Hammer Of God (49 page)

She laughed, feeling more cheerful than she had a right to, surely. And then she danced.

An hour later it was past time to stop. Soaked in sweat, purged – for good, she hoped – of self-doubt and fear, her blade sheathed again, Rhian pressed her fist to her heart in a gesture of thanks, pupil to teacher.

“The council meets tomorrow morning, Zandakar. You will be there. You are one of my councillors now, as chotzu of Ethrea. Zho?”

He nodded. “Zho, Rhian hushla.”

“What?” she said, seeing something in his eyes. Please, God, don't let him be having second thoughts. “Is something the matter?”

“I want—” He frowned. “I think you say favour.”

She considered him, wary. “Yes?”

“Wei speak of Vortka, Rhian. To council. To Alasdair king.” His hand touched his heart, as though it hurt him. “Secret, zho? Me. You. Dexterity. Secret.”

In silence she stared at him. What would it hurt? What difference would it make, if no-one else knew the Mijaki priest Vortka was Zandakar's father?

None, I'm sure. Others knowing is more likely to cause me trouble.

But did she want to keep secrets from Alasdair?

If Ludo told him something in confidence, he'd keep that secret. This is no different. This is me helping a friend.

“I can do that,” Rhian said. “You have my word.”

Zandakar nodded. It was almost a bow. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” She pulled a face. “Now I must bathe, and eat, and plan our strategy for wooing Arbenia and Harbisland. Just in case your scorpion knife fails to impress.”

They turned to leave the tiltyard…and she saw Alasdair, leaning over a railing, watching them. She felt her heart leap. He was close enough for her to see his face, but not so close that he could have heard her conversation with Zandakar. Thank God. In the torchlight he seemed calm. Composed. He didn't look angry, or jealous, or resentful.

“Go,” she said to Zandakar, in an undertone. “I'll see you here again at first light, for hotas. Zho?”

“Zho,” he replied, and withdrew swiftly. A nod to Alasdair, in passing. A nod in return, no words exchanged.

She joined her husband. “I didn't realise you were there.”

“I know,” he said. “You get so lost in your hotas.” He smiled, just a little. Affection tinged with awe…and regret. “Every time I see you dance them, it seems you're faster. Fiercer. A little further away.”

“Not so far,” she said, framed his face with her hands and kissed him, hard. “Never too far.”

His hands came up to cover hers. “My love…” He grimaced. “You stink.”

“Such a gallant king I have!” she said, pretending hurt feelings. Then she lowered her hands, sliding her fingers to grasp his. “My heart is quite o'erthrown.”

He smiled again, but his amusement swiftly faded. “You know you've missed yet another of Helfred's public Litanies? He's bound to be peeved with you.”

“Well, since I'm already peeved with him that'll make us equal, won't it?” She bit her lip. “If he dares not support me in supporting Tzhung-tzhungchai…”

“He'll support you.”

“You're sure of it?” she said, hopeful. “Have you been talking with Dexterity? Does he say Helfred—”

“He says Helfred is giving the question serious thought,” said Alasdair. “But truly, Rhian, how can our prolate not support you? After all he's witnessed, after all he's done to see you safely on the throne?”

“Trust me, Alasdair, Helfred is capable of anything. I'm the one who knows him best, remember?”

Alasdair released her hands, and rested his forearms along the top of the tiltyard railing separating them. “You were right, appointing Zandakar to lead Ethrea's army.”

“Truly? You understand?”

He nodded, not looking at her. “Yes. Of course. He's the only sensible choice.”

She searched his expression for signs he only placated her, but all she could see in him was resigned acceptance. She was relieved…yet somehow stricken. Would it be easier if he were angry? Had her choice somehow diminished him?

Please, God, let me not have diminished him. Let him not have become less than himself because he married me.

“Zandakar leads only in matters of training,” she said. “If it should fall out that Ethrea and Mijak must face each other on some single field of battle, then you'll ride out first as King of Ethrea.”

His gaze shifted. “And you'll not ride out at all? I have your word on that, Rhian?”

“Yes,” she said, reluctant. Resenting the question. Resenting the notion that she must be protected. “You have my word. Alasdair…do you still mistrust Zandakar?”

For a long time he stayed silent, his eyes shadowed. Nightbirds flew above them, their pinions creaking in the evening's hush. A scudding of clouds began to blot out the stars. There might be rain tonight, or perhaps tomorrow.

At last he shook his head. “No, I don't mistrust him. I believe he wishes Ethrea to survive.”

“You sound sad. Are you sad? Do I make you unhappy, Alasdair?”

Instead of looking into her eyes, he stared across the tiltyard, to the shadowed bulk of the castle stables. “No.”

“I think I do. I think—”

“No, you don't,” he said gently. “It's true I feel sad…but that's not your doing. Not precisely. And not on purpose, I do know that.”

She stepped back from the railing and folded her arms. “Tell me.”

He sighed. “I am your subject as well as your husband, Rhian. I might want to take the weight of this realm from your shoulders, but I can't. There are times when I can help you bear it, and I will, as best I can, but it's your burden. I understand that now.”

“You didn't, before?”

He picked at a splinter in the wooden railing, then smoothed it with the timber's grain. He was frowning, his eyes unfocused.

“My whole life I prepared to be Duke of Linfoi. Of all Ethrea's great nobles, the least. The most despised. Poor duchy Linfoi, with so little to recommend it.” He smiled. “But Linfoi was my birthright. I was proud, knowing one day I'd be its duke. And then I came to court, to represent my father on the privy council. I was befriended by Ranald…and bewitched by Ranald's sister. I knew she was, oh, so high above me, beyond dreaming, but that didn't stop me. Still, I dreamed of her. And to my astonished delight, she dreamed of me.”

“Alasdair, I—” Rhian began, then stopped as he pressed a finger to her lips.

“I dreamed I would make of a princess a duchess,” he continued. “I imagined her in the ducal manor of Linfoi, graciously presiding over my shabby dining table. Of bearing my children, a son first, of course. The next proud Duke of Linfoi. I saw her sparkling with wit and beauty, a magnificent ornament on my velvet arm at court. Duke Alasdair of Linfoi and his duchess, Rhian. A woman of education and intelligence, my helpmeet, fulfilling her duties as duchess while I, the duke, stood tall in my lowly, disregarded duchy.”

“I would happily have been that duchess,” Rhian whispered. “I never once looked down my nose at duchy Linfoi. How could I, when it's your home and you love it? It never mattered to me, that you lived a plain life. I've never been a frippery girl.” She looked down at herself, at her sweat-soaked huntsman's leathers. “I was always more than half a boy. I think Papa found it easier that way.”

“Ranald said as much. He didn't always understand you, but he was bursting proud of you. Simon, too.”

“I know. And I was proud of them, my handsome boys.”

He smoothed a strand of sweat-damp hair from her forehead. “I dreamed of making you my duchess, and instead you made of me your king. When you asked me to marry you, in Linfoi, I said yes because the thought of life without you was unbearable. But when I said yes…”

She smiled, her throat aching. “You had no inkling of what that truly meant. I know. I didn't either. I think I'm only just beginning to understand now.” She heard her voice break, felt the tightness of tears in her chest. “It's a lot more difficult than I'd ever thought it would be.”

His hands came to rest on her shoulders, and his forehead lowered to touch hers. “Yes. A lot more.”

“I'm sorry. I never meant—”

“I know,” he said, and kissed her. “Neither did I.”

Overwhelmed she clung to him despite the tiltyard railing between them. “We will survive this. We will find a way to weather this storm.”

“Which storm?” he said wryly. “Ethrea's crisis, or our own?”

“Both,” she said, and held him even tighter. “As God is my witness, Alasdair. We'll survive both.”

“Well,” he whispered. “If the Queen of Ethrea says so, who am I to disagree?”

As they walked back to the castle, the path lit by more breeze-guttered torches, Alasdair said, “This business of Han witching you to see the great trading nations' rulers. I've been giving it careful thought.”

He was frightened for her. She could hear it in his voice, not quite as steady as he doubtless imagined. She suspected she knew what he'd been thinking, but didn't say so. She owed him the courtesy of speaking first, before yet again she ignored his advice.

“Yes?”

“Ask Han to bring them here,” he said. “Don't go witching with the emperor. It's too dangerous, and we can't afford to risk losing you.”

She took his hand, and laced her fingers through his. “Can you imagine the Count of Arbenia or the Slainta of Harbisland agreeing to Tzhung-tzhungchai's emperor witching them anywhere? They never would, Alasdair, you know it.” She tightened her fingers. “And you can't go in my place, either, because—”

“I know,” he said, impatient. “I'm needed here, to work with Edward and Rudi in cobbling together our army, God help us. We've not much time, and so much to do. Still, I worry.”

She leaned into his shoulder, briefly. “I'm sorry, I don't mean to burden you, but I do have to go with Han.” She felt her heart thud. “And, Alasdair…I have to take Zandakar with me.”

“Zandakar,” he said. Though his face was warmed by torchlight, his eyes were shadowed and unreadable.

She tugged him to a halt. “Yes. Can you think of a more potent argument for an armada than the sight of his scorpion knife flaming with blue fire?”

He wasn't pleased, she could see that, but still he shook his head. “No. I can't.”

“Then he must go with me.”

“Have you told him?”

“I asked. He's agreed.” She started walking again, taking Alasdair with her. “About the army. While I made a great fuss in council, over not giving the trading nations any sovereignty here, I'm afraid—”

“I know,” he sighed. “I've been thinking about that, too. With the best will in the world, with all the enthusiasm and courage our people can muster, in truth they'll be no match for Mijak's warriors. Not even Zandakar can transform farmers into soldiers in the short time spared to us. You'll have to ask Arbenia and Harbisland, and all the rest, for archers and swordsmen to fight alongside the people of Ethrea.”

“Edward and Rudi will hate the idea,” she murmured. “God knows I hate it. It's one thing for the trading nations to keep us unmolested by infrequent pirates. But let them claim, when this is over, that without their soldiers Ethrea would be destroyed…what kind of precedent does that set? It seems we're on the brink of truly tearing up the treaty charter as it now exists. When the time comes to recreate it, will the trading nations demand more and more rights of us? Refuse to pay their tithes and tariffs? Exact a price for their assistance when in truth, by saving us they're saving themselves?”

Alasdair's arm slid round her shoulders. “I don't know, Rhian. All I know is that without them, we won't survive Mijak. But let's not run too far ahead of ourselves. Let's defeat Mijak first, however we must defeat it, and let the consequences come when they come. If we don't, all this worry will be for nothing. We'll be dead, and the kingdom enslaved.”

She couldn't fault his argument. She could only trust that in saving Ethrea, she didn't destroy it.

Returned with Alasdair to their privy apartments, she took pen and paper and scribbled a note to Han.

The Long Gallery. Tonight.

Then she wrote a second note, not quite as short, to Voolksyn of Harbisland. It was a gamble. But if the meeting with Han paid off…if he came…

The message boy she summoned took the sealed notes away, running. Afterwards, she sat in the parlour and breathed a fervent prayer.

She was tired. She was hungry. As Alasdair had said, she stank. But to Dinsy's dismay, instead of stripping off her rank huntsman's leathers and soaking in a bath before eating a hearty supper, she kissed Alasdair's cheek and made her way to the castle's Long Gallery…where she waited in solitude for Han to come.

“Rhian.”

Startled out of her doze she bounced to her feet, heart pounding and knife unsheathed in her hand.

“Han!”

His purple silk tunic and pants gleamed with a golden lustre in the gallery's candlelight. He still looked weary, but his grief for Sun-dao was well-contained.

“You summoned me,” he said, politely enough. “Why be surprised I'm here?”

“I'm not,” she said, and re-sheathed her knife. Her mouth felt woolly and her belly was grumbling, resenting its lack of food. “Are you all right?”

He raised a supercilious eyebrow. “Of course.”

“Your witch-men, Han. After what happened in Jatharuj, are they recovered?”

What little warmth there was in his eyes abruptly died. “You need not fear, Rhian. I have said my witch-men and I would help create your armada. I am the Emperor of Tzhung. My word is my word.”

Oh, men and their vaunted pride. “I'm not questioning your word, Han, I'm asking after you and your people! Tzhung-tzhungchai has received a grievous blow. You are the first of us to shed blood in this war against Mijak. You lost your brother. I feel for you. Is that so hard to believe?” She felt herself sneer. “Or is it that the feelings of this girl-child of Ethrea are vastly unimportant?”

And that stung him, just as his contempt of last night had stung her. His lips thinned, and his interlaced fingers tightened.

“Rhian, did you summon me to say again what was said mere hours ago? I doubt it. Shall we resist the urge to play games?”

“Truthfully, Han?” she said, glaring. “Right now I'm resisting the urge to slap you.”