There was a harsh gale blowing on the night Yarvi learned he was a king. Or half a king, at least.
A seeking wind, the Gettlanders called it, for it found out every chink and keyhole, moaning Mother Sea’s dead chill into every dwelling, no matter how high the fires were banked or how close the folk were huddled.
It tore at the shutters in the narrow windows of Mother Gundring’s chambers and rattled even the iron-bound door in its frame. It taunted the flames in the firepit and they spat and crackled in their anger, casting clawing shadows from the dried herbs hanging, throwing flickering light upon the root that Mother Gundring held up in her knobbled fingers.
It looked like nothing so much as a clod of dirt, but Yarvi had learned better. ‘Black-tongue root.’
‘And why might a minister reach for it, my prince?’
‘A minister hopes they won’t have to. Boiled in water it can’t be seen or tasted, but is a most deadly poison.’
Mother Gundring tossed the root aside. ‘Ministers must sometimes reach for dark things.’
‘Ministers must find the lesser evil,’ said Yarvi.
‘And weigh the greater good. Five right from five.’ Mother Gundring gave a single approving nod and Yarvi flushed with pride. The approval of Gettland’s minister was not easily won. ‘And the riddles on the test will be easier.’
