Hammer Of God (48 page)

“Yes, Helfred. I do.”

“And you're against me denying Rhian their help? You think doing that would be a sin?”

He shrugged. “I don't know about a sin, Helfred. But I certainly think it'd be a mistake.”

“Well,” said Helfred. “You've certainly given me a great deal to think on, Mister Jones. Alas, any further reflection must wait. I have to prepare for this evening's Litany in the great chapel. Will you attend?”

“Ah…” Dexterity considered him. “That depends upon whether you'll be denouncing Her Majesty's alliance with Tzhung-tzhungchai, Prolate.”

“I denounce nothing,” said Helfred, staring now at the softly burning Living Flame. “I await God's whisper in my heart.”

He stifled a sigh. He'd been looking forward to a quiet evening's whittling. But if attending Litany would remind Helfred of this conversation…

“Then I'll be there, Prolate. You have my word.”

Day was drifting to dusk when Rhian met with Zandakar in the torchlit tiltyard, alone. She'd ordered his soldier escort to stand guard along the path and turn back any nobles or courtiers thinking to observe their sparring hotas. Tonight she wanted a breath of time where she and Zandakar could talk privately. Honestly. And yes, dance the hotas together. Dear God, how she'd missed that.

He was there before her, dressed in deerhide leggings and a plain linen shirt. She'd wondered if he'd dance with the scorpion knife he'd brought back from Jatharuj, but no. It was the same plain hunting blade she'd given him to dance with, over Alasdair's objections.

He straightened out of a stretch as she approached, and watched her walk towards him. Lean and supple in her own battered leathers, she halted at an arm's-length distance and looked up into his smooth, unsmiling face.

He nodded. “We begin hotas, zho?”

Unsheathing her blade, she nodded back. “We begin. Zho.”

As though they'd never been parted, as though they'd danced only that morning, they fell into the easy rhythms of the first hotas.

Rhian let her muscles relax, sought her calm centre, that place she'd discovered where the world went away and all she knew was her breathing, her heartbeat, the flow of blood through her veins. Eyes half-closed, barely glancing at Zandakar, she released her gathered tension in a cleansing exhalation.

“You hardly said a word last night, after we found you,” she commented. “Only what you had to, and only when you were asked. I swear, it was like pulling teeth. I know you're not a chatterbox, but still. A simple thank you might've been nice.”

His eyes glinted as he shifted his stance from the ibis, sleeping to the sandcat, waking. Long, fluid muscles worked beneath his skin. “Thank you.”

Time to take Dexterity's advice. “The man who gave you that scorpion knife. Vortka. Who is he to you?”

Sandcat, waking shifted to snake, coiling. “It matters?”

“I'm curious.”

Instead of answering, he tapped the side of her thigh with his knife blade. “More stretch.”

She hissed between her teeth and pushed her toes forward another inch. “Vortka, Zandakar.”

He tapped again. “More, Rhian.”

“What?” she said, glaring. “You want to split me in half?” With a grunt, she pushed herself another inch. “There. And that is all.”

With an ease that never failed to delight and aggravate, he shifted his stance again and turned a perfect, slow-motion cartwheel. Hand, hand, foot, foot. Then flowed straight again into the ibis, sleeping, his control complete.

With a shaming lack of the same elegance, she followed his example. When she stood upright again, she looked at him. “Dexterity said you didn't try and talk to your mother because this Vortka convinced you he had a better hope of changing her mind about sailing from Icthia. Is that true?”

“Zho,” said Zandakar, and watched her overbalance out of her one-legged ibis stance.

Cheeks burning, she turned a second, more pleasing cartwheel. “Well. That's most unfortunate, given what happened to those poor slaves.”

Zandakar bent double, stretching, and looked at her upside down, between his knees, saying nothing. Something unsettling gleamed in his eyes. He didn't need words to tell her Vortka was…special.

But why? How? And what does it mean for Ethrea?

Feeling more limber, trusting her warmer muscles, she began surging into her lunges, first the left leg and then the right. “I meant what I said, you know. About letting Sun-dao destroy Jatharuj. You shouldn't have stopped him, Zandakar. This could all be over now, if you hadn't stopped him.”

He unfolded, and flicked her with a cold blue glance before whipping into a series of spinning turns on one foot, knife-hand stretched straight and high above him.

“Wei. Han say—”

“I know what Han said,” she retorted, puffing a little. “Clearly he was wrong. Sun-dao did start calling up a storm. If you hadn't interfered, he might have finished what he started.”

Zandakar stopped spinning. Shrugged. Perhaps. Then he turned another perfect cartwheel. Still pushing through her lunges, driving her heels into the ground as though she crushed an enemy's throat, Rhian felt the sweat begin to prickle through her heating skin.

“How do you do it?” she asked abruptly. “How do you make blue fire come from that knife?”

He dropped into his own sequence of lunges…but not in his usual position, directly opposite. This time he had his back to her. Avoided her.

“Zandakar, answer me,” she said, not ceasing her hotas. “I've a right to know. You sleep beneath my roof. You eat food from my table. I keep you safe. I want to know.”

Silence, broken only by their deep, steady breathing as they lunged. Then he grunted. “Chalava.”

Oh no. Was Helfred right? Holding her own lunge extended, Rhian wiped suddenly damp palms down her leather leggings. “Your god gives you the power? The same god that drinks human blood?”

Awkwardly, Zandakar wrenched himself round to face her. “Wei. Human blood evil. Chalava wei want human blood.” His clenched fist struck his chest. “Chalava wei evil. Chalava good. Hekat wrong. Zandakar wrong, thinking chalava want death.” He stared past her, into the falling night, his breathing harsh and distressed. “Zandakar wrong.”

With the sky fast losing its light, the tiltyard's torches were throwing shadows. In the nearby stables horses whinnied and kicked, demanding their supper oats. The grooms' voices drifted overhead, chiding and cheerful, starkly contrasted with Zandakar's pain.

“Well, if you were wrong before, you're right now,” she said gently. “In helping us defeat Mijak, you're right.”

“Zho,” he whispered, and resumed his hotas.

Resisting the urge to push for more answers, she followed his lead. Now they were ready, they began the set movements of each dancing hota, when with exquisite control they traced every pattern as though the air was thick syrup. It was the part of her training she tended to gloss over when she was alone.

Of course Zandakar noticed that right away. Even distressed, he noticed it. He would make a formidable leader of Ethrea's army.

“Tcha!” he said, and slapped the back of her head. “Rhian lazy, Rhian think hotas for pride, zho?”

The blow was hard enough to really hurt. “Wei,” she said crossly. “I never show off. I might – well, I might get a bit bored, sometimes, but—”

“Tcha,” he said again, and again gave her a slap. “Bored?”

“All right, all right,” she muttered. “Slow hotas. I can do them.” Easing herself into the eagle, stooping, she flicked him a look. “But only if you answer this. The gauntlet Dexterity saw, in his dreams of Garabatsas. Does it work like that knife? The power goes from you into the gauntlet and comes out as fire?”

Zandakar's face tightened. “Zho.”

Rhian thought he was remembering something, then. Something unpleasant. One of the cities he destroyed, when he wore that gauntlet? I can't begin to understand how it must feel, to wield that kind of power. Is it frightening? It must be frightening. She wanted to ask, but the bleak look in his eyes discouraged her. So she asked something else instead.

“The stone scorpion, Zandakar. Tell me about it.”

For the very first time since they'd started dancing hotas together, Zandakar stumbled and nearly dropped his blade. Gathering himself, his pale blue eyes narrowed, he stared at her. “You know.”

“I know what Dexterity saw,” Rhian replied. “What did you feel? What is the stone scorpion?”

“Chalava,” he said, after a moment, and resumed his slow hotas. “Chalava in scorpion. Scorpion kill wicked men.”

Dexterity had told her and Alasdair that much last night, after Han's palanquin had returned them to the castle. Still she found it hard to believe. “And it tried to kill you?”

Instead of answering, he slapped her again. “Hotas, Rhian.”

She eased herself once more into her slow-motion dancing. “Zandakar. Was Dexterity right? Did your chalava try to kill you?”

A sharp nod. “Zho.”

“But why, if you're obeying it by being here, by stopping Mijak? Zandakar, what happened?”

He stopped his slow hotas. His eyes wide, his face unmasked to her, he breathed out hard. “Scorpion sting. Pain.” She saw the memory of it shudder through him, and his fingers clenched tight. “I feel chalava, zho? Hot. Angry.” His fist beat his chest. “Hate. Then I feel cool, I hear voice.” Now his fingers spread lightly above his heart. “Na'ha'leima voice, zho? Gentle. Kind. Wei pain. I live.”

She closed her fingers on his arm. “And I'm glad you did. Whose voice was it?”

He shrugged. “In Na'ha'leima I thought chalava.”

“But in Jatharuj chalava tried to kill you. Whoever you heard, it can't have been chalava. Zandakar, I think it was God. In Jatharuj, and in Na'ha'leima. The God of Ethrea doesn't want you to kill. God wants you to live, and help me save the world from Mijak.”

Hotas forgotten, blade dangling from his fingers, Zandakar stared at her. “You trust Zandakar to help? I kill thousands. Much blood. Sinning man, zho?”

“The past is past. I care for what you will do, not what you've done.” She released his arm. “Zandakar…who is Vortka? Why should I trust him the way I trust you?”

Abruptly, as though his legs were suddenly too weak to bear his full weight, Zandakar dropped to a crouch. She sheathed her blade and crouched with him, fingertips resting lightly on his knee. He looked at her, in the tiltyard's torchlight his eyes hauntingly blue. His hair blue, so unnatural, and yet such a part of him.

“Vortka is father.”

Rhian heard herself gasp. “Your father?”

“Zho.”

He'd told her his father was the ruler of Mijak, a man who died when he was a boy. The day his brother Dmitrak was born.

“Rhian,” he said, seeing her sudden doubt. “Before Jatharuj I wei know.”

Believing him, doubt faded…but that still left her with anger. Selfish bastard. Selfish bastard. The fury of last night was returning, tenfold.

It's all the same, isn't it? Whether it's his long-lost father he's trying to save, or his mother, or his brother, he still put himself above everyone else. He's still risked countless Ethrean families, just to save his own.

But then she couldn't help wondering…

Would I sacrifice Papa? Ranald? Simon?

And couldn't answer the question.

“Rhian,” said Zandakar. His voice was gentle. Almost…nervous. “Wei kill Vortka in Jatharuj. Vortka hear Ethrea God, zho? He stop Yuma, stop Dmitrak. Stop Mijak.”

She stared at him, incredulous. “Yes, I know that was your brilliant plan, but he didn't stop them, did he? Your mother murdered those ten thousand slaves and broke the witch-men's hold on the trade winds. Witch-men died too, Zandakar! Witch-men who could help us. And now your mother's coming to Ethrea, with your brother and her warriors. And for all I know your father will be cheering for them from the gallery!”

Zandakar stood, and turned away. “Vortka knows killing wrong, zho? He knows chalava wrong. He is chalava-hagra, he will stop Mijak.” He turned back, his face fierce. “You trust me, Rhian? I trust Vortka. All my life, Vortka is gajka. If Zandakar is good man, you thank Vortka, zho? I wei kill him. Wei for Ethrea. Wei for you.”

Slowly she stood, her gaze not leaving his face. “I understand that you love him. But Zandakar—”

He seized her shoulders in a painful grip. “Understand? Wei. Vortka kind to me. Kind to Dimmi. I love Yuma, zho? But she is – she is—” One hand released her and clenched tight in a fist. “Hard.”

Hard. Was that the right word? Surely monstrous was a more fitting description for Hekat. And what could be made of the son who loved her? How could any decent man love a woman capable of all the dreadful things she'd done?

I don't understand him. Not even Helfred loved Marlan. Felt duty towards him, some cold familial feeling, but not love. Yet Zandakar loves his murderous mother.

“Zandakar.” Rhian cleared her throat. “You may be right. Vortka might stop Mijak in time. God knows, I hope he does. But if he doesn't…if Mijak comes to Ethrea…you must dance your hotas against Yuma and Dmitrak. Can you do that? If you can't, you have to tell me. You have to tell me now. I want to make you the leader of our army. I want you to be chotzu for Ethrea, zho? But if you can't lead an army against your family…”

Oh, God. If he can't, we might as well cut our own throats now.

He nodded. “Zho, Rhian. I dance hotas against Yuma. Against Dimmi.”

“Are you sure? Because after tonight, there's no going back.”

“I am sure,” he said. She could see the heartbreak in his eyes. “Chalava wrong. Vortka knows. I know. Blood must stop. Killing must stop. Rhian, Zandakar is chotzu for Ethrea. Zho.”

Rhian felt herself shiver, even though the early night was still warm. The last of her anger faded. “I was so afraid, when you disappeared. I thought I was alone.”

“Wei,” said Zandaka softly. “Rhian hushla wei alone.”

Swamped with sudden fear, she barely heard him. “Oh, sweet Rollin save me,” she said, appalled. “Mijak is coming. And now I have to convince the world's greatest rulers to surrender their sovereignty to Ethrea, and trust Tzhung-tzhungchai. Trust in powers none of us understand. How can I hope to convince them, Zandakar? Why should they believe me? Why should they even listen? My accession's been little more than street theatre to them.”

“They will listen,” said Zandakar. “You are Rhian hushla. You are Queen of Ethrea. God sees you. God sees you.”

She feasted her eyes upon his severe face, her soul on the conviction in his voice.

He believes in me. He believes. With all he has seen, with all he has done. With the power that's in him, to call blue fire from a blade…Zandakar believes in me.

“It would help them to believe me if you were there, too,” she said, when she could trust her voice. “Will you come with me to Arbenia and Harbisland? Will you show them Mijak in your scorpion knife? Will you help me convince them the danger is real?”

“Zho,” he said, without hesitation. “You command, I obey, Rhian hushla.” And then he smiled, all heartbreak banished, and lightly smacked the side of her head. “Talk, talk, talk. Tcha. We come to dance hotas. Dance hotas now, zho?”