuberance of the young! My niece is the same. She thinks anything can be done, in spite of tradition, in spite of the feelings of others, in spite of … realities.”

Yarvi bowed again. “Those who rule, and those beside them, must be always mindful of realities.”

The duke wagged his finger. “I like you already.”

“I believe, in fact, we have a friend in common.”

“Oh?”

“Ebdel Aric Shadikshirram.”

The duke’s eyes widened, and he swung his leg down from the chair and sat forward. “How is she?”

“I am sorry to tell you she has passed through the Last Door, your grace.”

“Dead?”

“Killed by a treacherous slave.”

“Merciful God.” The duke slumped back. “She was a singular woman. I asked her to marry me, you know. I was a young man then, of course, but …” He shook his head in wonderment. “She refused me.”

“A singular woman indeed.”

“The years trickle like water through our fingers. It seems only yesterday …” The duke gave a long sigh, and his eyes hardened. “But, to the matter.”

“Of course, your grace.” Father Yarvi bowed again. His head was bobbing like an apple in a bucket. “I come as emissary from Queen Laithlin and King Uthil of Gettland, and seek an audience with her radiance Vialine, Empress of the South.”

“Hmmmm.” The duke propped himself on one elbow and rubbed unhappily at his beard. “Where is Guttland again?”

Thorn ground her teeth but Father Yarvi’s patience was steel-forged. “Gettland is on the western shore of the Shattered Sea, your grace, north of the High King’s seat at Skekenhouse.”

“So many little countries up there it takes a scholar to keep track of them!” A tinkling of laughter from the courtiers and Thorn felt a powerful urge to put her fist in their faces. “I wish I could honor every supplicant with an audience, but you must understand this is a difficult time.”

Yarvi bowed. “Of course, your grace.”

“So many enemies to be tamed and friends to be reassured. So many alliances to tend to and some … less important than others, no disrespect intended.” His brilliant smile exuded disrespect like the stink from an old cheese.

Yarvi bowed. “Of course, your grace.”

“The Empress Vialine is not a woman of …” he gestured at Thorn as if at an unpromising horse in his stable, “this type. She is little more than a girl. Impressionable. Innocent. She has so very much to learn about how things truly are. You understand I must be cautious. You understand you must be patient. For a nation as wide and varied as ours to ford the river from one ruler to another is always … a bumpy crossing. But I will send for you in due course.”

Yarvi bowed. “Of course, your grace. Might I ask when?”

The duke waved him away with a flourish of his long fingers. “Due course, Father, er …”

“Yarvi,” hissed out Mother Scaer.

Thorn was no diplomat, but she got the strong impression due course meant never.

Mother Scaer was waiting for them in the statue-lined hallway outside with two warriors of her own, a scowling Vansterman and a great Lowlander with a face like a stone slab. Thorn was in a black mood and set straight away to bristling, but neither seemed willing to be stared down.

Nor did their mistress. “I am surprised to see you here, Father Yarvi.”

“And I you, Mother Scaer.” Though neither of them looked surprised in the least. “We both find ourselves half the world from our proper places. I thought you would be beside your king, Grom-gil-Gorm. He needs you to speak for Father Peace, before Mother War drags him to ruin against Gettland.”

Mother Scaer’s look grew even icier, if that was possible. “I would be with him, had Grandmother Wexen not chosen me for this mission.”

“A high honor.” The slightest curl at the corner of Yarvi’s mouth suggested it was closer to a sentence of exile, and they both knew it. “You must truly have delighted Grandmother Wexen to earn it. Did you speak up for your country? Did you stand for your king and his people, as a minister should?”

“When I make an oath I keep it,” snapped Scaer. “A loyal minister goes where her grandmother asks her.”