Hammer Of God (61 page)

Yuma…Yuma…please, listen to Vortka. Listen to Vortka before your godspark is devoured.

His chamber door opened. Rhian walked in, she was pale, she was exhausted. Her beautiful eyes blazed bright blue with anger.

“The armada was defeated,” she said, and kicked the door shut. “Six hundred and thirty-seven ships sailed out of my harbour. Only two hundred and ten sailed back. Ebrich of Arbenia is dead. Dalsyn of Harbisland is dead. Rollin's mercy, the only leader of a trading nation not to perish is Han.”

Slowly, he stood. “Alasdair king?”

“He survived,” she said. “So did Ludo. But all the trading nations have deserted us. Our alliance is dead, too.”

“Tzhung-tzhungchai?” he whispered. “Emperor Han?”

“Emperor Han wants your head on a pikestaff! He wants to spit your heart on a fork and roast it! Hundreds of his witch-men perished. Tzhung-tzhungchai is brought to its knees.”

Rhian was so angry, she was weeping. Did she know it? He thought she did not. “Will Emperor Han help Ethrea against Mijak?”

She roamed about the chamber. “He says he will – if I give him what he wants.”

He sighed. “Does Alasdair king say for you to give me to Han?”

She flicked a hot glance at him, still pacing. “What do you think? Practically the whole council says it, Zandakar. They know everything about Jatharuj, now. Alasdair told them. Believe me, you are not a popular man. But what happens to you isn't up to the dukes. It's not up to Alasdair. I decide what happens to you. And what I decide decides the fate of this kingdom.”

His heart was hurting, it hurt to breathe. Alasdair king had told the dukes of Jatharuj? Aieee, the god see him. He was not in Jatharuj alone. “Dexterity. Do the dukes blame him for the armada?”

“Not as much as they blame you,” she said. Then she pulled a face, her angry eyes gentled. “He blames himself. He's wondering now if he was right, in Jatharuj. Are you wondering, Zandakar? Do you blame yourself?”

He pressed his fist to his chest. “I am sorry so many armada ships died. Yatzhay. Yatzhay.”

She stared, the gentleness gone from her eyes. “There can be no repeat of Jatharuj, Zandakar. You serve me. You serve Ethrea. You serve no-one else. Zho?”

How could he tell her the truth in his heart? How could he make her understand about demons? If he told her he wanted to save Yuma and Dimmi, she would not believe that meant he would still fight for Ethrea. She would think he betrayed her. She would give him to Han.

If she gives me to Han, I will never save Yuma. I will never save Dimmi. I will never see Vortka again.

“I will fight for you, Rhian,” he said. “I will fight for Ethrea.”

That is not a lie.

“You'd better,” she said, there was no laughter in her. This was not the Rhian who danced hotas in the morning. “Because if you don't…if you don't…I swear to you on the graves of my family, I'll give you to Han. And when he kills you…I'll cheer.”

She was not Lilit. She did not love him even though he had sinned. She was Yuma for her people. If he failed her, he would die.

As her hand touched his chamber door's handle, she turned. “There's a council meeting at nine. Be there.”

“Zho,” he said. “Rhian hushla.”

“Jones,” said Ursa, staring at the fool's closed chamber door. “Jones, you might as well let me in, for I'm not leaving until I've seen you.” She knocked again. “Jones!”

A passing servant slowed, and stared.

“He's a heavy sleeper,” Ursa explained. “Don't mind me.”

The servant blushed and nodded. “Madam physick,” he muttered, and went on his way.

The door's latch and handle rattled, then it pulled open a reluctant half-handsbreadth. “I don't need physicking, Ursa. Go and bother someone who does.”

“Tcha,” she said, and pushed hard on the door.

“Ursa,” Jones protested, falling back. “Why don't you ever listen to me?”

“I could ask the same question of you, Jones,” she retorted. “As I recall, I told you not to get mixed up in any of this. Dead wives and slave ships and heathen warriors and didn't I say it would all end in tears?”

Jones shrugged, his eyes red-rimmed, his face too pale. “Did you? Well, it always cheers you up to be proven right.”

He turned away to stare out of his chamber window at the dawn, shoulders slumped, hands dangling defeated at his side. She'd never been a demonstrative woman, but it was hard not to go to him. Not to show him…

“You've heard about the armada, of course,” he said, then grimaced. “I expect half of Ethrea's heard by now.”

She was as tired as he looked. She'd not been to bed yet. “I heard. I've been up all night physicking the sailors who came back.”

That turned him round. “Are there many sore hurt, Ursa? Are any like to die?”

“A dozen, maybe,” she admitted. “A score not dying, but poorly enough. Another score you'd call the walking wounded. None of them witch-men. They've all vanished, it seems.”

“I think for good,” he said, “though Rhian denies it. The emperor wants Zandakar, in payment for his losses.”

“Blood for blood?” She snorted. “That's civilised, I must say. Rhian's not—”

“No, no. She defends him, like always. It's caused trouble between her and Alasdair. He and Duke Ludo…they're hurt by what happened with the armada.” He shuddered. “What they must've seen. I can't bear to think of it. And the council's siding with them. They want her to hand Zandakar over. They don't trust him any more – or me – because of Jatharuj. Because we didn't – we didn't—”

She stared, shocked, as Jones dropped to his bed like an old man not strong enough to stand on his own two feet. She knew about Sun-dao and Zandakar because he'd told her, but—

“You said that part of what happened in Jatharuj was being kept secret.”

“It was,” he said. “But Alasdair was angry. Duke Edward says Hettie's abandoned me because I didn't help destroy Mijak when I had the chance.”

She'd not seen him so desolate since the night Hettie died. “That old fool? That blustery duke? Oh, Jones, what would he know?”

“I was so certain Jatharuj was about the knife. And about finding Vortka. What if I was wrong, Ursa? What if I've been wrong about everything?”

“You haven't,” she said fiercely. “You've been proven right every step of the way. Not right at once, maybe, but in the end, you've been right. And Hettie would never abandon you. Something's keeping her from you. Whatever evil that's in Mijak, that's what's keeping you apart.”

“You think so?” he said, his voice unsteady. “It's not because I've let her down?”

“Let her down? Oh, Jones! You couldn't let Hettie down if you tried! You couldn't let anyone down. It's not in you.” She sat beside him, and gave him a little shake. “Stop blathering nonsense. When did you last eat? You've gone light-headed for lack of food.”

“I think my appetite died with the armada,” he whispered. “Oh, Ursa. Mijak's coming. What are we to do?”

“The only thing we can do, Jones. Hold fast to our faith, and to each other.”

He pulled away from her and pushed off the bed. “I don't think that's going to be enough. I think we're about to become another Garabatsas.”

“You don't know that, Jones,” she protested. “What are you doing? Are you giving up? You can't give up. Rhian's relying on you. A lot of people are relying on you.” And Rollin's mercy, I'm one of them. “Jones—”

“Ursa, please. Just go. I know you mean well, I know you think you're helping. But you're not. At least you are, but—” He shook his head. “I'm sorry. I'm not fit for company.”

She stood, not sure whether to be insulted or frightened. “This isn't good, Jones. I'm speaking as a physick now, not as your friend. Brooding, blaming yourself, it's not good. I don't like it.”

He offered her the travesty of a smile. “Don't worry. I'll be fine. I just…need some breakfast. You go. Get some rest. After last night, you've earned it.”

She'd only upset him more if she insisted on staying.

Troubled, she left him. But instead of seeking her bed in the castle chamber given over to her use, she trudged her way to Helfred's palace and sat in the small public chapel, praying.

Hettie, if you can hear me, you'd best get back here. Now.

Rhian and Alasdair shared a bed after the night's long, fraught council meeting, but they were as distant as though he still sailed with the armada.

He didn't sing in the morning. He didn't speak. He didn't smile.

Dressing in silence, heartsick and dreading the council meeting to come, Rhian stared in the mirror at her scarred face.

Now my marriage is a battlefield, just like my kingdom. And in supporting Zandakar to save one, I might easily destroy the other.

As they left their apartments to meet with the council she lightly touched her husband's arm. “Alasdair. I love you.” You, not Zandakar.

He'd not slept well. Nightmares of the armada. Awake beside him she'd tried to give him her comfort, but even in his dreams he turned away. Now he sighed.

“If you love me, don't defend him. Don't use him. Don't trust him with this kingdom. With my life.”

“How can you ask me that? You know what Hettie told Dexterity, when this began. You know—”

“All I know, Rhian, is that you'll trust a dead woman and an enemy before you'll trust me.” He opened the parlour door, and stepped aside. “Shall we go? The council's waiting.”

Her dukes were subdued when they greeted her. So was Helfred. Dexterity looked ravaged. Their eyes met, and he tried to smile.

“Gentlemen,” she said coolly as Alasdair took his seat. “Where is Zandakar? Mister Jones—”

And then he joined them. Fresh from the tiltyard, dressed in dust and sweat and battered huntsman's leathers. Decorated here and there with blood. “I am sorry, Rhian hushla,” he said, so self-contained. “I was training.”

“So I see,” she said, and did not smile to see him. “Be seated. We have a great deal to discuss.”

If he felt the weight of the staring dukes' displea-sure, he didn't show it. Sliding into a chair, he looked at Dexterity, his pale eyes worried. He nodded at Helfred. He nodded at Alasdair, and pressed his fist to his chest.

“Alasdair king.”

Alasdair looked him up and down. “Zandakar.”

This morning she was too weary for pacing. Taking her own seat, glancing at Ven'Cedwin to see if his quill was inked, she folded her hands on the table and sighed.

“Some four weeks, gentlemen, and Mijak will be here. Now we decide how best to pass the time.”

The meeting lasted seven hours. Prompted by Dexterity, she invited Zandakar to share his opinions of Kingseat harbour. Its vulnerability. How he thought his mother and brother would attack. How Ethrea could defend against them. What more training its soldiers required. How best to use their limited resources.

He spoke slowly. Steadily. His newfound fluency failed him, sometimes, but still he made his points. Gradually the hostility of her dukes subsided, and they began to care more for what was being said than who was saying it. Even Alasdair lowered his prickly guard. They argued. They compromised. They made difficult decisions.

The last, most difficult decision taken before the council broke for a brief respite was to count Linfoi as lost before Mijak reached it. They could not justify the resources it would take to defend Ethrea's least populous and poorest duchy. Its people would be sent south, its livestock left to fend for themselves. Its garrison's soldiers would be sent wherever they were needed.

“I'm sorry, Ludo,” said Rhian as the council took a brief break from deliberations. “I hope you understand I've not chosen this course because I hold duchy Linfoi in any low esteem.”

Ludo shook his head. “Of course not, Majesty. I can't fault your reasoning.”

She glanced over at Alasdair, nursing a goblet of ale by the chamber window, alone. “I'm not sure your cousin agrees with you.”

“He does,” said Ludo. “But still…it hurts.”

Of course it did. Everything hurt now, with Mijak four weeks away. “The command for your duchy's evacuation will go out by tonight. I'll have Henrik brought here to the castle, if that's what he wants. Although since it's almost certain Mijak will attack Kingseat first, perhaps he'd be safer somewhere else.”

“Safer?” Ludo pulled a face. “Do you honestly believe anywhere will be safe?”

This was the first private moment she and Alasdair's cousin had shared since the return of the ruined armada. “Ludo—”

He was still dashingly handsome, even with bruises all over his face, but something was different. His eyes were…older…than they'd been. “Yes, Rhian. It really was that dreadful.”

And then it was time to resume their preparations for war.

Edward and Rudi would take charge of a defensive position running along the Morvell-Hartshorn and Arbat-Meercheq borders. From that vantage-point they'd look to defend the kingdom's four middle duchies, and support duchy Kingseat in the south. They'd be assisted by Davin of Meercheq, to be released from house arrest, and every nobleman of those duchies.

Adric and Ludo would have the care of duchy Kingseat, and thus leave the defending of Kingseat capital to Alasdair, Zandakar…and Rhian herself.

“Because I can assure you, gentlemen,” she said coldly, “beacon or not, beloved by the people or not, I've no intention of cowering in a closet hoping the warriors of Mijak mistake me for a player's dummy. I'll have a care for my person, but I'll not be a coward.”

Helfred cleared his throat. “Your sentiments are admirable, Majesty. And no less than I – than we – expected. Perhaps we could revisit the matter another time? Certainly you've given us food for thought.”

In other words, he was going to fight her. And he wasn't alone. Only Zandakar looked approving. But then he would approve, wouldn't he? His mother was Mijak's own warrior queen.

Let them think what they like. I'll not be moved on this.

She looked around the table. “Gentlemen, we must pull together now as never before. Whatever concerns you have about Zandakar's place in this, banish them. If he has proven nothing else to us today, he has proven how we need him, and his knowledge of Mijak. Of warfare. He thinks like our enemy…but he is our friend.”

She looked at Alasdair when she said that. Alasdair looked back, no softness in him. No willingness to compromise.