The Godspeaker Trilogy (191 page)

What ? “Alasdair,” said Rhian, her voice low, a warning.

“I'm sorry?” said Edward. “What chance was that?”

She schooled her voice to indifference. “It's nothing, Edward. An incident we can't—”

“Nothing?” said Alasdair, disbelieving. “You call the sinking of our armada nothing ?”

“Of course I don't,” she replied, her temper precarious. “But since the past can't be changed, I see no purpose in discussing it.”

Not when feelings are running so high. Alasdair, Alasdair, what are you doing?

“I'd like to know more of this ‘chance’ the king mentions,” said Edward, bewilderment giving way to suspicion. “What incident is he—?”

“Edward, I've already said there's—”

“When Mister Jones and Zandakar were in Jatharuj, the witch-man Sun-dao tried to destroy the township,” said Alasdair. “Unfortunately, they stopped him.”

“Stopped him?” said Rudi, breaking the shocked silence. “What do you mean?”

“ Alasdair ,” said Rhian. “ This isn't the time .”

“I mean,” said Alasdair to Rudi, but staring at her, no apology in him, no remorse, only anger, “they prevented Sun-dao from smashing Jatharuj to pieces. If they hadn't, it's likely the Mijaki would have been destroyed with it, or at least so badly crippled we'd have stood a fair chance of the armada finishing them.” He spread his hands. “But Mijak was allowed to live. And now Ethrea stands in the shadow of death.”

The silence lasted longer this time. Then Edward turned to Dexterity. “ Mister Jones? ”

Dexterity looked so unwell, hunched over the council table as though all his bones hurt. “I had to stop Sun-dao!” he said desperately. “Innocent Icthians still lived in Jatharuj. I wasn't prepared to see them murdered. Besides, raising a storm like that is beyond any one witch-man. Emperor Han himself has said it. And we had to get away before we were discovered. We nearly didn't, Sun-dao revealed our presence with his witching. It was a close-run thing, and the storm never would've worked.”

“You don't know that,” said Alasdair, cruelly courteous. “Because Zandakar attacked Sun-dao before he could finish calling it. And he wasn't thinking of innocent Icthians. All he cared about was saving his mother and brother.”

“Thank you, Alasdair,” Rhian said softly. “That's very helpful.” All she could think was Don't weep, girl. Don't weep .

“Actually, I think it could be,” he retorted. “Shall I tell you what I think Han said to you at the harbour?”

She'd never seen him so grim. So vengeful. She couldn't bear it. I'd like to wake up now . “Please don't,” she replied. She felt encased in ice. “You've said quite enough already.”

Alasdair leaned forward, as though they were alone. “ I think he said he holds Zandakar responsible for the death of his witch-men, starting with Sun-dao! I think he said he won't help Ethrea until Zandakar is held accountable for his crimes. I think Ethrea is doomed unless you give Han what he wants !”

Uproar. Alasdair was half out of his seat now, hands braced on the council table. Ludo tried to calm him, and was roughly knocked aside. Dexterity had his head in his hands. Helfred was gaping, the dukes were spluttering.

Rhian looked only at Alasdair, feeling sick.

How could you? How could you? Do you hate him so much?

As Alasdair sat down again, Adric banged his fist on the table. “If that's the price Han's demanding, then I say we pay it! I say we give Zandakar to the Tzhung!”

“What?” said Rhian, dragging her gaze from Alasdair's cold face. “No.”

“My son's right, Majesty,” said Rudi. “That heathen Mijaki's forfeited our protection. He broke his oath. He's as good as killed Ethrea.”

Dexterity looked up. His cheeks were streaked with tears. “We can't do that, Your Grace. We can't hand Zandakar over to Emperor Han. Quite apart from the morality of it, there's his scorpion knife. Hettie sent us there to—”

“How do you know why Hettie sent you?” demanded Edward. “For all you know, she sent you to make sure Sun-dao destroyed Jatharuj! And you didn't. Maybe that's why she's deserted us, Mister Jones!”

“And the knife's no use anyway!” said Adric, vicious. “It's no match for that gauntlet. All it's good for, I'll warrant, is setting damp wood on fire.”

“We have to make peace with Tzhung-tzhungchai!” Rudi declared. “We don't stand a chance without them. You have to give them Zandakar, Your Majesty. You don't have a choice. He betrayed us, and you know it!”

“He did nothing of the sort, Rudi,” Rhian said. She felt small, and distant. “He did what any one of us would do. He tried to save his family.”

“And he's killed mine instead!” Rudi shouted, heedless of protocol. “I'll not have a bar of him, Rhian. If you won't take him to Han, I will !”

She was finding it hard to see. Hard to breathe. Hard to believe this was happening.

“Helfred?” she whispered. “What do you say?”

Like Dexterity, Helfred was weeping. “I don't know. I don't know what to say. I was convinced Marlan came to me at God's behest, that trusting Zandakar was the divine will, but now…”

“You weren't mistaken, Helfred.” She stood and looked at her council. “Wait here. Any man who touches Zandakar while I'm gone will be counted a traitor, and die a traitor's death.”

Alasdair smiled. He looked savage. “ Any man?”

“I won't be long,” she said, and turned for the door.

“Where are you going, Majesty?” Dexterity called after her.

“Where do you think? To see Emperor Han.”

A
servant answered the ringing bell at the closed gates of Ambassador Lai's residence. It was so late now – so early – that the sound woke hollow echoes up and down and around the deserted streets of the ambassadors' district. Her stallion danced on the cobbles, startled by the noise, threatening to tug the reins from her hands.

“You know who I am?” Rhian asked the Tzhung servant, who peered at her through the gates' wrought-iron bars as though he'd never seen a woman before.

He nodded. “Majesty.”

“Then admit me,” she said. “And have someone see to my horse.”

The servant stared at her for several moments, speechless, then opened the gates wide and stood back. “Majesty.”

Another servant appeared. He took her stallion, and she followed the gatekeeper into the residence.

Ambassador Lai stood in the elegant, wood-panelled foyer. If he was surprised to see her, his ruthlessly polite self-control hid his emotions to perfection. “Your Majesty.”

“I want Han,” she said baldly. “Don't tell me he's not here.”

Lai held out his hand. “Your knife, Queen Rhian.”

Without hesitation she handed it over.

“Come,” he said, and turned on his heel.

She followed his jonquil-yellow silk back from the foyer, along a series of corridors and through a set of woven bamboo doors, into a small bamboo-enclosed garden. Torches burned, shedding warm light. Hidden water splashed rhythmically, tinkling like a music box. Jasmine scented the cool, windchimed air.

Then Lai withdrew, silent and noncommittal, and she was alone with Tzhung's emperor.

Han stood in a shifting pool of torchlight, a tall, slender figure clad completely in black. His back was to her. His unbound hair reached his waist.

“I know you're angry,” she said, hands clasped behind her so tightly, they hurt. “I know you're grieving. I know—”

“ You know nothing ,” said Han.

His voice held an edge so sharp, she thought if she looked down she'd see herself bleeding.

She took the smallest step towards him. Her booted feet crushed flowers in the grass, and their voluptuous fragrance mingled with the jasmine's sweet perfume.

“I know that without Tzhung-tzhungchai and its witch-men, Ethrea stands alone against Mijak.”

Han turned. Warm light spilled over him, revealing his unsympathetic face. His eyes were disdainful. He looked ageless, like stone, and just as malleable.

“So you have come to Tzhung-tzhungchai for help?”

Was she afraid? Her mouth was dry, her palms damp with sweat. She must be afraid. Windchimes caressed the scented silence.

“Yes,” she said at last.

“Why?”

“Because I've nowhere else to turn.”

The windchimes swayed in a swift gust of air, jangling and discordant as though her words had offended. Han stared at her, dark eyes half-closed. In their depths, a hint of crimson.

“Kneel, girl-queen of Ethrea.”

She dropped to the flowered grass, hands by her sides.

“Beg.”

She tilted her chin at him. “Please. Please help me.”

He answered by taking hold of her, his fingers bruising in their strength. Before she could cry out she heard an angry roaring, felt the terrifying strength of an ice-cold raging wind.

The garden disappeared and she was somewhere else entirely. Somewhere freezing and scorching, blinding bright and black as pitch. It reeked of old blood. New death. She heard screaming in the wind.

“Han!” she shouted. “Han, where are you? Where am I? Han !”

And there he was, beside her, fingers anchored to her wrist. His lips were pressed against her ear, and their soft touch was freezing.

“You know where you are, Rhian. You've been here before. This is the twilight. This is the world where witch-men truly live!”

The twilight? No, no, that wasn't right. It wasn't like this when Han witched her to Harbisland.

“It can't be! I don't believe you!”

“You beg for my help, then call me a liar? Believe me , Rhian.” Han pulled her against him. “This is the twilight of Mijak's making. This is because Zandakar stopped Sun-dao.”

Without his hold on her wrist, or the shelter of his body, she thought the twilight's windstorm would blow her down. Blow her away. Shred her to pieces and hurl those shreds into oblivion.

“I hear screaming,” she said, refusing to let her-self look away from Han's terrible eyes. “Who's screaming?”

“My witch-men,” he told her, weeping. Who would think cold stone could weep? “My brothers.”

She wrenched free of him, burned by her own tears. “I'm sorry! I'm sorry! God's mercy, do you think I wanted this? Do you think I'm not angry? I'm angry, Han. I'm furious . You're right. If Zandakar hadn't stopped Sun-dao there'd have been no need for an armada and all those people would still be alive. Mijak would be dead, and your witch-men wouldn't be suffering like this.”

All around them, the wounded twilight writhed and howled. In the wind, Han's witch-men screamed their torment.

“Then give him to me,” Han demanded. “Give Zandakar to me and my witch-men will help Ethrea.”

She shook her head. Stepped back. “I can't .”

“You would protect him?” Han said, incredulous.

“I have to.”

“Why?”

She was shaking so hard. She wasn't sure she could remain standing for much longer. “ Because I said I would, Han . And because he's all I have left to throw against Mijak.”

“I could take him,” Han said. He was smiling like Alasdair, brutal and cruel.

She nodded. “Yes, you could. But you won't.”

On a wordless cry he seized her again. Cupped a hand to the back of her neck, fingers digging into her flesh, and dragged her to him.

A breath more pressure, and he'd break her.

And then Han howled, like the voices in the wind. The ruined twilight thrashed. It spun around her head. He pushed her away from him, hurled her to the ground…

… where she sprawled, ungainly. Stunned, she sat up. She was home again, in her castle privy garden.

Part of her was surprised to find that the council had obeyed her, and waited in the war room for her return. They stared at her, sullenly silent, as she entered the ballroom. Only Dexterity stood to greet her. And not even he could smile.

“Gentlemen,” she said, considering the rest of them. Letting her gaze skim across Alasdair. “No, really, don't get up.”

“Did you see Emperor Han, Majesty?” Dexterity asked.

He looked so miserable. Consumed by guilt. And none of this was his fault, not even Jatharuj. He was a toymaker. He never could have stopped Sun-dao from raising that storm, or Zandakar from using his scorpion knife. So did it matter, truly, that he'd not wanted the storm? That he'd agreed with Zandakar about saving Jatharuj?

He's a dear, sweet and gentle man. He always has been. How could I expect him to stand by and watch a slaughter?

“Sit down, Mister Jones,” she said. “Yes. I saw the emperor.”

“And are you going to surrender Zandakar to him?” said Dexterity, slowly taking his seat.

She shook her head. “No.”

“But he asked?” said Rudi. Like them all he was exhausted, but the dregs of belligerence remained. “He declared it the price for Tzhung-tzhungchai's help?”

God help, God help me …“No, Rudi. He didn't.”

“Didn't?” said Edward, and glanced at Alasdair, puzzled. “I thought—”

“The emperor is grieving the loss of so many witch-men,” she replied. “The armada's failure is as devastating to him as it is to us, Edward. But he knows how important Tzhung-tzhungchai is in the battle to save Ethrea. To save the world. When we need him, he will be there.” Please God, let him be there .

“And Zandakar?” said Ludo as Edward and Adric and Rudi looked at each other, and Helfred continued to ponder his prayer beads, and Dexterity tugged at his untrimmed beard.

“Zandakar is my concern,” she replied, staring at Alasdair. “You needn't fret about him.”

“But you still intend to—”

“Of course I do, Ludo!” she snapped. “Nothing that's happened diminishes his value to us. Indeed, he's now more valuable than ever. And he will continue to serve me, and serve Ethrea, however I see fit. Is that clear?”

“Majesty…” Helfred looked up. “You are our sovereign. And as your loyal subjects, we must obey you. But I beg you to consider this: Zandakar has chosen his family over Ethrea once. And what can be done once, can be done twice.”

Only Dexterity wasn't afraid of that. But she couldn't help it. She couldn't help them. She couldn't tell them Zandakar wasn't protecting Hekat and Dmitrak, but his father. This Vortka . The priest who'd promised to fight against Mijak, not for it.