Hammer Of God (50 page)

To her surprise, he laughed. “Not a breathing soul in my empire would dare say that to my face.”

“In case you'd forgotten, we're not in your empire,” she pointed out, waving a hand at the candlelit Long Gallery. “We're attempting to prevent your empire from becoming part of Mijak's empire.”

His amusement faded. “I have answered your curt summons, Rhian. Why am I here?”

She cleared her throat, feeling a touch of warmth in her cheeks. “I do realise the note was…peremptory. I was trying to be cryptic.”

“Oh, you were,” Han assured her. “Also rude.”

Vexed, she chewed at her lip. Don't bite, don't bite, you need this man. “I apologise.”

“And I will hear you out,” said Han. “Provided it doesn't take all night.”

So much for the pleasantries. “I want to go to Arbenia and Harbisland tomorrow,” she said. “Around ten of the clock, after I've met with my council. And I want Zandakar to come with me. Are you strong enough to take us there so soon after Jatharuj?”

Han raised an eyebrow. “Arbenia and Harbisland are but two trading nations, Rhian. You will need warships from everywhere if this armada is to have any hope of success. Do you expect me to witch you all over the world?”

“No,” she replied. “After the Tzhung, Arbenia and Harbisland are the only two nations that count. Haisun answers to you. The other lesser trading nations answer to them. Once their loyalties are captured, all loyalties are captured. And in truth, Han, we need only convince one of your equals to join us.”

“Equals?” He sounded offended.

She frowned. “You know what I mean.”

“Which one?”

“Harbisland,” she said promptly. “Though Ambassador Voolksyn's not made us a single commitment, he has always been the most prepared to listen. If we can convince his Slainta that it's Mijak that should be feared, not Tzhung-tzhungchai or Rhian of Ethrea, the Count of Arbenia will meekly follow. He won't dare look a coward in front of the Slainta, or see himself left out of a chance to pillage spoils, after.”

“Really?” said Han. “You sound very confident.”

She tilted her chin at him. “I am.”

That made him laugh again. “Liar. You're terrified.”

He could read her so easily. “All right. Yes,” she said, defiant. “I'm terrified. But so are you.”

Her chance shot found its mark. Han blinked. His lustrous purple silk tunic shimmered as he took a deep breath, and let it out.

“It's true, Rhian of Ethrea,” he said, his voice low. His eyes were haunted. “I am indeed afraid. For the wind has blown me visions. It has shown me what lies in store for the world if we fail against Mijak.”

Rhian swallowed, hard. “Then we won't fail.”

“So young,” he murmured. “So sure of victory.”

“Would you rather I weep and wail like a child lost in the markets? Somehow I doubt it. Now, if you'd be so good as to answer my original question?”

“Am I capable of keeping my word to you?” said Han, coldly haughty. “Yes. I am. Tomorrow I'll take you and your Zandakar to Harbisland, and Arbenia. And if you succeed in winning the slainta and the count and the lesser trading nations to your desperate cause, my witch-men will bring their ships to your harbour. They will bring the ships of Tzhung-tzhungchai also, they'll sail with you into battle against Mijak.” A muscle leapt along his lean jaw. “And when they do, Sun-dao won't be the last of us to die.”

“Thank you, Han.” Treading softly, Rhian closed the distance between them, and rested her clenched fist gently on his chest. “The Queen of Ethrea won't forget Tzhung-tzhungchai's greatest emperor.”

Han smiled. Snapped his fingers. In a gust of wind he stepped back…and disappeared.

Relieved and exhausted, she returned to Alasdair in their privy apartments.

“Han agreed?” he asked, pulling off her boots.

“He agreed,” she said, breathing the rich aroma of gravied beef and buttered pumpkin. “And I begin to believe we might stand a chance.”

Alasdair paused, his warm hand on her ankle. “You didn't before?”

“Let's eat,” she suggested. “Before I faint from hunger.”

Helfred was disappointed, but not truly surprised, when Rhian and Alasdair failed to appear in Kingseat's great chapel for Litany. He had to make do with the presence of Dukes Edward, Rudi and Ludo. Adric was absent too, and must be scolded for it, for only once had he bothered to take his place in the pews reserved for Ethrea's privy council.

And then, of course, there was Mister Jones. Dexterity. God's most unlikely messenger. Rumpled and threadbare, he sat with Ursa in the privy pews, lightly frowning, listening as the prolate he'd anointed sang Rhian's praises, again. Thanked God for Ethrea's courage, again. Cultivated the seeds of readiness for danger, again.

Surely I must sing a different song, soon. Soon my dear people must be woken from their dreams of safety.

Thinking of it broke his heart. The pain of his own waking hadn't passed. He felt it still, the loss of his innocence. The anger, the disbelief, the slow crushing acceptance, that God could not protect them from everything. That the world was vaster and stranger and more cruel than he'd ever suspected.

Murdering priests of Mijak. Sorcerous witch-men of Tzhung-tzhungchai. Even Dexterity, bursting into flames. Only scant months ago my life was so ordered. And now it's in disarray. It lies in pieces around me.

As the choristers' sweet voices soared to the chapel's rafters, he stared at his beautiful bound copy of Rollin's Admonitions, open before him on the pulpit. Admonition 24 leapt to his eye.

The past lies behind us. The future is unwritten. Do not cling to the past, for it is an anchor. Do not fear the future, for fear kills hope and blinds us to possibilities.

A timely reminder, perhaps. Was he indeed allowing fear to kill his hope, to blind him? Was his fear of the unknown, of Zandakar and the witch-men's strange powers, preventing him from seeing they were indeed Godsent, as Dexterity claimed?

He didn't know. He didn't know. And that was the worst part. He was being asked for a leap of faith…when he'd never had to leap before.

Behind him, Ven'Thomas cleared his throat suggestively. Looking up, Helfred realised the choristers had finished their final hymn and the congregation was staring at him, curious.

“Ah,” he said, uncomfortably aware he'd turned an unbecoming pink. “Thus is concluded our service this evening. God's blessings upon you, and the peace of Rollin. Pray for our brave queen, her stalwart husband, and our realm's privy council, charged with the most grave duty of its protection.”

And so another Litany was ended.

Afterwards, once he'd spoken with his congregation as they left the chapel, and favoured Dexterity with a solemn smile, he returned to the castle and his own privy chapel. He needed solitude again. A chance to clear his mind and open his heart in the hope that a final answer to his fears would come.

Heedless of bruised knees, he knelt on the cold chapel floor and stared into the heart of God's Living Flame. Stared with his own heart open, his mind emptied of fears and thoughts, waiting, waiting, for the truth to be revealed. The chapel's silence was profound. All he could hear was his breathing, and the soothing, monotonous rattle of his wooden prayer beads, click-click-clicking between his restless fingers. His vision blurred. His breathing slowed. One by one, his prayer beads clicked to a stop.

A hesitant hand pressed on his shoulder. A voice said, “Helfred. Helfred, turn round.”

Stirring out of his trance-like daze, he turned. And shrieked. And fell over.

It was his dead uncle, Marlan. The former Prolate of Ethrea.

“Helfred, Helfred,” said his uncle, hands uplifted, palms out. “Do not be afraid. I've not come to harm you.”

Choking with fright, Helfred scuttled backwards on his rump till his spine struck the chapel altar. The last time he'd seen Marlan, his uncle was going up in flames. Before that hideous moment there'd been cruelty and violence. Depravity. Sin. Marlan had ordered Kingseat's soldiers to kill Rhian.

“This isn't possible,” he whispered. “I'm dreaming, I must be.”

“Rather call it a vision,” said Marlan. “An answer to your prayers, nephew.” His austere face softened into a diffident smile. “Or should I say, Your Eminence?”

Helfred smeared a hand across his face. His heart thundered so loudly he was afraid it would burst. “Helfred,” he panted. “Call me Helfred…if you're real.”

“Real enough,” said Marlan, shrugging. “And only come for a short time.”

Calming a little, Helfred was able to see more than Marlan's unburned face. Was able to take in the extraordinary fact that his immaculate, magnificent proletary uncle was dressed in a penitent's shift, a simple unadorned tunic of undyed linen, ragged about neckline, hem and sleeves. His feet were shod in a pair of simple leather sandals, his fingers bare of rings, his chest without ropes of gold and jewelled medallions. He looked more humble than a chaplain. More insignificant than a novice devout.

“I see from your face that I am greatly different,” said Marlan, softly.

Well, yes, uncle. The last time I saw you, you were burned to a crisp. “Ah – you seem to me less angry,” Helfred ventured. “Have you found peace at last? Have you rediscovered God?”

Marlan released a slow, heavy sigh. “Nephew, how could I rediscover what I never before knew? Alas, I was a venal man. Proud and sinful and steeped in malice. My God was wealth and power. I worshipped myself. Now I strive to undo the wrongs I have done. To make amends for the pain I caused.”

“Uncle…” Helfred swallowed. His mouth was so dry. “Please. Tell me. Have you seen God?”

Marlan laughed. Had he ever laughed like that before? Without cruelty, without sarcasm, with genuine joy? Helfred couldn't remember it.

“Nephew,” said his uncle, “it's not given to me that I can answer such a question, or reveal the truths of what lies beyond life. Every man will make that journey, and his discoveries, in his time.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To give you the answer to your prayers, Helfred,” said Marlan. “I'm here to tell you the toymaker is right. The witch-men of Tzhung-tzhungchai commit no sins. At least, not the kind of sins you're worried about.”

“You mean it's safe to trust them?”

“They do not serve the dark power of Mijak. Neither does Zandakar. And both are needed if Ethrea is to prevail.”

Helfred wiped his sweat-slicked palms down the front of his chaplain's robes. Who could ever have thought he'd feel well-dressed, next to Marlan?

“And will we prevail, uncle? Will Mijak be defeated?”

Marlan sighed again, so sorrowful. “Remember Rollin's admonition, nephew. The future is un-written.”

“You mean you don't know?” he cried, anguished. “God doesn't know?”

“How can God know?” Marlan chided. “When men have free will to do as they please?”

Well, this wasn't the answer he'd been seeking. He wanted certainty, he wanted assurance, he wanted to know Ethrea would survive and that Mijak, defeated, would be driven from the world.

“Alas,” said Marlan. “The future is unwritten.”

Helfred groped to his feet. “At least tell me there's hope, uncle. Tell me we won't be fighting in vain.”

Marlan smiled then, so sweetly. He seemed another man entirely. “There is always hope, Helfred. Know that, and believe it. There is always hope.”

A breeze sighed through the chapel…and Marlan was gone.

“Uncle?” said Helfred tentatively, into the silence. “Uncle, are you still here?”

No reply. He turned to stare at his chapel's Living Flame. “Did that just happen, God, or was I truly dreaming?”

The Flame burned serenely, keeping its secrets.

Helfred wandered out of his chapel and accosted the first novice he found. It was young Norbert, polishing a section of wooden staircase handrail for a penance.

“Norbert!”

The novice dropped his cloth and tin of beeswax. “Your Eminence!” he gasped, plunging to his knees.

“Norbert, am I awake?”

Norbert's mouth shaped itself into a small circle of surprise. “Ah…yes, Your Eminence, you're awake.”

Helfred sighed. “I suspected as much.”

He returned to his privy chapel and lowered himself onto its solitary pew. His hands were still trembling.

Well, I asked for an answer to my prayers, and I received one. I just never expected it to be delivered in person.

Should he go to Rhian and tell her of Marlan's message? It wasn't so very late, doubtless she'd still be awake. And he knew full well how distressed he'd made her in council, refusing to support Zandakar and Han's witch-men as allies.

On the other hand, the poor girl needed her rest. He'd tell her in the morning. His night would be better spent in prayer. He slid off the pew and once more to his knees, humble before the Living Flame, determined to pray until the sun rose again.

Before meeting with her privy council the next morning, Rhian dressed in a duplicate set of the black leather doublet, leggings and low boots, now ruined, that she'd worn to slay the dukes Damwin and Kyrin. She wore a single dragon-eye ruby on a chain, and her simple gold circlet. Once again, her curling hair was cut close. Ranald's tigereye knife was sheathed at her hip. Staring at herself in her mirror, she nodded.

See me, gentlemen. See me, world. I am Rhian of House Havrell, Queen of Ethrea. Chosen by God to defend the innocent, and the free.

Alasdair's eyes warmed when she joined him in their parlour. “My love, you are formidable.”

“Yes, Alasdair,” she said, unsmiling. “I am.”

Together they walked to the privy council chamber, scattering courtiers and servants before them like chaff.

He looked at her sidelong, curious. “You're different. It's not just that you've shorn yourself again. It's something else. Something…inward. What's changed?”

She shrugged. “I believe.”

“In our cause?” he said, bemused.

The hotas she'd danced with Zandakar at first light had been fierce. Fiercer than any she'd danced before. She'd danced as though her life depended on it, as though Zandakar were a true enemy of Ethrea. Dancing without mercy he'd pushed her, pursued her, demanded from her the kind of speed and agility and ferocity she hadn't known she possessed. As though all the hotas she'd danced until that moment were nothing more than slow training exercises, designed to bring her to this pitch.

And somewhere in that dancing she had seen herself through his eyes. Through his belief. She saw herself through God's eyes…and knew her time had come.

Now she smiled. “In me.”

The council, warned of her approach, was on its feet as she entered the chamber. Zandakar was there, and Dexterity. They stood together, comfortable with each other as the others were not. Such an unlikely pair, they were: Zandakar tall and dark, his unbound blue hair eerie, dressed in sober Ethrean linen and wool. Dexterity short and rumpled, his beard unkempt and his shabby coat with a darn in one elbow. And yet both men were men of strange powers. Sent by God to aid her.

Sweet Rollin, my life is grown monstrous strange.

“Gentlemen!” she said briskly, striding through the open doorway. “Be seated. I shan't keep you long, I know you have much to do. Helfred—”

He hesitated halfway to sitting. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

As she took her chair, and Alasdair took his, and the guards outside the chamber pulled its doors closed, she fixed her former chaplain with a cool stare. “You've had sufficient time, I think, to consider your position. I must have your answer regarding Zandakar and Tzhung-tzhungchai.”

And if it's the wrong answer, then God help you. God help us all.

But if she was different this morning, then so was her prolate. The anguish in Helfred's eyes was vanished, his pallor replaced by robust colour. Yesterday, in his protests, though young he'd seemed an old man. Now his movements were vigorous, his voice energetic.

“I have indeed considered, Majesty,” he replied, sitting all the way down. “And reached a decision, moreover, in light of the counsel I received.”

She resisted looking at Dexterity. “I know Mister Jones sought you out on the matter, Prolate. In case you're inclined to feel critical of his interference, you should know I asked him to.”

“I did suspect as much,” said Helfred, dryly. “And Mister Jones was, as always, your stalwart champion. But he wasn't my only visitor.” He plucked his prayer beads from his belt and began his familiar, infuriating fiddling, click-click-clicking them through his busy fingers. “Someone else desired to speak with me on this important matter.”

Rhian gritted her teeth, fighting the urge to snatch the beads from him and do something horrendous…like make him swallow them one by one.

“Well, whoever it was, Prolate, I didn't send him. Or her. Please, would you just—”

“I know you didn't, Majesty,” said Helfred. “God sent him. It was Marlan.”

Silence in the privy council chamber. Rhian looked to Dexterity, who gaped like a fish. The rest of her council was equally stunned. Even Alasdair seemed shaken. Even Zandakar seemed unnerved.

“Marlan?” she said at last, feeling sweat slick her skin beneath her supple new leathers. “Surely not, Helfred. Perhaps it was a dream.”

“You mean a nightmare,” grunted Edward. “That wicked man?”

Helfred's expression tightened. “Wicked in life he was, Your Grace, I cannot deny it. But he makes amends now. I'll thank you to say no more on that.”

At the far end of the table, Dexterity cleared his throat. “He seemed…well?” he asked, diffident. Almost hopeful.

“Well enough,” said Helfred. “Considering. He came to tell me I was wrong to doubt Zandakar and the witch-men of Tzhung-tzhungchai.”

Though it was not yet noon, Rhian wished devoutly for a goblet of strong wine. Marlan, my champion? That can't be true.

Rudi stirred in his chair, glowering. “Then I contend we have a problem, Your Majesty. For Marlan was a villainous piece of work, bent on your destruction. If indeed he appeared to Prolate Helfred, we can't trust a word he said.”

She pushed to her feet and glared at her muttering council. “Enough. Zandakar and Han are not my enemies. Prevarication is my enemy. Shilly-shallying and indecision, these are my enemies. Can it be that you, gentlemen, like the ambassadors, continue to hope this threat we face is exaggerated? That we have the luxury of more debate, more denial, more time? We don't.”