Hammer Of God (40 page)

Surly, scowling, Dmitrak walked out. When he was gone Hekat sat, she was so weary, all her weariness she let show on her face.

“Why do you say these things, Vortka?” she whispered. “Is Dmitrak right, are you lost in the god's eye? Are you swallowed by demons? What has happened? Tell me. I would know.”

Tell her of Zandakar? Tell her of Jones? How could he? In this mood she would call him demonstruck, she would call him her enemy, she would kill him with her snakeblade.

If she kills me, who will speak for the god?

But if he said nothing, he might as well be dead.

“Demons have not swallowed me,” he said. “I speak the god's want.”

“I think you are wrong, Vortka,” she said coldly. “You were wrong in Et-Raklion, when we were young. You said I could not hide from Nagarak when Raklion warlord was at his tasking. You said Nagarak would see me, he did not see me, you were wrong.”

“I was wrong then, I am not wrong now, Hekat,” he said, his heart beating so hard. “The god does not want the blood of those ten thousand slaves. You must listen to my words, you must trust me.”

Her fingers clenched, her scarred face tightened. “I must do what my heart says! I have never been wrong. Are you an old man now, Vortka? Are you timid for the god? I do not need you old, I do not need you timid. I need you with me in the god's eye.” Her blue eyes burned with her zeal. “All our lives, Vortka, we are godchosen and precious, all our lives we listen to the god. It wants the world, Vortka, we are close. So close.”

He turned away. Close to disaster, Hekat. Can I tell you? I cannot.

She was in no mood to listen. She was headstrong, so sure of her heart. The slaves she wanted to sacrifice were not come to Jatharuj yet. He had time, some little time, to change her mind. To open her eyes. To show her how very, very wrong they both had been.

“Rest, Vortka,” said Hekat kindly. “You are weary for the god. Your weary heart plays tricks with you. Sleep, and the god will tell you its true want.”

“Yes, Hekat,” he whispered, and left her to the dark.

Despite his dreadful burning, despite draining his strength to raise that awful storm, Sun-dao wrapped them in the wind and blew them almost home to Ethrea. Four times he had to bring them back to the real world, for he was very weak, and suffering from his wounds.

Zandakar did not say yatzhay to him.

The fifth time they returned to the world it was not Sun-dao's doing. Instead of the gentle slide from otherness to sunshine or moonslight, the boat was flung out violently, like a toy tossed by a child in a tantrum. It was morning, still early, and the cool salt air echoed with Sun-dao's screaming.

Bruised and shocked, tumbled against the side of their small boat, Dexterity looked for Zandakar. The warrior was folded about the mast, groaning for air. “Zandakar! Are you hurt?”

Zandakar shook his head. “Wei. Wei.”

That was a relief. Bruised and shaken, Dexterity untangled himself and crawled to Sun-dao. The witch-man's screams were fading to thin moans, and his carmine fingernails scrabbled feebly at the deck.

Dexterity took one of his cold hands in his and held tight. “Sun-dao, Sun-dao, what's happened? What's wrong?”

“Mijak,” said Sun-dao, his one good eye open and glazed. His voice bubbled, as though his lungs were full of soapy water. “Ethrea.”

“What about them?” he said, leaning closer. The witch-man's burned face was putrid, glistening red and black, his charred cheekbone sickeningly visible. “Sun-dao! Can you hear me? What about them?”

His unburned eye bright with anguish and agony, Sun-dao stared up at him. “Ethrea. You see it?”

See it? Already? But how could that be? On the journey to Icthia, Sun-dao had returned them to the world nine times.

“Zandakar,” he said, looking up. “Are we home? Can you see Ethrea?”

Zandakar was standing at the front of the boat, shading his gaze against the unclouded sun. “I think – zho.” He pointed. “Ahead. Far away. Shadow on water.”

“There, you see?” he told Sun-dao. “We're nearly home. You can rest. You must rest.”

Sun-dao shook his head. “Mijak. Mijak.” His face twisted in a grimace, and his spine bowed his body in a terrible contortion. “The trade winds. They come. Blood, blood, blood in Mijak. My brothers have failed.” He contorted again, head to toe, his lips peeled back from his teeth in a soundless scream. “My emperor – my emperor—”

He collapsed to the deck, thick black blood gushing from his mouth.

“Sun-dao?” Dexterity whispered. “Sun-dao?”

No answer. Sun-dao's naked chest did not rise and fall. The cool salt air no longer bubbled in his lungs.

Dexterity stared at him, feeling nothing. Too much had happened, in too short a time. He was exhausted. And all he could think of was how Sun-dao had terrified him. Had hurt him, raking through his private thoughts, his precious memories, seeking proof that a toymaker was a traitor, and deserved to die.

The first time I saw Hettie. The first time we kissed. The sounds she made when I loved her. My tears when she died.

All those private moments, and more, Sun-dao had plundered. Deaf to the toymaker's denials of wrongdoing. Deaf to his misery. Heedless of his pain.

And now he's died, practically in my arms. I'm not glad, but I'm not sorry, either. Does that make me wicked? Oh dear. Oh, Hettie. I think I should be ashamed.

“Zandakar?” he said, still looking at the witch-man. Still feeling nothing. “Zandakar…Sun-dao's dead.”

Zandakar turned, looked, and shrugged. “Zho? Then we row.”

Rhian sat with Helfred in her privy chapel, not to receive Litany but because it was the only place in the castle she knew she would not be disturbed.

At least, not by councillors and courtiers and ducal messengers. Helfred, of course, is a disturbance all on his own.

He was disturbing her now, chiding her for not appearing in Kingseat's great chapel five Litanies in a row.

“I thought we had agreed, Rhian, that while we seek to establish your authority on the throne you would be visible to your people on every possible occasion,” he said severely. “First and foremost at Litany.”

Staring at the privy chapel's Living Flame, Rhian felt her belly gripe, so tight and twisted with nerves. The same dull chant sounded over and over in her mind.

They're dead. They must be dead. It's been so long now. They must be dead.

After giving Lai her pointed message for Han, that she wanted Zandakar and Dexterity immediately returned, she'd waited and waited for word from Tzhung's emperor. No word had come. He hadn't come. He could be dead too, for all she knew. Nothing but silence sounded from Tzhung-tzhungchai.

Nor had she received any response from the other trading nations, formally or informally.

They call my bluff. They dare me to create my army. They wait to see if I'll break the charter first. And if I make one move without their approval, they'll move against me. I'll be renowned in history as the queen who killed Ethrea.

Helfred slapped her knee with his prayer beads. “You're not paying attention!”

She jumped, startled. “You hit me! Don't hit me, Helfred. Have you noticed what I'm wearing? Hunting leathers. Do you happen to observe the knife strapped to my hip?”

He rattled his wretched wooden prayer beads in her face. “Don't be silly. As if you'd dance your hotas with me. Rhian, you must stop your daydreaming and listen. It's all well and good that every venerable in the kingdom speaks of you as a warrior queen, and that your name is now a byword for courage and tenacity and triumph over evil. But you must remain in the people's eye, you can't skulk in this castle for days on end.”

“Skulk?” She gaped at him. “You accuse me of skulking?” She could slap him, so easily. Goaded by outrage, she leapt to her feet and started pacing. Her thudding boot-heels on the hushed chapel's floor echoed her anger. “Helfred, I'm not skulking, I'm working. Alasdair never sees me, except in a council meeting! Every day, Helfred, every day, I wrangle with the dukes over how their garrison soldiers will be used in our Ethrean army – assuming we'll ever have one – and remind them over and over to be certain their section of Ethrea's boundary wall is secure.”

“Yes, I know,” said Helfred. “But—”

“I'm not finished!”

Helfred sat back, his lips pinched.

“I've yet to settle the question of whose House shall inherit the stewardship of Hartshorn. I still don't know if I can trust Davin of Meercheq.” Hands on her hips, fingers itching to unsheathe her knife so she could take violent refuge in her hotas, Rhian shook her head. “And if that's not enough, I'm plagued with flocks of noblemen's wives, daughters and cousins, all vying to enter my service as Ladies of the Privy Chamber when I don't need anybody else but Dinsy. And when I'm not tripping over them, I'm tripping over Ursa. She's beside herself about Dexterity and—”

Her tongue stumbled. Her heart clenched. All of a sudden it was difficult to breathe.

“I know,” said Helfred gently. “I pray for them both every hour, I promise.”

Rhian spun about and marched to the chapel's Living Flame. Stood before it, staring at its golden heart. How often had her prolate told her God holds all the answers. Well, she'd asked and she'd asked, but so far no answers were forthcoming.

“It's the not knowing I can't bear, Helfred,” she whispered, abruptly emptied of rage. She kept her back turned so he wouldn't see her face. “I just want to know where they are, one way or another.”

She'd not told him that she was sure the Tzhung had something to do with Zandakar and Dexterity. She'd not told anyone, not even Alasdair. She was frightened to think of what might happen, if her king and her privy council believed in Tzhung-tzhungchai's interference. The peace between Ethrea and the trading nations was too fragile already. One more bitter exchange would surely shatter it completely.

“What I don't understand,” said Helfred, still gentle, “is why you've so resolutely refused the council's calls for an open investigation into their whereabouts. I know you've a fondness for Zandakar, Rhian, but as a queen you don't have the luxury of personal indulgence. Stark reality now dictates you must at least entertain the idea that—”

“I heard a voice, Helfred,” she said, bracing herself for ridicule. “The night Ursa reported them missing. It told me to have faith, that I'd not been betrayed. I trusted it. I'd heard it before, and it was right. I believed – I wanted to believe – that it was right again. I thought that if I raised a public outcry over their disappearance I'd do more harm than good. I thought—” She shook her head, sighing. “It doesn't matter. I don't expect you to understand.”

A dull swishing of plain wool robes behind her as Helfred stood. “But I do understand. I once heard a voice too, Rhian. In Old Scooton. When I was praying for Ven'Martin's poor soul. It gave me the courage to face Marlan that last time.”

She turned. “You heard a voice?”

“Yes.”

“Was it – was it—” She swallowed. “Helfred, was it God?”

“To this day I don't know,” he said. “But if not God himself, then I think it was certainly godsent.”

“And you think the voice I heard was godsent, too?”

He shrugged. “What do you think?”

Rhian felt the chapel's cool air catch in her throat. Felt fresh sweat slick the skin beneath her leathers. Everything hurt. “I don't know what to think. I want to believe. I want to have faith. But why wasn't I told anything more than that? Why wasn't I told where they are, what's happened to them? How long am I expected to wait like this, not knowing?”

“I don't know,” said Helfred, troubled. “God's purposes and our own are often at odds.”

“Well, that's reassuring,” she snapped. “I feel much better now!”

Helfred frowned. “There's no need to be sarcastic. All I meant was that we're not always made privy to the intricacies of God's plan. That would be where faith comes in.”

Almost, she poked her tongue at him. “Now who's being sarcastic?”

“Rhian—” Helfred took a deep, self-controlling breath. “I pretend no special insights, but surely Mister Jones and Zandakar must still be somewhere in Ethrea. If someone had tried to steal them away on a boat they'd have been discovered. The harbour-master and his people inspect every vessel.”

They inspected every ordinary trading vessel, yes. But she feared Han and his witch-men would laugh at anything so prosaic as an inspection. Not that she could say so to Helfred. Hoping against hope that Han truly was the friend he'd claimed to be, she'd also kept silent about his witching powers…and the longer she stayed silent the harder it became to say anything at all.

Staring again at the serene Living Flame, Rhian folded her arms and held on tight, so cold inside even though the chapel was warm. “And what if they are still somewhere in Ethrea?” she said. “Does that mean I'm not to fear for them? What else can I do but fear for them, Helfred? If God were able to banish evil from the world there'd be no Mijak, would there? There'd be no need for miracles and armadas.”

“Alas, that's true,” Helfred admitted. “Though it breaks my heart to say so.”

She shook her head. “And that's all that breaks your heart? I envy you. I'm so disheartened now I scarce know which way to turn.”

“For shame, Rhian,” he said sternly, prosing Helfred again. “I know this is hard, that in these times faith seems no more substantial than smoke. But you must believe in the rightness of your cause.”

“Really? And what does my belief achieve if nobody else believes with me? Aside from Emperor Han and poor Athnïj, no trading nation will take the threat of Mijak seriously. Nothing I say to them makes any difference, they're so meshed in their fears and suspicions, their old enmities and private dealings. I tell you, Helfred, God must've been wrong. I can't be the one to lead the fight against Mijak. Not with so little progress made.”

“No,” said Helfred, fingering his prayer beads. “God can't be wrong.”

“Oh, I think he can, Helfred,” she retorted. “Mijak is out there, like a – a – wolf concealed in the undergrowth, biding its time. And we're the unprotected sheep. Mijak can tear out Ethrea's throat whenever it likes. And I'm supposed to stop it? I'm supposed to defeat Zandakar's mother, and his brother and their thousands of warriors who've devoted their whole lives to killing? With no real army, no armada, no allies, no idea? What was God thinking, Helfred, deciding I be in charge?”

“You mustn't question God's plan, Rhian,” said Helfred, scandalised. “All things fall out as the divine will intends.”

Oh, Helfred. So pompous, so pious – she really could slap him. “Really? Is that so?” she demanded, scathing. “Well, it's nice you can think it. Forgive me if I'm less sanguine. Forgive me if my faith falters when all around me I see failure and ruin.”

“Failure and ruin?” Helfred echoed. “Rhian, that's not so. God has not deserted you, God will never desert you. He will aid you—”

“When?” she retorted. “When do you suppose God intends to show me how I can make the trading nations listen? When will he show me how I'm meant to defeat this monstrous army of warriors who might at any moment leap from concealment and tear my kingdom apart? When will he speak to the ambassadors and convince them to follow me? Tell me, Helfred, when will God take care of that?”

Rattle, rattle, rattle went Helfred's wooden prayer beads. “Rhian, remember where we are. This is God's sacred house. You must speak more temperately beneath his roof. I tell you straightly, your tone is far amiss.”

Her tone was amiss? Dear God, it was restrained. “If I'm a trifle short-tempered, Helfred, you can put it down to lack of restful sleep. I can't pass a single night without dreaming of Mijak. What Dexterity told us of Garabatsas plays over and over in my mind, but it's not some place I've never seen before that's burning. It's Kingseat. It's Ethrea. I'm lost in my own kingdom and everywhere I look I see death and destruction. I see Alasdair and Ludo, I see you, charred to pieces. I'm wading in blood to my knees and then my hips. In the end the blood closes over my head and I'm drowning, Helfred. I'm drowning in scarlet. And while I'm drowning…while I'm dying…I hear the cries of my people, all the innocents I couldn't save.”

Trembling, close to the humiliation of tears, she pressed a hand across her mouth and turned away from Helfred's horrified stare, unable to stomach the pity in his eyes.

“Oh, Rhian,” he whispered.

She heard a softer rattle as he tucked his prayer beads into his belt. The rasp of his roughspun robe, the slap of his leather sandals on the chapel's stone floor, as he came close behind her. His hand rested on her leather-clad shoulder, lending her his strength.

If anyone had told me scant months ago that Helfred's touch could give me heart, I'd have laughed in their face.

“It's true these are bleak times, Majesty,” he said. “Times to try us to the depth of our souls. But Ethrea has stood on the brink before, and it survived.”

Spine and legs aching with the effort of not slumping to the chapel floor, Rhian shook her head. “No. This is different. Ethrea has never faced a danger like this. Nor has the world.”

“Nevertheless,” said Helfred. “It will survive. It has you.”

She shrugged his hand free of her. “Oh, Helfred, the world needs more than me! It had more than me, when it had Dexterity and – and—” Zandakar. Zandakar. “Now they're gone and it seems the world rests upon a three-legged stool with only one leg remaining. Survive, you say? How can it survive? It must tumble to destruction, surely, with only me to rest on!”

“Rhian, you sink so deep into melancholy you're blinded to those around you,” said Helfred. He sounded stern again. “You have your dukes, who support you. And God has given you Alasdair, a loving husband and worthy king, who will fight at your side till the last drop of his blood is spilled. A man of Ethrea, no heathen foreigner, who can be trusted to safeguard your crown.”

His sharp words were a rebuke. He was rebuking her, as though she'd somehow been – been unfaithful. She felt a sting of anger.

He should mind his tongue. I haven't dishonoured my marriage. I've done nothing wrong. Worrying for someone's safety is hardly a sin.

But there was no use arguing the point with Helfred. For one thing she was too weary, and for another he was proving a champion at the splitting of hairs.

“Yes, Helfred. I know. I am blessed in Alasdair, and I—”

A gust of wind. A sudden chill. Emperor Han stood in the chapel.

“God have mercy!” Helfred gasped.

Han looked dreadful. As though the lightest blow from a feather would shatter his bones. Dark eyes sunken, long black hair disordered, green silk tunic crumpled. He looked like a sick vagabond, not the supreme ruler of millions.

“My witch-men are broken, Majesty.” His voice was faint, as though speaking taxed him to his limits. “The trade winds return.”

“Rhian, what is this?” demanded Helfred. “Where did he – how did he – and why aren't you surprised?”

“Oh, hush a moment, Helfred,” she said impatiently. “Can't you see the emperor's distressed?”

Going to Han, she took him by the elbow and guided him to the nearest pew. Helped him to sit down. He seemed hardly aware that she touched him, that he moved. Even through his silk sleeve she could feel the heat in him, as though a bonfire burned beneath his skin.

Just when I thought our fortunes had ebbed to their lowest…

She dropped to a crouch, leathers creaking, and looked up into the emperor's drawn face. “What do you mean broken, Han? Not – not dead?”

He nodded slowly, his eyes glazed. Almost confused. “Many are dead, yes. Many more are sundered. They are scattered on the wind. Lost…lost…”