The fire spat and Yfin started and turned back to his duty, using the poker to spread out the coals and adding another log. He heard the Queen Mother say something to the Captain, heard the door close. There was a whisper of cloth and then she stood over him, looking into the flames.
Yfin looked up as the firelight danced on her face. He was young, true enough, but he knew something had happened, something bad, because he knew that there was war. He was afraid to speak, to ask, because, well, she was old and kind, but scary at the same time.
She took deep breath, then gave a sharp nod, like she’d made up her mind about something. “Build up the fire, lad,” she commanded. “I’ll see to more candles.”
Yfin scrambled to obey, out the door and running for another armful of wood.
When he returned to her chambers, Captain Roth was in the room with the Steward. The Queen Mother stood by the fireplace, arms crossed over her chest.
Yfin darted in, dropped the wood by the hearth with a clatter, and bent to work with a will while they argued. The boy watched them out of the corner of his eye.
He knew Steward Paulin, ‘cause the man had a tendency to kick boys out of his way. Normally, Yfin was frightened of him. But right then, the Steward stood there, sweating, shifting his weight from one foot to another like he had an itch. He pulled out a large white handkerchief and mopped his balding head. Now, he was the one that looked afraid.
The Captain, now, he was like a rock, his voice soft but firm. “We could fight.”
“What good would that serve?” The Queen Mother faced them, her voice clear and sharp. “More blood spilled and to what end? Open the gates,” she commanded. “Welcome the victors.”
The Steward bowed and scurried off, closing the door behind him. Captain Roth waited.
“Instruct your men as well, Captain.” The old lady’s voice was firm. “They are to offer no impediment.”
“I’ll pull them off the gates.” The Captain’s voice was low and rough. “The Steward can have the honors.”
The Queen Mother snorted. “He’ll bow his head and not have the courage to look them in the eye.”
Captain Roth’s smile was grim.
“Just as well.” The Queen Mother lifted her hand to smooth down her hair. “Just as well that I sent my women to safety weeks ago.”
“Majesty,” the captain’s voice grated, low and thick, “you should go.”
“Go?” she said, her voice sounded so regal Yfin had to look up from his work. She seemed to grow taller as he watched. “Go where, good Captain?”
“There are those that would shelter—“
“And what of the harm I would bring down on them? No.” She shook her head so hard the braid swayed down her back. “I stay. But what of you, Captain?”
Captain Roth gave a slight shrug. “The Palace Guard has walked a fine line of neutrality, ma’am. I will be well, or not, as it may be.” His face went hard. “I will not leave my post.”
The Queen Mother nodded, then shivered, rubbed her arms, and sank down into her chair. “I would ask for more wood. The boy will build up the fire and we will wait.”
The Captain bowed and next thing Yfin knew, guardsmen were tramping in with arms full of wood, stacking it up by the side of the hearth as tall as he was. They’d come in, stack the wood, and bow to the old lady, seated in her chair, her eyes hooded, staring into the fire.
At last, they were finished and the room grew silent. It was just the Queen Mother and the hearth boy and the crackle of the fire. Yfin could hear the castle stirring beyond the door and people moving about with voices raised.
Queen Mother Tithanna rose from her chair, went to the door, and bolted it. “Come,” she bid Yfin, and he followed her into her bedchamber.
“Under the bed,” she gestured. “The long, narrow chest.”
Yfin went to his belly and pulled the chest out in a cloud of dust.
“Lazy maids,” she muttered, then gave a dry laugh. “As if that matters now. Come, lad.”
She led the way back to the fire and slowly lowered herself to the floor, close to the hearth. “Open it,” she commanded.
The box was a narrow thing, of old, thin pine. It took Yfin a minute to wrestle the stiff latch. Once he had it opened, the old lady reached in and pulled out a dagger, with a bright blade and a sheath decorated with an airion. She drew the blade.
“Still sharp,” she said, testing it. She held it for a long moment. “This was mine, when I was young. Wellan would not wear it for fear of offending the Wyverns. He was too trusting, too eager to please.”
