Hammer Of God (47 page)

Will there ever come a time when I can be both wife and queen? Or was I mad even to attempt it? Was Alasdair mad, to marry me?

“My lords,” she said, bullying her voice to remain steady, “I need you to send word to your duchy garrison commanders. Warn them that something is about to start. No details, just have them collect their men in readiness. Whoever has been granted leave, have them recalled. And be sure that the garrison smithies set to work around the clock. We must have at hand as much armour and weapons as we can forge between now and our worst fears coming true.”

“You intend to tell the kingdom of the danger we're facing?” said Rudi, frowning.

“Not yet. But soon. Very soon, I think.”

A sombre hush. A frisson of fear, fleeting and cold.

“There'll be panic,” said Edward. “I can't see how there won't be.”

“I know,” she said, nodding. “Even with Helfred's clergy doing their best to urge calm, people will be frightened. But if we can't halt Mijak on the ocean then we will be fighting here, at home. So my soldiers and my subjects must soon begin their martial training.” She heard the tremor in her voice. “They must learn how to kill.”

“A harsh lesson indeed,” murmured Ludo. “It breaks my heart to think of it.”

Yours and mine, too, Ludo. Rhian forced a confident smile. “Yes, it's a grim prospect, but let's not race towards our darkest fears quite yet. I, for one, still have hope for our armada. And on that note, gentlemen, I think we're done for the moment.”

As her dukes stirred, and Ven'Cedwin put down his quill with a sigh, she gestured to Dexterity. He leaned close. “Tarry,” she murmured. “I'd have a private word.”

The dukes were waiting for Alasdair to depart first. His hand resting lightly on Ludo's shoulder, his face still so well-schooled she couldn't see what he was thinking, he left the chamber without a word or a look for his queen. The others followed them out, with Ven'Cedwin hurriedly last to leave.

“Don't fret, child,” said Dexterity, softly. “Your Alasdair's a proud young man. He's still making sense of how to be a consort king.”

It wasn't at all the way he should address his queen in the privy council chamber, but she was too grateful for his kindness to protest. “I'm still trying to make sense of this new life,” she said, when she could trust her voice. “Garbled sense, I begin to think.”

Because they were alone now, his hand closed over hers. “Don't worry. He supports you, and always will.”

Gently she eased her hand from beneath his. “Yes. Which is more than I can say for Helfred. I swear I could throttle him. Horrible, horrible little man.”

“Oh, not quite so horrible, surely,” Dexterity protested. “On the whole I find him much improved since our time on the road.”

Rhian stared, then burst out laughing. “Oh, Dexterity. You do cheer me up, you always have.” Then she sobered. “Will you go to him? I must have Helfred on my side, or any hope of the armada is lost. And there's no point me attempting to make him see sense. I couldn't dissuade him from trying to save his wretched uncle, and I'll not change his mind on this, either. But you might.”

“I don't know,” he said, doubtful. “I can try. I will try. But you know Helfred.”

“And I know you.” She managed a smile. “You're my man of miracles. Please, Dexterity. You must convince him. The fate of the kingdom might well depend on it.”

He sighed. “Majesty, I'll do my best.”

Dexterity had never been in the prolate's palace before. Standing in its enormous entry hall, he stared astonished at the gilded walls, the intricately mosaic-tiled floor with its depiction of martyred Rollin, the magnificent stained glass windows, the gold and jewel sconces housing the Living Flame. It didn't seem right, somehow, that this place should be more opulent, more extravagant, than Kingseat royal castle.

Rhian is our jewel, she should be housed in such a setting, not a gaggle of venerables. Surely a house of God should be a shining example of restraint and piety and worship, not – not self-aggrandisement.

Was it always like this, or had Marlan spent his years in office primping and preening and decorating himself?

As he stared, his mouth open, he gradually became aware that others were staring at him. Venerables. Chaplains. Devouts. Novices. Their bustling had stopped and now they just stood there with the most extraordinary looks on their faces.

One of the venerables approached him. “Sir, do I address Mister Jones? Mister Dexterity Jones?” He exhaled slowly. “The burning man?”

He realised, then, that some of his unexpected audience was regarding him with fear. That they held their breaths, anticipating…what?

That I'll burst into flames and burn the prolate's palace down around their ears?

Oh dear. Disconcerted, he nodded. “Well, I'll admit to being Mister Jones, the toymaker. And you are—”

“Ven'Norbert. How may I serve you?”

“Serve me?” he said, startled. “I don't need serving, Ven'Norbert. I just need to find the prolate.”

“His Eminence is sequestered in his privy chapel,” said the venerable. “Doubtless to deny you is a heinous sin, but His Eminence was emphatic.”

A sin? “Ven'Norbert, I've not come to make a spectacle of myself,” he said, his voice lowered. “Or to cause trouble. But I do need to see the prolate, on a matter of state.”

Anguished, Ven'Norbert pulled a face. “Perhaps I should send for a member of the Court Ecclesiastica.”

He had no time for this. Oh, Hettie. How have I become this man? He stepped a little closer to the conflicted venerable, and lowered his voice even further. “Ven'Norbert, Blessed Rollin has sent me.”

Ven'Norbert gasped. “Mister Jones!” He made the sign of Rollin, kissing his thumb so hard he looked in danger of breaking it. “You should have said so at once!”

Hot with shame, Dexterity followed the white-faced venerable to the sweeping staircase, up the first flight of stairs, the second, the third. They climbed more stairs to the fourth floor, and then Ven'Norbert led him along a red-carpeted corridor, his leather sandals thumping softly. At the end of the corridor was an imposing gilded door. Ven'Norbert stopped and turned.

“The prolate's privy chapel,” he said. “I don't dare enter, Mister Jones.”

Dexterity nodded. “All right. Thank you. Ah – God's blessings on you, Venerable Norbert.”

“And on you,” said Ven'Norbert, faintly. He seemed dazed.

Dexterity opened the gilded door and entered Helfred's privy chapel.

First, like the proletary palace, there was an opulent foyer. Mosaics, paintings, a single Living Flame, and an intricately carved and gilded wooden screen. Dexterity slipped around it, searching for Helfred.

Rhian's unlikely prolate knelt before the Living Flame at the far end of the chapel proper, which was so opulently decorated, as to be oppressive. Hel-fred looked positively incongruous, dressed in the rough, unadorned robe of the kingdom's most humble chaplain.

Even Ven'Norbert had looked more proletary than Helfred.

“I can only imagine,” said Helfred, “that the palace threatens to tumble round our ears. There can be no other reason for this rude interruption when I expressly forbade—”

“It's me, Helfred,” said Dexterity.

Helfred slewed round, ungainly. “Mister Jones? What do you do here? Is Rhian—”

“Naught's amiss with our queen,” he said. “Though she does fret on you.”

Helfred grimaced. “She'd do better fretting on herself.”

“Oh, she does that too.”

There was a single pew in the small, exquisite chapel. He sat down, uninvited, and considered the holy flame in its sconce.

Helfred grunted to his feet. “I suppose she sent you?” He didn't sit down. With tired eyes and a peevish expression he stood before the altar, feet wide and fists on his hips, projecting an image of authority at odds with his plain, roughspun robes. His wooden prayer beads dangled from his cord belt.

Dexterity let his gaze roam the overwrought chapel. “How can you pray in this place, Helfred? The amount of gilt is blinding. I've a pain behind my eyes and I've sat in here scant minutes.”

“What do you want, Dexterity? This is my privy chapel, not the high street of Kingseat township.”

“I want to talk, Helfred.”

“About what?”

“It's odd, isn't it?” Dexterity mused. “Where life has brought us. I tell you, not a day goes by that I don't know whether to be humbled or horrified by all that's happened.” He pulled a face. “Though I must confess, horrified usually wins. The things we've seen, Helfred. Rollin save us, the things we've done. The choices we've made. That we're yet to make. It's all so daunting.”

Helfred sniffed. “Rhian wants you to convince me to brush aside my qualms about Zandakar and Tzhung-tzhungchai, doesn't she? She wants me to embrace him and those witch-men like long-lost loved brothers.”

Dexterity picked at the fraying edge of his bandage. “She didn't say that, precisely. But yes, she is worried by your sudden concerns.”

“I am Prolate of Ethrea!” snapped Helfred. “It's my spiritual duty to be concerned!”

“You didn't seem concerned when I burst into flames that first time,” he said, mild as milk. “As I recall, you proclaimed it a miracle. A sign from God.”

“Because it was! Do you deny it now?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here? Why do you disturb me as I seek divine guidance?”

“Because Rhian's right, Helfred. And you're wrong.”

Helfred clasped his hands and began to pace before the altar, agitated and dismayed. “I don't believe so. The soul of every Ethrean must surely be perilled if we truck with heathen magics, be they wielded by Zandakar or by Han's witch-men.”

“Helfred, God wouldn't have sent Zandakar to us, or the witch-men, if he didn't desire them to help us defeat Mijak!”

“So you say,” said Helfred, still pacing. “But you might be mistaken. You're not a prolate, you're a toymaker.”

Dexterity gritted his teeth. “And not so long ago you were a chaplain. I swear, you begin to sound like your uncle.”

Helfred turned on him. “That is a dreadful thing to say!”

“And Marlan was a dreadful thing to be. Helfred, put aside your self-consequence and listen to me. I tell you straightly, in this matter you are wrong.”

Offended. Helfred stood there and wrestled with his pride, or his conscience, or both. At last his shoulders slumped and his fingers sought the comforting reassurance of his wooden prayer beads. “Wrong how?” he asked, grudging. “Do you care to explain?”

Oh, Hettie. Let me be doing the right thing, please.

“Well,” he said, “all right. But you must promise not to repeat this. I've not told anyone, not even Rhian.”

“Really?” said Helfred, his curiosity piqued. “Why not?”

“Hettie said I shouldn't, but I think I need to make an exception. For if you don't support Rhian, Helfred, I fear Ethrea will be doomed.”

“Very well,” said Helfred, after a moment. “I'll not repeat it…but I'll not promise to change my mind, either.”

Dexterity swallowed a sigh. At least Helfred was listening. “There is no God of Mijak. Zandakar's chalava doesn't exist. At least, not in the way he and the others think it does. Mijak's priests have mistaken a dark supernatural force for a deity. The blood of their sacrifices feeds it, and gives them the power to do abominable things. It also deludes them into thinking they obey their god when they conquer other nations.”

Helfred's eyes had widened. “Does Zandakar know this?”

“I'm not certain if he knows all of it,” he said slowly. “But he knows enough. That's why we can trust him to fight for us. As much as he wants to help Ethrea, he's desperate to save his own people from this terrible lie. To save all the innocents who'd be destroyed by Mijak.”

“A laudable ambition,” said Helfred, “but what you say only strengthens my resolve. Zandakar is Mijaki, he must be using their dark power to—”

“And what of Han's witch-men? They don't dabble in blood sacrifices, do they?” Dexterity persisted. “And Sun-dao died fighting Mijak, Helfred.”

Helfred turned away, clutching his prayer beads so hard his fingers turned white. “Perhaps. But—”

“Helfred, there's only one thing to consider here,” he said, standing. “Mijak must be defeated. Human sacrifice, Prolate! Can you imagine?”

“I've been trying not to,” Helfred whispered. “My stomach revolts at the very thought.”

“Well, I was in Jatharuj, Helfred. I don't have to imagine, I smelled it. Sometimes I think I'll never rid myself of the stench. In Jatharuj, in my dreams of Garabatsas, I have seen evil's true face…and I promise you, I promise, it doesn't look like Zandakar or the witch-men of Tzhung-tzhungchai.”

“Then how do you explain what they do?” cried Helfred, anguished.

Dexterity shrugged. “I don't. I can't. Any more than I can explain what I've done. All I can do is trust that Hettie wouldn't ask me to put my faith in evil.”

Helfred began to pace again. “It may be simple for you, Dexterity, but it is not so for me! I was a chaplain! I counselled Rhian, I did my uncle's bidding, I had no thought of high office. No expectation. No desire. I studied the Admonitions, I tried to keep my soul pure. I never asked for the keeping of every soul in Ethrea! Who am I to decide these things? Who am I to know if Zandakar and the Tzhung will taint us or save us, or if they will taint us by saving us and in saving us destroy us. Who am I to know?”

Helfred's distress was genuine, and heartbreaking. Gone the pompous chaplain, gone the assured sermoniser from the pulpit. He stood before the Living Flame with his soul stripped bare, revealing himself a young man, a doubting man, a man faltering beneath his impossible burden.

Dexterity went to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “You're the man God chose to be Rhian's prolate,” he said gently. “Are you saying God made the wrong choice, Helfred?”

Helfred stared at him, his eyes haunted. “Sometimes I think he did. Yes.”

“Well, I don't. What I do think, Helfred, is we should open our eyes to wider horizons. Just because Zandakar and Han's witch-men aren't like us doesn't mean they don't serve God. I mean, who are we to decide how God is served?”

“A sound point,” said Helfred. “Rollin speaks often of humility in belief. You truly think they serve God, Dexterity?”