The Godspeaker Trilogy (128 page)

Rhian's chin came up, her eyes so blue, so cold. “Zandakar. With me.”

He followed her out of his lightless stone prison, down the corridor, through the door at its end, up stone stairs and more stone stairs into the light.

It hurt his eyes, he welcomed the pain. Sun on his underground skin, hot like the god's wrath. Grass beneath his bare feet, birdsong in his empty ears. Breathing was hard. Believing was harder.

I do not think I will be free for long.

She had brought him to a garden beside the tall stone castle. There was salt in the breeze blowing into his face, the sweet scent of flowers, the ache of regrets. They were alone.

Hands fisted on her slender hips, sheathed in leather like the finest snakeblade, Rhian looked at him. “Why is your hair blue?”

Bemused, he stared back at her. Why was his hair blue? Why did it matter?

“We're told your brother's hair is blood red,” she said impatiently. “And your warriors' hair is black. Why are they different, Zandakar? What does it mean?”

“Ask chalava ,” he said. “I wei know.”

“Were you born with blue hair? Was your brother born with red?”

He folded his arms. “You free me to talk hair, Rhian?”

“I haven't freed you.”

Aieee, the god see him. She was still so angry. He could not tell her his truth, that the colour of his hair changed the first time he killed with the god's power. She feared him too much as it was. But he could not lie to her, not outright. Lies were poison. He could stand between the truth and a lie, that would keep him in her company for now, for a little while.

“My hair born black,” he said. “ Chalava make hair blue when it make me chalava-hagra .” He frowned. “I think you say hammer.”

“Yes, Zandakar,” said Rhian. “I know what you are.”

There was a knife on her left hip. He nodded at it. “You dance your hotas ? You wei forget?”

“No. I dance them.”

“Show me.”

“What?” She half-turned from him, the heel of one hand pressing to her forehead. “Zandakar—”

“Show me.”

She turned back. In her eyes he saw her hunger, saw how she missed the glory of hotas with a fellow warrior. They were only complete if they were not danced alone.

I miss dancing them with Rhian. Aieee, god, I miss Rhian.

She unsheathed her knife. On the green grass, beneath the blue sky, his dirty blue godtouched hair combed by the salt breeze and without his own blade, he danced the hotas with Rhian and felt the scorpion wheel world fade away. She was the falcon, the sandcat, the scorpion. He was her shadow, her mirror, her foe. In her eyes all the pain he had caused her, in her blade the desire for his blood.

Twelve highsuns in captivity, his muscles were sluggish. Her blade did not touch him but many times it came close. Her angry eyes laughed, then, her teeth bared in a smile. She had not lied, she did not forget her hotas . She was Queen of Ethrea and did not forget to dance. Lithe and supple, flowing like water, like liquid gold, she gifted him with every dance he had taught her. She tasked him with every light blow of her fist. No tasking on the godhouse scorpion wheel had ever hurt his flesh so much.

Distracted by sorrow, by the pain in her because of him, he let her leap behind him. Her leg scythed out, catching him hard behind the knees. He fell to the green grass and then she was on him, thighs straddling his heaving chest, knees clamped to his ribs, one hand fisted in his hair. She was straining his head back, her sharp blade pressed against his bared throat. Was that sweat on her face or was his queen weeping?

He waited, waited, for her blade to drink his blood.

On a wild cry she released him. Her knife sank point-first into the soft ground and she sprang to her feet. Her eyes as she stared down at him were violent with pain.

“Why didn't you tell me? Why did you lie?”

“You lost in my land. In Mijak,” he said, meeting her tempestuous gaze. “You afraid. Alone. You have killing secrets. What you tell me, king of my land?”

“You could've trusted me, Zandakar. I trusted you.”

He smiled. “You learn my secret, Rhian. You put me in prison.”

“I put you in prison because – because – tcha !” She bent and snatched her knife out of the ground, then stepped away from him. Her knuckles on the knife-hilt were white. “You made me a fool before Emperor Han!”

Emperor Han. The tall amber-skinned man. His servants were demons, they summoned the wind.

“Emperor Han is gajka?”

She dragged a sleeved forearm over her face. “I don't know what he is, Zandakar. I don't know what you are.”

Cautiously, he sat up. “ Gajka , Rhian. Friend.”

Instead of answering she wiped the dirt and grass from her knife and thrust it back in its sheath. “Have you heard of Tzhung-tzhungchai?”

He shook his head. “This is land of Emperor Han?”

“His empire. Zho .”

“I wei hear of Tzhung-tzhungchai.”

Her gaze slid to him, sideways. “Well, he's heard of you. And not only recently. He says there is mention of Mijak in the Imperial Library, in books written hundreds of years ago. I thought Tzhung-tzhungchai was the oldest empire in the world. Now it seems Mijak is older. Did you know that? Do you know your own history?”

“ Wei. Wei learn history in Mijak. Learn chalava . Learn hotas . Learn to lead chotzaka .”

“ Chotzaka ? That's your word for army?”

He shrugged. “I think zho .”

Pacing now, she tugged her fingers through her curling hair, grown long enough almost to be godbraided. Tiny little spiky braids, like those of a child. But she was not a child. She was a woman, with a man in her bed. She was a queen. Life and death were in her eyes.

“Han says Mijak was once a mighty empire. And then overnight it simply…disappeared. Your people were never heard from again. Not until now. You don't know what happened?”

“Wei. Yatzhay.”

“Han doesn't know either.”

Han, she called him, and yet they were not friends. Or perhaps they were and she did not wish to tell him. If he asked her he thought she would not say. So he asked another question, asked what had eaten at him in the night, in the dark.

“Dexterity, Rhian. He lives?”

She stopped pacing, glared down at him. “ Zho . Of course. What do you take me for?” Then she shook her head. “Zandakar, I don't wish to speak of Dexterity. He is one man. I have a kingdom to care for.”

She had a kingdom to care for and yet she was here. He uncoiled himself from the grass to stand before her. “You come to me. Why?”

“Some on my council say you should be put to death,” she said, fisted hands on her hips, a fighting challenge in her eyes.

It did not surprise him. For certain Alasdair king would deal the killing blow himself. The dukes have no love for me, they would smile to see me die . Who did that leave to speak for his life? Only one he could think of. “Helfred?”

“ Tcha , Helfred,” she said, impatience and reluctant admiration in her voice. Aieee, god, how he had missed that. “Who else is such a thorn in my side? As prolate, he says you are an instrument of God. He says God has brought you to us and God must use you as he sees fit.”

“You say?”

“The dukes Damwin and Kyrin refuse to accept I am their queen.”

He knew that. The guards enjoyed gossip as much as gambling. They spoke of Rhian's coronation, of the joyful shouting in the streets. They spoke of the dukes who had been there, and the dukes who defied her, staying away. Damwin and Kyrin, who had not fallen as Marlan fell. That made the guards angry. They were simple men. They loved Rhian, their queen.

“Rhian wei let these dukes live.”

“Helfred travels to them tomorrow,” she said, her voice cold. “He'll take with him a letter, in which I shall command them to yield.”

“Helfred. Then Ethrea god will smite them?”

“Why do you say that?” she demanded. “Why do you think God must want to hurt, to kill?”

He shrugged. “Raklion chotzu. Chalava say to him, you are Mijak chotzu. Chalava-chaka of other chotzu , they defy chalava . Nagarak chalava-chaka , he smites them for chalava .”

“Raklion? Who—”

“ Adda . I think you say father .”

“Your father?”

“Zho.”

“So. Your father's chalava-chaka , his holy man, yes? – killed anyone who disagreed with him? And that is acceptable in Mijak?” Frowning, she shook her head. “Well, it certainly explains things.”

Why did she not understand? “Helfred is chalava-chaka for Rhian, zho? He is chalava-chaka for Ethrea god.”

“And so it must follow that Helfred will strike the dukes dead in God's name?”

“Ethrea god smite Marlan.”

He watched the memory of Ethrea's burning high godspeaker shift over her face, shadow-swift and unwelcome. “That was different,” she muttered. “I don't know what that was.” She shivered. “And where is your father in all this, Zandakar?”

“Dead.”

Her gaze softened. “Yatzhay.”

“Rhian…” He wanted to touch her, to shake her until she saw he was right. “You wei let Damwin and Kyrin live.”

She took a step back. “Truly, Zandakar, your people are barbaric. I think all you must care about is killing and blood.”

Barbaric . He did not know that word but he could guess what it meant. Anger burned him. “Rhian stupid if she let dukes live. Arrow in the body, make poison, kill , does Rhian leave it there?”

“You think I believe you care for me?” she said, her eyes and voice hot now. “You lied to me, Zandakar. You are in prison because of me. I would be stupid if I thought you cared!”

He exhaled a deep and shuddering breath. “My wife Lilit, beautiful like Rhian. Hair. Eyes. She—”

“She died, I know,” said Rhian impatiently. “Your mother killed her. It was terrible. I know. You've suffered. But—”

“ Wei let Yuma and Dimmi hurt you, Rhian,” he said. “I see you, I see Lilit. I see Na'ha'leima. I see Targa and Zree.” His fist struck his heart. “Dead people, Rhian. Many many dead people.”

Her eyes were full of tears. “People you killed, Zandakar. People you murdered. So much blood on your hands. Do you think I want to be like you ?”

He did touch her then. Fingertips to her cheek snatched swiftly away. “Mijak coming, Rhian. You wei fight Mijak and dukes.”

“I know that,” she whispered. “I'm not stupid. Why else have I come to you?”

His heart lifted. “Rhian want Zandakar to kill dukes?”

“ Zandakar , for the love of Rollin !” She punched him with her small, hard fist. “Wei.” Then she shook her head again. “Though you'd do it if I asked you. Strange man, you are a mystery.”

He looked at her steadily, not quite convinced. “Rhian will fight dukes? Rhian will kill them?”

“You doubt I can do it?” she retorted. “You doubt I can kill a man? You have a short memory, Zandakar.”

No. His memory was as long as shadows in the desert. He wished he could forget. Wished he could touch Rhian and take away her pain. “You wei want to kill that chalava-chaka .”

“No, I did not,” she said. “Yet Ven'Martin is dead. When I close my eyes at night his dying face is the last thing I see.” She stared at him, eyes hollow, thin lines pinched round her mouth. “What do you see, Zandakar, when you close your eyes?”

Lilit. His butchered son. The butchered sons and daughters of the cities he had razed. That dead baby, killed by Vanikil shell-leader. In his dreams he heard it wail.

“You see your dead too, don't you?” Rhian demanded. “They haunt you as mine haunts me. Don't try to deny it, Zandakar. I can see it in your eyes. You see them. You hear them. You're never alone.”

He nodded, reluctant. “ Zho .”

“Why did you stop, Zandakar?” she whispered. “Why did you turn your back on your killing god?”

So many godmoons had waxed and waned since Na'ha'leima, sometimes he wondered if that time was a dream, if the voice in his heart had spoken at all. Vortka had not believed in it and Vortka heard the god best of any man he knew.

“I wei turn my back on chalava ,” he said. “ Chalava say wei kill. I wei kill.”

“Told you to stop killing and not your brother? Your mother? It makes no sense to me, Zandakar. Why would your god do that?”

“ Wei question chalava , Rhian,” he said. “ Chalava is chalava .”

That made her stare. “You never question God? Never shake your fist at heaven and demand ‘Why me?’ Is your god so cruel, then? Does he have no mercy, no compassion, no love for those who kneel before him?”

He could not answer. He remembered the godpool, remembered warmth and a sweet voice, heavy with sorrow as he swam in the blood.

Zandakar, my son, my son. I am with you, though the road is long and steep and strewn with stones. All that will come to pass must come to pass. Grieve, weep, endure, surrender. I will be with you, unto the end.

That was the voice he had heard in Na'ha'leima, the voice that urged him to kill no more. He had not heard it before the godpool, he had not heard it since leaving Na'ha'leima. Was that voice the god or was it a demon? He did not know. He was lost in Ethrea, he was too far from home. If the god was with him here he was deaf, dumb and blind to it.

I am alone.

Rhian still marvelled. “Not a day goes by that I don't ask God what he thinks he's doing. He hasn't answered yet. Perhaps he's hoping I'll go away, or lose my voice.”

Aieee, tcha, these people of Ethrea with their soft god who did not smite them for their wicked tongues. When Mijak's god came for them they would burn like dry reeds in a fire. Cold in the sunlight, he looked at Rhian's lovely face.

She will burn if I do not save her. How can I save her? I am nothing now.

He said the only thing he could think of, the one thing she could not seem to remember. “You queen, Rhian.”

She spared him a sour glance. “Yes, yes, for my sins I am queen. And if I hadn't sought the crown, if I'd done what Papa and Marlan wanted…” She curled her fingers round the hilt of her knife. “Ven'Martin would be living, not rotting in the ground. It doesn't matter that he was wrong in attempting my life. I pushed him to his sinful action. His death lies at my door and I have but one remedy for it, Zandakar. If his death is to mean something I must be more than a queen. I must be a great queen. I must save my kingdom from your brother and mother and bloodthirsty god. But before I can do that…” For the second time she slid her knife from its sheath and stared at its polished blade glinting in the sun. “I must save my kingdom from itself.”