Hammer Of God (51 page)

“Majesty,” said Ludo, as she began pacing the council chamber. “We don't deny the threat. But surely Rudi has a point. Marlan alive was no friend to Ethrea. Why should we assume that dead he's suddenly on our side? There are dark powers ranged against us. Can't he be some kind of – of demonic presence, sent to endanger you?”

She was almost as fond of Ludo as Alasdair was, but she could slap him now. “You're talking like an illiterate, superstitious farmhand! You might as well call Hettie a demon, and be done with it.”

“No, no,” Ludo protested with a glance at Dexterity. “I just think you should be wary of Han.”

“I am wary of Han! He serves the Tzhung first and foremost. I'm not a fool. I do know that in aiding Ethrea he seeks only to aid himself. But if in aiding himself he helps save the rest of us, why should I care? The cruel truth is that without him we're lost. Without Han and his witch-men there will be no armada.”

“Which he knows,” said Edward. “His help will plunge Ethrea deep in his debt, Majesty. What price will we have to pay, when he calls the debt due?”

“I have no idea, Edward, but whatever it is, I will pay it,” she retorted. “I swear before God I'll be Han's concubine in Tzhung if that's what it takes to save us from Mijak!”

Silence, again. Zandakar stared at her, his blue pale eyes tranquil. Beneath that tranquillity she thought she saw derision. She turned away, struggling not to lose her temper entirely.

How foolish we must seem, bickering constantly like brats in a nursery. As a prince of Mijak he was used to instant obedience. Do I envy him that? The power to silence with a glance – or a knife, if pushed to it? Sometimes I think I do…

“And it's not just Han that's suspect, if Marlan's counsel is suspect,” said Adric. “If it was Marlan. The emperor's not the only foreigner you're so eager to trust.”

Rhian turned back, dumbfounded. Did I want to be queen? I must've been mad. “Can you be serious, Adric? Do you still insist upon doubting Zandakar? My God, man. What must he do to prove he's willing to die for Ethrea?”

Adric shrugged. “He could die.”

Before she could answer, Helfred surged to his feet. “You arrogant young fool! Is your manhood so weak you must see a stronger man cast down to feel brave? You know full well that without Zandakar to guide us our cause would be lost already. You're just too proud to admit it. Have a care, Your Grace: pride can choke a man, even to his death.”

“Why do you chastise me, Prolate?” Adric retorted. “I've heard you doubt the heathen a score of times, in this very chamber!”

“Yes, I have doubted,” said Helfred. “And I was wrong. Zandakar is God's gift against the evil of Mijak.”

“Let God tell me that,” said Adric, “and perhaps I'll believe it.”

“Adric!” shouted Rudi, his face bright red. “Would you shame me? Would you bring disrepute upon our House? Your Eminence—”

Helfred raised his hand. “Peace, Rudi. Your son is a man now, he speaks with his own tongue. His shame is his alone. The disrepute belongs to him.”

Adric opened his mouth to shout, but Rudi silenced him with a scorching look.

“Like it or not, my friends,” Helfred added, “we have come to a place where we stand not upon solid ground, but on faith. Faith that Hettie…and now Marlan…seek to help and not harm us. Faith that we can trust the son of our greatest enemy. Faith that a man with powers we don't understand has honour, and will not hold us to ransom when this grim business is done. Faith that a girl yet to reach her majority has the strength and courage to lead us into war.”

Dear God. Put like that, the situation sounded hopeless. Rhian looked at the faces of her council. At the two dukes old enough to be her father. At the two dukes young enough to be her brothers. At the man she loved, who was her husband. At the man she loved, who was bloodsworn to die for her. At the man she loved, who'd become a second father. At the man she would never love, but was coming to respect.

“My lords,” she said quietly, “our prolate is right, and you'd best come to terms with it. Today, God willing, I meet with the rulers of Harbisland and Arbenia. In doing so, I'll be throwing in my lot with Emperor Han of Tzhung-tzhungchai and that means I commit all of Ethrea to an alliance with him. It's a dangerous course…but it's the only one we can take. And I need to know you have faith in me.”

Another silence. Then Edward cleared his throat. “I'm sorry. Did you say you're meeting with—”

“Yes,” she said shortly. She glanced at the chamber clock. It was time. It was time. “In fact—”

And as if by some sorcery, the privy chamber doors opened and Ambassador Voolksyn was ushered in by the guards on duty.

Smiling gravely, she walked to him. “My lord ambassador, thank you for coming.”

Tall and sleek in his spotted sealskin tunic, his lips curved in smiling answer, his eyes untouched by warmth, and wary, Voolksyn looked around her council table, taking special notice of Zandakar, seated between Dexterity and Alasdair. Then he offered her a shallow bow.

“Majesty. I thought hard before agreeing to your invitation.”

“Sere, it doesn't matter that you thought. It matters that you came.”

Voolksyn smoothed his beard with one large, capable hand. His bald head gleamed in the light from the window. “My cousin Arbenia urged me to refuse it.”

He'd discussed her note with Gutten. How…inconvenient. Now her heart was drumming. “Your cousin Arbenia is a short-sighted man.”

“You think so?” said Voolksyn. “He is a good friend to Harbisland.”

“Sere Voolksyn,” said Dexterity, breaking the tense silence. “I think it's only fair to tell you that Icthia has indeed fallen to Mijak. Your brother ambassador, Sere Athnïj, and the staff he brought from his home, are among the last few living Icthians in the world.”

He'd not been invited to speak, but Rhian had no intention of scolding Dexterity. Of them all, she thought he stood the best chance of convincing Voolksyn.

“And how do you know this?” said the Harbish ambassador. “Another dream from your dead wife?”

“Alas,” said Dexterity, pulling a face behind his scruffy beard. “It was no dream. I returned from Jatharuj the night before last.”

“That…is not possible,” said Voolksyn slowly.

“It is perfectly possible,” said Rhian. “With the help of Tzhung-tzhungchai.”

“Tzhung-tzhungchai?” Voolksyn looked like he wanted to spit. “So you bed with their witch-men? Unclean sorcerers. The mother forbids her children their breath.”

“You may call them sorcerers, Voolksyn, though I believe you wrong them,” she said sharply. “And you should know this: Han's sorcerers were all that stood between us and Mijak for many weeks. But Mijak has broken them. Many are dead. And now Mijak sails to harvest our bones. The time Han's witch-men bought for us has been wasted. Their spent lives are wasted. God chose me to lead an alliance against Mijak, and because I failed to convince you and Arbenia that the threat is real, that you could trust my leadership, that Ethrea always was and always will be your friend, every living soul in the world stands threatened!”

Voolksyn stared at her closely. “You swore Ethrea had no pact with Tzhung-tzhungchai.”

“God have mercy, Sere Voolksyn!” she cried. “Have you heard nothing I said? The only pact I have with Han is the trading charter! I am as treatied with him as I am with you, no more and no less. There is no deception here, there is only desperation.”

“Desperation is fertile soil for deception,” said Voolksyn.

Now she was perilously close to tears. “That sounds like something Gutten would say.” Angrily she wiped a hand across her face. “I don't know, Sere. Perhaps I was naïve, expecting you to listen. Expecting you to see me as a queen in my own right, as a warrior you could trust. But you watched me fight for the throne of Ethrea, you saw me kill the men who dared challenge my crown, and I thought that would be enough. Clearly, I was wrong. Clearly, you won't believe a thing without blood.”

Before anyone could stop her, she unsheathed her blade and drew its cruel edge swiftly across her face twice, one cut in each cheek. The pain was immediate, bright and blazing. Blood poured hotly, scorching her skin.

“Rhian!” shouted Alasdair, leaping from his chair. Zandakar took hold of him by one wrist, pinning him in place.

She ignored Alasdair's horror, his fury at Zandakar. “As God is my witness, Sere Voolksyn,” she said, almost blinded by the pain, “and as my spilled blood attests, here is my oath to you. I will not betray the people of Harbisland. I stand ready to fight for you and die for you, as though you were Ethrean, and mine.”

Voolksyn stared at her, shocked into silence. She stared back, dimly aware of her council's frantic babbling. Dimly aware of the chamber's ticking clock.

Han, Han, where are you? Must I shout aloud that I can't do this alone?

And Han was there, in jade-green silk, stepping out of the swirling air like a thought transformed to flesh.

“Sere Voolksyn,” he said calmly, paying no attention to her pain. “As the Ethreans say, we have our backs against a wall. If Harbisland and Tzhung-tzhungchai do not help each other, countless innocent souls will perish. If that is what you desire, turn away from Ethrea's gallant queen. And remember this moment as you draw your dying breath.”

For the first time she could remember, Rhian saw Voolksyn look uncertain. “I do not speak for my slainta,” he said. “Even though he is my brother.”

Han smiled. “Then it is time your brother spoke for himself.”

“You speak in riddles,” said Voolksyn, still uncertain.

Bleeding sluggishly, the pain undiminished, Rhian sheathed her blade without cleaning it and crossed to Voolksyn. Took his hand in hers and held it, tightly.

“Trust me, Sere,” she said as Zandakar joined them. “No harm will befall you.”

“No harm?” said Voolksyn. “Little queen—”

Ignoring him, she glanced at Zandakar. “You have the knife?”

He nodded. “Zho.”

She smiled at Han, though it hurt so much. “Emperor.”

Han clapped his hands…and the council chamber disappeared.

It was raining in Tyssa, capital city of Harbisland, where the slainta held his open court.

Dizzied by witching so far, by taking so many with him, Han stepped out of the wind and onto the wet grass. Rhian, Zandakar and Voolksyn stepped out beside him. The ambassador, gasping, bent over to retch. Rhian released her hold of him and stared at their surroundings. Zandakar stepped aside, drawing his scorpion knife from beneath his jerkin.

Han stared like Rhian, mildly curious. So many years since he had set foot in Harbisland. Who had been slainta then? This slainta's great grandfather. Oosyn of Harbisland, a belligerent man.

Court was held outdoors in Harbisland, in rain and bright weather, if it snowed or if it scorched. The goddess of Harbisland was a deity of nature. Nothing of importance could occur within walls, beneath a roof. This court was in a pretty field, the ragged grass scattered with pink and yellow flowers. Beyond its boundaries the rustic dwellings and merchant-houses of Tyssa, drummed with the rain beneath the cloud-shrouded sky.

In this day the slainta of Harbisland was Dalsyn. He had the look of his brother the ambassador: tall and broad and brawny. His plaited red beard reached to his waist. His sealskin tunic glistened with the rain. Bare-headed, raw-fisted, he sat his sealskin-covered throne like a man daring to be challenged. Around him stood his clansmen, armed with cudgels, and before him knelt the Harbislanders who had come to court for justice.

Voolksyn finished retching, straightened and looked around him, astonished. “Harbisland? I am home?”

“You are home,” said Han. “And unharmed, as the Queen of Ethrea promised.”

Voolksyn stared down at Rhian. “You did not lie.”

“I've never lied to you, Voolksyn,” she said, rain slicking her sleek and supple black leathers, rain running through the blood dried thickly on her face. “Zandakar—”

The warrior from Mijak looked at her. “Zho?”

“You're all right?”

“Zho. You?”

“I think – zho,” she replied. “What an extraordinary feeling. I don't know what I was expecting, but…”

Zandakar smiled. “Zho.”

Han watched Rhian smile back. So. This was interesting. This might be a problem…for Alasdair of Ethrea, at least. If it proved to be a problem for Tzhung-tzhungchai, he would address it.

Stirring out of their astonishment now, the clansmen of Harbisland's slainta raised their cudgels and advanced, anger plain in their faces. The kneeling petitioners scuttled out of their way.

Voolksyn stepped forward to greet them in the twisting tongue of Harbisland. Swiftly he was surrounded. Many voices filled the damp air.

“Han,” said Rhian, turning from Zandakar. “What will we do if this desperate attempt fails?”

His silk tunic was swiftly soaking through. It was cold here in Harbisland. He'd be shivering soon. “What Ethrea does is your affair. Tzhung-tzhungchai will fight Mijak until the last witch-man is dead. Until there are no more men and women of Tzhung to fling against our enemy. Why did you cut your face, Rhian?”

She touched fingertips to her cheek. They came away scarlet. “Desperation.”

“Witch-men have healing powers.”

“No. If you heal me, the point will be lost.” She looked again to Voolksyn and the crowding clansmen. “What are they saying? I don't speak a word of Harbish.”

“What they say doesn't matter. Only the slainta's words are important here.”

Rhian nodded, again staring about her. “Do you know, this is the first time I've stood on soil that wasn't Ethrean?” She laughed, then tilted her bloodied face to the sky and poked out her tongue. “Foreign rain,” she murmured. “Somehow it tastes sweeter. All my life I've wanted to travel. I was so jealous of my brothers. I nearly hated them when they left Kingseat harbour and I was left behind. It seemed so unfair. It was unfair. When Mijak is defeated, and I have a daughter, I'll make sure she travels the world.”

Cold in his rain-soaked silk tunic, Han looked at her and marvelled. Is she brave or is she foolish, to hold on to hope so hard? “What will you name this daughter, when you have her?”