Hammer Of God (5 page)

He nodded, reluctant. “Zho.”

“Why did you stop, Zandakar?” she whispered. “Why did you turn your back on your killing god?”

So many godmoons had waxed and waned since Na'ha'leima, sometimes he wondered if that time was a dream, if the voice in his heart had spoken at all. Vortka had not believed in it and Vortka heard the god best of any man he knew.

“I wei turn my back on chalava,” he said. “Chalava say wei kill. I wei kill.”

“Told you to stop killing and not your brother? Your mother? It makes no sense to me, Zandakar. Why would your god do that?”

“Wei question chalava, Rhian,” he said. “Chalava is chalava.”

That made her stare. “You never question God? Never shake your fist at heaven and demand ‘Why me?’ Is your god so cruel, then? Does he have no mercy, no compassion, no love for those who kneel before him?”

He could not answer. He remembered the godpool, remembered warmth and a sweet voice, heavy with sorrow as he swam in the blood.

Zandakar, my son, my son. I am with you, though the road is long and steep and strewn with stones. All that will come to pass must come to pass. Grieve, weep, endure, surrender. I will be with you, unto the end.

That was the voice he had heard in Na'ha'leima, the voice that urged him to kill no more. He had not heard it before the godpool, he had not heard it since leaving Na'ha'leima. Was that voice the god or was it a demon? He did not know. He was lost in Ethrea, he was too far from home. If the god was with him here he was deaf, dumb and blind to it.

I am alone.

Rhian still marvelled. “Not a day goes by that I don't ask God what he thinks he's doing. He hasn't answered yet. Perhaps he's hoping I'll go away, or lose my voice.”

Aieee, tcha, these people of Ethrea with their soft god who did not smite them for their wicked tongues. When Mijak's god came for them they would burn like dry reeds in a fire. Cold in the sunlight, he looked at Rhian's lovely face.

She will burn if I do not save her. How can I save her? I am nothing now.

He said the only thing he could think of, the one thing she could not seem to remember. “You queen, Rhian.”

She spared him a sour glance. “Yes, yes, for my sins I am queen. And if I hadn't sought the crown, if I'd done what Papa and Marlan wanted…” She curled her fingers round the hilt of her knife. “Ven'Martin would be living, not rotting in the ground. It doesn't matter that he was wrong in attempting my life. I pushed him to his sinful action. His death lies at my door and I have but one remedy for it, Zandakar. If his death is to mean something I must be more than a queen. I must be a great queen. I must save my kingdom from your brother and mother and bloodthirsty god. But before I can do that…” For the second time she slid her knife from its sheath and stared at its polished blade glinting in the sun. “I must save my kingdom from itself.”

There was such pain in her face, her eyes, her voice. The knife blade trembled. “Rhian,” he said, “you queen.”

“I know that,” she said, her gaze still fixed on her knife. “And I remember what you told me in Old Scooton. The dukes are bad men. For Ethrea's sake I must see them thrown down or I'll be a bad queen.”

Rhian was strong, she was a bold strong woman, but at the core of her strength beat a heart that felt so many things. He loved her for it. Would he love her if she was like the empress his mother, joyful at the thought of shedding blood?

I think I would not.

“Rhian has soldiers,” he said gently.

She nodded. “Yes. But the people of those duchies have done no wrong. The dukes' soldiers are blameless too, they but follow their lords. It's the dukes who sin here, against me and my crown.”

“You smite, zho?”

She glanced at him, her beautiful face grim with purpose. “Zho.”

He wanted to laugh, he was so pleased. “Good, Rhian.”

“Good? Tcha!” She thrust her blade back into its sheath. “It's not, but I don't have a choice. We have a law in Ethrea. It's not been used in centuries, but it still holds. I can challenge the dukes to judicial combat and prove my right to rule on their bodies. If I defeat them, by law the matter is settled and can never be challenged again.”

He felt his heart thud. “Dukes try to kill Rhian.”

“Yes. Well.” She tried to smile. “It seems you've discovered the flaw in my plan.”

“Alasdair king knows you will do this?”

She stared at the castle walls as though she could see through them to the man she had married. “Not yet.”

And when she told him he would not be pleased. Ethrean men did not see women as warriors.

“Rhian is sure dukes will fight?”

She smiled, unamused. “Pride will prevent them from declining to meet me. If they refuse, even using the excuse that no man of honour would draw steel on a woman, too many would taunt them and say they refused out of fear. Besides…” She shrugged. “These are arrogant men. It won't occur to them they could lose.”

“Rhian could lose.”

She shifted her gaze, her eyes bleakly upon him. “Yes. But I won't. Not with you to teach me. I need your help to prepare, Zandakar. I have no idea how to dance the hotas against men who have trained with longswords.”

He felt the world go still and quiet. “Rhian would let Zandakar out of prison? Trust him with a blade? A sword?”

“If I do, will you swear on Lilit's soul that you can be trusted?”

He held out his hand. “Rhian – your blade.”

After a moment's hesitation she gave it to him. Pushing back the stained and stinking rag of his sleeve, before she could stop him he drew the sharp knife through the meat of his forearm. Pain burned. Bright red blood welled and dripped to the ground.

“Zandakar!” she shouted, and snatched the knife from his fingers. “Are you mad?”

It was the cleanest pain he had felt for so long. He watched his blood splatter and pool on the grass. “Blood for Ethrea. Blood for Rhian.” He pressed a clenched fist hard against his heart, pumping his blood to the grass at her feet. “You trust Zandakar.”

“I trust you're a fool,” she retorted, pulling a kerchief from inside her leather jerkin. “I trust you're a man, and like a man you—”

A shout, and the sound of running feet. He turned and she turned with him, her hand pressing linen against the wound in his arm. His prison guards charged towards them, Evley and the youth named Blay. Their swords glittered in the sunlight and his death was in their faces.

Rhian stepped forward, her hands upheld. “Halt! Halt, I tell you! There's no danger here. Put up your swords and explain yourselves. Evley?”

The guard Evley grabbed at the younger man and they stumbled to a standstill. Their swords remained unsheathed, but pointed to the grass. “Majesty, we heard you shout.”

“And you took that as a command to interrupt my privy business?”

The guard Evley paled. “No, Your Majesty, I—”

“You took it upon yourself to hover in the shadows, as though I were a green girl in need of protection,” Rhian snapped. “You are presumptuous, Evley. Return to the garrison and inform Commander Idson of my displeasure. Blay!”

The young guard flinched. “Majesty,” he whispered.

“Run to Ursa. Tell her I'm bringing her a patient. Well, why are you still standing there? I told you to run!”

The guards withdrew. Zandakar watched Rhian drop to the grass and wipe her knife free of his blood. When it was clean she rose to stare him coldly in the face. “Fool. How could you think I have a care for such pointless grand gestures?”

Her accusation was more painful than the blade-cut. “I swear blood to you, Rhian. My life for your life.”

She shoved her knife back into its sheath. “Yes. But couldn't you have sworn blood to me without bleeding?” She reached for his arm a second time. “Show me.”

Without blood, without pain, his oath would mean nothing. To swear in blood was to swear in the heart.

She is not Mijaki, she cannot know this.

“It'll need stitches,” said Rhian, and roughly bound his forearm with her linen kerchief. “Come. Ursa's waiting.”

She led him into the castle, along many corridors, past shocked staring servants who bowed their heads as he and Rhian approached, then whispered and pointed in their wake. He knew he was filthy, he knew his flesh stank. He knew to these people of Ethrea he was a strange and frightening creature. It did not matter. He was Rhian's creature while she had need of him. He was the god's creature too, though it seemed the god had no need of him at all.

They made their way to the far side of the castle, to a chamber at the end of one short corridor. The corridor's windows showed more gardens and a courtyard and a wagon unloading wooden crates and parcels wrapped in canvas. Rhian pushed the chamber's door open and swept inside. The room was small, lined with wide benches and empty shelves. Shiny metal hooks hung from beams in the ceiling. The centre space was taken up by a large wooden table. Ursa stood behind it, unpacking a crate full of stoppered clay pots. She looked up and nodded, she was not a woman intimidated by power.

“Majesty. I got your message.” Hands on her hips, she shifted her grey gaze. “Zandakar.”

She did not like him, it did not matter. “Ursa.”

The physick frowned at the bloodstained linen round his arm. “I never liked knives. This is what happens when idiots play with knives.”

“He did it on purpose,” said Rhian, and closed the chamber door. “I need him healed enough for swordplay, Ursa.”

Ursa's eyebrows lifted, disapproving. “You've released him?”

“Am I required to explain myself to you?” said Rhian sharply. “Stitch his wound, Ursa. Give him whatever drugs he needs so we can train in the hour before sunset.”

“Hotas,” said Ursa. Her lips thinned, her brows lowered. “Majesty—”

“The answer to my question, Ursa, is no,” said Rhian. “I am not required to explain myself to you. Do as I've asked.” She turned. “Zandakar, you'll remain here until someone comes for you. When they come, obey their instructions. I'll see you again before dusk.”

He pressed a fist to his heart. “Rhian.”

“Well, well, well,” said Ursa as the door closed behind Rhian. Her eyes were unfriendly, there was no warmth in her. “I thought we'd seen the last of you.”

He shrugged. “Rhian did this, I wei ask.”

“Then Rhian's a fool, and you can tell her I said so.”

“Ursa…” He stood adrift in the chamber as the physick rummaged in her familiar battered leather bag. The sight of it, a reminder of their days on the road, the times she had smiled at him and he had helped with her physicking, the other times she had healed him, those memories made him breathe deeply and sigh. “You live in castle?”

She glanced up. “No. I'm appointed Rhian's royal physick, and so I must keep a chamber here and be ready should she need me. I also take care of the castle staff. But I'm keeping my old practice. Bamfield's got it well in hand, and—” She slapped a hand to the table. “And why I'm telling you this I'm sure I don't know. Give me your arm and let's get this business done with.”

“Ursa,” he said as she physicked him with skill but little tenderness. “Dexterity…”

Fiercely she glared at him. “No. You've done that silly man enough harm already. If I have my way you'll not lay eyes on him again. I thought Rhian had taken care of that, locking you in prison where you belong. Now it seems she's let you out and I'm sure she thinks she knows what she's about. She's queen, she'll do as she does with no nevermind from me. But Jones is all I have of family and you won't get a chance to hurt him again. Not while God's left breath in my body. So you be quiet now and let me stitch this cut, for there's not a thing you can say to me that I have a care to hear.”

He was a man grown, he had no fear of ageing women. Yet in her eyes he saw the fury of Nagarak and it chilled the hot blood seeping from his wound.

“Yatzhay, Ursa,” he said softly. “Zandakar yatzhay.”

She did not answer, not even to scold him with her eyes. He did as she said, he let her stitch him in silence. Never in his life had someone sewed his flesh like leather. The pain burned, he welcomed it.

Aieee, Dexterity. Are you tasked because of me?

He wanted to ask Ursa, he wanted to know what he had done. But he knew she would not answer. He sat in silence, and wept in his heart.

Alasdair waited for Rhian in the privy state chamber, where she preferred to conduct matters of the realm in peace and quiet. In the past, tradition had surrounded Ethrea's monarch with the trappings of pomp and ceremony, with attendants and secretaries and under-secretaries and gentlemen of the chamber and any number of hopeful courtiers eager for notice and advancement. King Eberg had lived his royal life in such a bright and busy light. On coming to the capital as his duchy's representative on the council, Alasdair had found such crowding odd and not much to his liking. His father, though Linfoi's duke at that time, had never been one for toadies and flatterers or any kind of retinue. He'd trusted his own judgement, never requiring echoes to convince himself he was right…or as a reminder that he was indeed a duke.

Rhian was like him in that.

And I admire it. Although it might be nice if even once she consulted with me, her husband and king, before making a decision that will affect us both.

Anger burned dull beneath his ribs, lacking only the sight of her to fan it into full flame.

Zandakar.

In the antechamber beyond this small and cosy room waited Ven'Cedwin, ready to transcribe her final letter of appeal and command to the dukes of Hartshorn and Meercheq. He found it hard to comprehend that Kyrin and Damwin could continue so stubborn. Please God Helfred would bring them to a sense of their futility before their defiance led to bloodshed.

But I doubt it.

He'd left the chamber's door open. Through it he heard a sound in the antechamber, the whispered creaking of a hinge, the turning of a handle. Heard Ven'Cedwin get to his feet.

“Your Majesty.”

“Ven'Cedwin?” Rhian sounded distracted, and surprised. “I didn't think you were sent for yet. I'm not ready for the writing of the dukes' letters.”

Alasdair moved from the curtained window to the doorway and looked into the antechamber. “Since this is a matter of urgency, Rhian, I thought it best he be waiting close by. Especially since you are so busy, with other weighty matters on your mind…”

He saw in her face that she realised what he meant. Her eyes, which could burn so warm, lost their light. Lips tightened, jaw set, she nodded. “Indeed.” She turned. “Ven'Cedwin, His Majesty and I have some small matters to discuss before I'll be ready to dictate the dukes' letters. Have you yet broken your midday fast?”

“I have not, Majesty.”

She smiled. “Then by all means excuse yourself to the buttery, and be certain of a hearty meal. One hour should see me ready to begin.” She nodded at his leather box of inks, pens and papers on the floor beside his chair. “Leave your tools here, I'll keep them safe.”

Ven'Cedwin bowed. “Majesty.” Turning, he bowed again. “King Alasdair.”

As the antechamber door closed behind the venerable, Rhian pressed a hand to her eyes. “Don't shout at me, Alasdair. I had no choice.”

“No choice but to let Zandakar out of his cell? How is that, Rhian? What possible use can he be to you now?”

She stared at him, her dulled eyes hurt. “Are you setting spies to watch for me, Alasdair?”

“Don't be stupid,” he snapped. “Did you think no-one would comment as you paraded him through the palace covered in blood?”

“He wasn't covered in blood, he cut his arm. I took him to Ursa.”

“Cut his arm how? Did he attack you? Were you forced to defend yourself?”

With a sigh Rhian dropped into the nearest chair. “No, of course he didn't attack me. If you must know he cut himself, Alasdair. Swearing a blood oath that he'd serve me unto death.”

“Rhian…” Fighting the urge to take her by the shoulders and shake until all her bones rattled, he stepped out of the doorway. “A queen can't afford sentiment. The man is an enemy. Rollin save us, he's the son of the woman bent on our destruction!”

“Zandakar's not responsible for his mother and brother,” she replied. “Any more than Helfred was responsible for his uncle. We are born as we're born, Alasdair. What counts is what we do, not how our relatives conduct themselves. Should Ludo run amok in Linfoi tomorrow, am I supposed to hold you accountable?”

The idea of Ludo running amok almost made him smile; the weight of a ducal chain had anchored his cousin almost to immobility. But I have no doubt the shock of it will wear off. I should see him married soon, to complete his unlikely transformation. “No. Of course not.”

“Well, then,” said Rhian, as though the matter were settled.

“Rhian, Ludo is not Zandakar and you know it,” he replied, forcing a mildness he did not feel. “For one thing, Ludo's never killed a man in his life while Zandakar—”

“Has killed thousands, I know,” said Rhian, allowing temper free rein. “There's no need to remind me. Alasdair, it's because he's killed that I need him now.”

He moved to the antechamber's other empty chair and sat, his heart pounding. He so mistrusted the thoughts shifting behind her eyes. “Why?”

“Oh, Alasdair. When I said I had no choice but to fight the dukes, what do you think I meant?”

She can't. She can't. She's barely left her girlhood behind. “You mean to challenge them to judicial combat.”

She smiled. “I should've known you'd guess.”

Dear God, judicial combat. No quarter, no mercy. No verdict without a death…

“Rhian—”

Pushing out of her chair she dropped to one knee on the floor before him and took his suddenly cold hands in hers. “My love, I must. If it comes to it, I must. There is still some little hope that Helfred's stern warnings will bring Kyrin and Damwin to their senses, but…”

“Helfred's not his uncle,” he said. “He lacks Marlan's natural intimidation.”

“Perhaps.” She smiled again, wryly. “Although I think Helfred might surprise. Would God have chosen him if he weren't more than he seems?”

He let his thumb rub the back of her hand. “Rhian, I'm not comfortable with so much talk of God. Ethrea has managed well enough these past centuries without such heady divine interventions. I mistrust these signs and omens now.”

“Don't let Helfred hear you say so,” she told him. “I doubt he'd take it kindly, especially from a king. Besides, how can you doubt what happened? Like it or not, Alasdair, you were there. You saw Dexterity burn, the child return to life. Marlan. You heard Helfred chosen prolate.”

He pulled his hands free of her. “What I saw and heard, Rhian, and what those events mean have yet to be reconciled. All this talk of men chosen by God…you of all people should see where lies the danger! Let a man believe himself chosen of God and it seems to me all common sense flies out the window. Yes, and goodness too. Marlan—”

“Revealed himself Godless in the end,” she said sharply, standing. “He was a wicked man, and was harshly punished for his sins.”

“Rhian…” He stood too and did take her by the shoulders, not to shake her but to move her aside so he could pace out his fear and temper round the confines of the antechamber. “I never knew you to be so pious.”

“I'm not pious,” she protested. “But I can't deny what I've seen! I can't turn my back on what I've been told!”

“You've been told you're God's chosen,” he said, and felt his guts tighten with fright. “That's a heady brew, Rhian. Men thrice your age might well be thrown off stride.” He stopped pacing and faced her, let her see his fear for her writ plain in his eyes. “Do you think you're invincible? Do you think that because it seems you've been chosen to—”

“Seems?” Her chin came up and her eyes glinted, dangerously. “Are you doubting my part in this now, Alasdair?”

No. But I'm wishing some other princess had been chosen. “What I'm trying to say, my love, is that if you're not careful this choosing could lull you into over-confidence. Could beguile you into believing you're more than flesh and blood, that no harm can come to you no matter how you risk yourself. That you'd even think of fighting Damwin and Kyrin…Rollin's mercy, can you believe I'll stand by and watch you throw yourself onto their swords?”

Slowly she walked to him, and slowly she framed his face with her hands. Hands that were callused from the hilt of her knife and the hour upon hour she spent dancing Zandakar's hotas. Hands that only last night had—

“I believe you know I must end their defiance,” she said softly, distracting him. “Every day that passes without they bend their knee to my authority is a day that lends weight to the muttering of the ambassadors.”

He took her wrists and loosened her clasping hands. There was a dried bloodstain on the cuff of her silk shirt. Zandakar's oath. A pity he hadn't sworn it in heart's blood. “You can't make decisions based upon opinions held by men who have no sway here.”

“But they do have sway, Alasdair,” she insisted. “They talk amongst themselves, they strike bargains, sign treaties, shift alliances as their masters dictate. They have lives and purposes beyond our influence. They are men of power. And somehow I must convince them to defer to me. To follow my leadership against Mijak. What hope do I have of that if they see I can't discipline two errant dukes? And if Emperor Han suspects I'm not strong enough to do this…”

“Han,” he spat, and turned away. “I don't trust him. I don't trust his witch-men. I am not a pious man and even I see there is the stench of unsavoury practice upon them.”

“It's true,” Rhian said after a moment. “The witch-men of Tzhung-tzhungchai aren't…comfortable. They dabble in things we don't understand. But I have to trust there's a purpose to their presence, Alasdair. I have to trust I can trust Tzhung's emperor, at least for now.”

“And I think you place too much trust in trust,” he retorted, turning back. “And not enough in the world we see and touch without miracles.”

“Alasdair…” Rhian folded her arms, growing impatient. “I'm not talking of miracles now. I'm talking of cold hard reality, of consequences that will follow if I don't face the truth. A horde of brutal warriors is poised to sweep across Ethrea – and after Ethrea, the rest of the world. Perhaps Arbenia and Harbisland and the others already suspect trouble stirs in the east, or it could be that Han and I are the only rulers who know. But even if we are, Mijak won't stay secret forever. And when the trading nations' ambassadors learn the truth, they must believe I can stand against the coming darkness. If they don't, if they see me weak against two mere dukes, I fear they'll join together and wrest Ethrea from my grasp, all in the name of self-preservation.”

“I understand that,” he said, his throat tight. “What I don't understand is why you must be the one to risk your life against Damwin and Kyrin. I'm your king consort, Rhian. There's no shame in sending me against them in your stead. Not even Emperor Han fights with his own blade. He has warriors who shed blood in his name. Let me be your warrior. Don't risk Ethrea for your pride.”

“Alasdair, Alasdair…” Again Rhian approached him. “That's unfair. When was I ever a prideful woman?”

He couldn't help it: he laughed. “Rhian!”

“All right,” she conceded with a reluctant smile. “I'm proud, but not in that way. This has nothing to do with wanting to prove myself a dashing hero, it's about proving myself more than an upstart miss. And—”

“What?” he said, when she didn't finish the thought. “Rhian, what?”

She laid a palm flat to his velvet-covered chest, frowning. “I'll prick your pride if I say it,” she murmured. “Haven't we enough strife between us?”

She didn't have to say more. He knew what she meant. “You think I can't defeat the dukes, where you can.”

“Alasdair…” She sighed. “If it were a public jousting, a play to entertain and amuse, with blunted swords and padding aplenty I have no doubt you'd trounce the pair of them handily. No doubt. But this bout will be to the death.”

“And I've never drawn a sword in anger, or in the need to defend my life.” I've never killed. “Still, neither have the dukes, Rhian. They and I are evenly matched on that score.”

“Perhaps. But they've had more years to play with swords than you,” she said. “And I know for a fact both Damwin and Kyrin take their swordplay most serious. Papa could never best them in the annual joustings. But even if you're right and you're their equal, and more than their equal, here's the bitter truth. You and Damwin and Kyrin have had fencing masters to school you. Your form may be perfect, your touch with a blade a thing of beauty…but you only ever danced for show. Whereas I have had a warrior train me, a man steeped in blood from the moment of his birth. Every time I dance with him it is to make of myself a better killing queen. And if I'm to win the ambassadors to my cause I must show them my cold, killing face. Mine, Alasdair. For it's my lead they must follow in the fight against Mijak.”

Her eyes were devoid of light and warmth and even the smallest hint of love. She was gone far away from him, to a dark place he didn't envy, to the dark place where Zandakar lived…and she lived with him.

“I'll not dissuade you, then?” he said. To his own ears his voice sounded dry and defeated. “Nothing I say can turn you from this path?”

She laid two fingers across his lips. “If anyone could, Alasdair, it would be you. I swear it. And only because I love you, and know you love me, and know you understand what's at stake here, do I dare spurn your offer.” She stood on tiptoes and kissed him, the lightest touch of lips to lips. “Don't think for a moment I don't know what this costs you. Don't think I don't live forever in your debt.”

He stepped back. “If you wish to insult me continue this talk of debts, Rhian. I wasn't blind when I wed you. I wasn't ignorant when Helfred crowned me King Consort of Ethrea. From that moment I was destined to live in your shadow. I know that, and accept it. But you must accept that at times, though shouldered willingly, the burden is cruel…and I won't always spare you its cost to me.”

“That's fair,” she whispered. “And more than fair. It's right.”

“Yes. It is.” He ran an unsteady hand over his face. “So this is why you've released Zandakar? So he can help you prepare to fight the dukes?”

She nodded. “They'll use their longswords. I'm used to dancing with a dagger. I must find a bigger blade and learn how to dance with it and I haven't much time. He's the only one who can school me, Alasdair. This isn't a matter of want, but of need.”