Hammer Of God (24 page)

“As hard as you dare?” said Han. “No. As hard as you can.” He stared at Rhian. “Haven't you heard me? There is no more time for coddling the feelings of the other trading nations. If your God has decided you are the one to lead us, Rhian, then you must lead us. You must be bold. Decisive. Only then will men follow you.”

He saw a muscle leap along her jaw, saw that she heard his unspoken words quite clearly. Only then will I follow you. Alasdair and the prolate heard them also. The three Ethreans exchanged guarded glances.

“Your advice is…appreciated,” Rhian said, after a moment. “I'll think on it, and decide how best to proceed. I must tread carefully where the trading nations are concerned.”

He felt his anger stir again. “Rhian, I have told you how best to proceed. How can I make you see the truth more clearly? In the heartbeat that my witch-men lose their grasp upon the trade winds, Mijak will know. Don't you understand that forming the armada is but the beginning? There will be arguments about who's to lead it, arguments about how best to attack Mijak, arguments about—”

“I know!” Rhian said, nearly shouting. “How can you think I don't know all that, Han? I'm sleepless at nights thinking of it. When I stop and consider the task before me I could weep. You say I must see to the swift forming of this armada, and I'll do my best, but you must do your part too. Your witch-men must keep hold of the trade winds. Whatever it costs, Mijak must remain penned as long as possible.”

Slowly, Han stood. “Whatever it costs? It will cost witchmen their lives. You ask the Tzhung for this sacrifice, yet seem to care more for the feelings of Arbenia and Harbisland and the rest than you do for the witchmen who'll die for you, Rhian.”

“That's not true!” Raising a hand to Alasdair and the prolate, who looked to speak in her defence, she strode around the table to face him. “But these trading nations aren't slaves or servants to obediently follow my orders. I must coax them, I must coddle them, I must keep them sweet when their very blood runs sour and that takes time. If we can't stop the Mijaki warships from sailing before we've cobbled together some warships of our own then this will be over before it's begun and I might as well send a letter of surrender to Zandakar's mother now. Should I do that, Han? Is that your advice? Do advise me, mighty emperor. What should I do?”

He stared into her brilliant blue eyes. Girl, girl, you are a puzzlement to me. The wind won't say why it's blown us together. Sun-dao can't tell me. Won't tell me, perhaps. It's the same in the end. Rhian is the queen here, and Han is her consort.

“You should do what you can, Rhian,” he said, his voice low. “I will do what I can. And we must hope it's enough.”

With a curt nod he left her, and her councillors. Found a stretch of corridor free of servants or courtiers, wrapped the wind about himself and returned to Lai's residence. His imperial palace in exile. It felt like an exile. He was so far from home.

Patient Sun-dao waited for him in the Sighing Room, seated cross-legged and flickered with candles. He looked so weary. He led the fight against Mijak. Without him they would surely be lost.

“And so?” he said, his voice thin. “Will Rhian of Ethrea give us her help?”

Abruptly exhausted, Han sank to the black marble floor. “She says she'll try, Sun-dao. But I fear. Brother, I fear. She is young, she's a girl, and the ambassadors don't respect her. They don't fear her, and fear is the only thing that will bring them to heel. I begin to think we must find another way.”

Sun-dao's eyebrows lifted. “Another way? Is there another?”

He sighed. “I don't know. But if there is…I will find it.”

It was Helfred who broke the long silence after Emperor Han's abrupt departure.

“Rollin's mercy!” he declared. “If that man is not the most arrogant, the most insufferable, the most—”

“Formidable, Helfred,” Rhian said, and sat down at the table. Her head was pounding. “Intimidating. Overpowering.”

“And yet,” said Alasdair, thoughtful, “in many ways, he's deferring to you. I find that odd.”

So did she, but she wasn't about to look any gift horse in the mouth. “So long as he continues to help us, I say let him be as odd as he likes.”

“I find all this talk of witch-men most unsettling,” said Helfred, and reached for his old wooden prayer beads. “How can a mortal man control the wind? It's not Godly. I fear some dark, supernatural forces are in play.”

Rhian pressed her fingers to her temples, willing the pain in her head to subside. “If you wish to talk of things unsettling, Helfred, then we should discuss Han's news of human sacrifice.”

“And what Zandakar knows of it,” said Alasdair, sourly. “Though you protest his innocence, Rhian, we must make certain.”

She nodded, reluctant. “Yes. We have to ask him if he knows…” Oh, God. And if he does? If this is yet another lie uncovered? “Helfred—”

Helfred stood, his prayer beads dangling, his face pale. “He's in his apartments? I'll fetch him here directly.”

As Helfred closed the chamber doors behind him, softly, Rhian looked at Alasdair. “He can't know,” she said, and heard the desperation in her voice. “If God's hand is in this business, Alasdair, how can—”

“It seems to me that anything is possible,” said Alasdair. “After all, we've allied ourselves with Emperor Han…and who among us knows the truth of Tzhung-tzhungchai? What the Tzhung do within their borders, unscrutinised by the rest of the world, is a mystery.”

“You think I've been naïve,” she whispered. “You think I trust too easily, that I take too much on faith. From the very beginning, when I trusted Dexterity and Zandakar to help me escape the clerica, you think I've never once looked before I leapt.”

His expression sombre, Alasdair considered her across the vast expanse of table between them. “I think you have the purest heart of anyone I've ever known. I think, since your father died, you've been outrunning demons without a chance to draw breath. Lurching from crisis to crisis, making desperate choices, facing dire situations no other monarch of Ethrea has ever had to face. And…yes. At times I think you've leapt before you looked.”

It was somehow worse, that he sounded so sad. “I'm guided by what I believe is best for the kingdom,” she replied. “If you think otherwise, Alasdair, then—”

“No,” he said swiftly. “But, Rhian, things aren't so simple. Rejecting Mijak doesn't make a man good. There's more than one kind of evil in the world.”

Before she could answer him, the chamber doors opened again and Helfred returned with Zandakar behind him.

“Rhian hushla,” Zandakar said, pleased and wary at once, then nodded to Alasdair. “You need?”

She sat straight in her chair, even though her bones were aching and her head pounded without mercy. “Yes. I need. Helfred? The doors.”

Helfred closed the chamber doors and took his place at the table. His prayer beads were wrapped tight around his fingers, and she had never seen him look so grave.

Zandakar stood before them, uneasy in his linen shirt and leather leggings. Beyond the chamber windows the afternoon light was beginning to wane. His blue hair shone darker, just like his eyes.

Clasping her hands in case they trembled, she met his gaze directly. “Your mother the empress is sacrificing people to your god, Zandakar. What do you know of this?”

He said nothing, at first. As though he were the Zandakar fresh off the Slynt slave ship, and had no understanding of Ethrean words. Then he stirred. “People?” His voice was husky. “Wei understand, Rhian hushla.”

“Oh, I think you do, Zandakar,” said Alasdair. “I think you understand full well.”

“Whatever you know,” Helfred added gently, “it's best that you tell us, Zandakar. These secrets aren't helpful.”

Zandakar shook his head. “Secrets? Wei secrets. Wei people.”

Alasdair slapped his hand on the table. “Zho people, Zandakar! Not cows and goats and whatever else your priests sacrifice. Now Mijak's killing humans, for the power in their blood. How long have you known this? How long have you been lying?”

“Please, Alasdair,” Rhian murmured. “Give him a chance.”

Zandakar was shaking his head. “Wei. Wei. Alasdair king is wrong. Wei people. Vortka – Yuma—” His voice broke, his face twisted. “People?” He turned away, his outreaching hand touching the wall, seeking support, as though he found it impossible to stand.

“King Alasdair…” Helfred sounded uncertain. “I believe he didn't know. I believe his distress is genuine.”

“You sound surprised, Helfred,” Rhian snapped.

“I – I—” Helfred stared at his prayer beads. “I confess, I don't know what to think.”

“And I confess I find your willingness to believe the worst of Zandakar without proof to be a shameful thing.” Leaving Helfred to his blushes, she turned on Alasdair. “Well? Are you still convinced he's a party to this vile slaughter?”

“Zandakar!” said Alasdair. “Look at me. Look at me.”

Slowly, Zandakar pulled away from the wall and turned. His face was blank, his eyes hollow with pain. “Alasdair king.”

“If I gave you a dagger, now, would you swear in your blood that your denials are the truth? That you had no knowledge of this abominable thing?”

Zandakar held out his hand. “Give me dagger. I will swear.”

“You'll do no such thing!” said Rhian. “You'll go down to the tiltyard and wait there for me. We've time to dance our hotas before I attend this evening's Litany. Go on. I think you know the way without a gaggle of soldiers showing you.”

Walking like a man bereft of hope, Zandakar obeyed.

“I'll wait with him,” said Helfred. “It's plain to see this news has hurt him. Perhaps I can be of some little comfort.”

With an effort, Rhian throttled her simmering temper. Too little, too late, Helfred. Your doubts hurt him first. “That would be charitable, Prolate.”

“Indeed,” said Helfred, subdued, and departed.

Which left her alone with Alasdair, again.

“No soldiers?” he demanded as the doors closed behind her prolate. “Rhian—”

“I know what I said,” she replied. “But to shadow him with soldiers now, after such a showing of mistrust—”

“I'll not apologise for questioning him, Rhian,” Alasdair retorted. “One of us must be prepared to suspect those we'd rather hold close to our hearts. I know you prefer not to think of betrayal. I know making such accusations offends you. But I say it's better to offend than learn too late you were wrong.”

She nodded. “You're right.”

“About?” he said, sitting back in his chair. He seemed to her braced for another attack.

“About me being offended,” she said gently. “About needing you to be hard.” She bit her lip. “It's just…I don't have so many friends, Alasdair, that I can discard them lightly.”

“You're still convinced Zandakar's your friend?”

“I'm not convinced he isn't.”

“And Emperor Han? Is he a friend too?”

Remembering Han's cold eyes, the way his gaze seemed to look right through her, she shivered. “I've no idea what Han is. All I know is I don't want him for an enemy.”

He started to answer, but stopped when the chamber doors opened and a herald entered. “Majesty,” he said bowing. “I bring a message.”

Rhian held out her hand. “Very well.”

The herald presented it and departed. She picked apart the ribbon tying the scrolled parchment, unrolled it and read.

“What?” said Alasdair as the chamber wheeled around her. “Rhian, what's happened?”

There were two scribbled notes, one from an apologetic chaplain called Hyse, the other—

“It's Rulf,” she said dully. “He's killed himself.”

Alasdair stared. “Rulf? Who's—” Then he swore. “Lord Rulf? Marlan's ward? The useless man he wanted to—”

“Yes.” Tears were pricking her eyes. “He left a letter,” she added, and held up the scrap of paper rolled inside the parchment. “He says he feared for his life after my slaying of Damwin and Kyrin. According to his parish chaplain, he drank poison.”

“Rhian…” Alasdair reached across the table and closed his fingers over the notes, taking them from her. “You didn't kill him. You'd never have harmed him, he wasn't responsible for Marlan any more than Helfred was.”

The council chamber was warm, yet she felt so cold. “I never gave him another thought,” she murmured. “As soon as we were wed, and I knew I was safe from him, his welfare never once crossed my mind.”

Blindly she pushed away from the table and moved dreamlike to the window. Alasdair followed, to pull her against him. She heard the notes crumple in his fist as he closed his arms tight. “Why would you? He was no-one. None of us considered him. Besides, you had more important things to occupy your thoughts.”

She rested her cheek against his chest and breathed in the scent of him, so warm and reassuring. “I should've thought of him once, Alasdair. I should've thought to let him know I bore him no ill-will.”

And now it was too late. Rulf was dead. He'd died in pain and fear, without reason, all because she'd been too busy to think of him.

Too busy, or too careless.

She stepped back from Alasdair, breaking his embrace. “I have to go.”

“Of course,” he said, expressionless. “Zandakar's waiting.”

“My hotas are waiting,” she said sharply. “I can't afford to neglect them.”

He nodded. “Of course you can't.”

“While I'm training, would you find Ven'Cedwin?” she said, when she could trust herself not to snap. “And craft a summons to the ambassadors? Bid them meet us here at ten of the clock tomorrow morning. We've no time to lose, now.”

“Of course,” he said. “Your Majesty.”

“Alasdair—” She punched his chest lightly with her fist. “Don't be stupid.”

And left him to join Zandakar before she said more that she'd regret.

Dexterity stood with Ursa and watched as Rhian and Zandakar danced their violent hotas. They were the only two people watching; Helfred, an unexpected attendant, had departed as soon as they arrived and Rhian dismissed the handful of courtiers who'd come to gawk.

“Brings back memories, Jones,” said Ursa, then hissed as Rhian avoided the tip of Zandakar's blade by a hairsbreadth.

Draped over the castle tiltyard's railing, he nodded. It did indeed. Rhian and Zandakar broke apart, sweating and panting, and took a moment to consider their next dance.

“You finished with all your puppetry bits and bobs?” Ursa said, considering him sidelong. “Now you've been asked back to serve on the council?”

He shrugged. “For now. Just one more cartload to sell at the harbour markets tomorrow. But I'll not be abandoning my trade altogether, Ursa. Serving on council's not a full-time occupation.”

“Perhaps not,” she said darkly. “But waging war is. There'll be plenty for you to do once this kingdom's finally told what's what in the world.”

He shifted against the splintery railings, uncomfortable. It had to happen, he knew that, but oh, how he dreaded it. Dreaded the destruction of Ethrea's peace. For so long the people of this kingdom had lived without the fear of bloodshed. They knew wars happened, of course. Kingseat's taverns were filled nightly with sailors and their gruesome tales of this battle, and that one. The tales spread.

But hearing of war and living it are two different things.

He grunted as Ursa nudged his ribs with her elbow. “You're brooding,” she muttered. “Stop it. What's to come will come, Jones. Do you think you can prevent it?”

“I know I can't. I know there's things set in motion not a one of us can change,” he muttered back. “And I'm sad for that, Ursa. You can't tell me not to be sad.”

“Well, I can,” she said, lifting an eyebrow at him. “But I won't, for I'm old enough to know better than to throw good advice at a deaf man.”

In the tiltyard, Rhian and Zandakar had returned to their hotas. Dexterity, watching closely, was struck by how Rhian had changed. She was leaner. Faster. More supple. Less predictable. On the road, while she was first learning, he'd always thought Zandakar had held himself back. Even though he was hard on her, even though he shouted and cuffed her and called her rude names in Mijaki, it seemed clear he was protecting her, too.

But not any more.

Be careful, be careful, Rhian, don't take chances.

She wasn't listening. She flirted with death.

Ursa stifled a groan, her fingers bloodless on the tiltyard rail. “I'm not sure I can keep watching, Jones.”

He was risking splinters too. “She's different, isn't she, from her time on the road?” he said as Rhian turned a neat circle around her blade. “She doesn't dance these wretched hotas the same.”

Ursa sniffed. “She's killed two men with a sword, Jones. Of course she's different.”

She still wouldn't tell him what she'd seen the day Rhian had faced Damwin and Kyrin, and defeated them. He was partly relieved, partly annoyed. He wanted to know…and yet, he didn't.

I could always ask Rhian. But I doubt she'd tell me, either.

“Oh!” Ursa exclaimed, and pressed her hand to her mouth.

“She's all right, she's all right,” he said, his heart thundering as Rhian sprang to her feet after slipping and falling on her back.

“All right? She's bleeding!” said Ursa. “Are you blind?”

No. And she was right, Rhian was bleeding. Zandakar's blade had caught her down one arm, slicing through her linen shirt-sleeve, leaving a thin trail of blood. But she didn't cry out. She scarcely seemed to notice.

He put his hand on Ursa's shoulder, squeezing. “Don't fuss yourself, old woman. Our Rhian's in no danger.”

“Old woman yourself,” said Ursa, shrugging him free. “I'll give you old woman next time you need a posset for your innards!”

He smothered a grin in his beard, and kept his gaze on Rhian.

The only sound in the tiltyard was Rhian's breathing, and Zandakar's, deep and fast, on the very edge of laboured. Grunts, as they leapt and spun and cartwheeled and flipped. The swift thud-thud of their feet as they landed in the dirt, on the grass, the lighter pat-pat as their hands followed their feet.