by Karen Miller
“ Wei, Dexterity. Wei remem—”
“Don’t lie to me!”
Shocked, Zandakar stared at him, his pale blue eyes wide.
Dexterity leaned close, his heart drubbing his ribs. “Don’t lie,” he said again, close to a whisper. “You remember well enough. You’ve been keeping secrets.”
“Secrets?” Zandakar shook his head. “ Wei understand word secrets .”
“Truths, Zandakar,” he said sternly. “Things about yourself you remember, and say you don’t. Zho? ”
Zandakar said nothing, but his eyes showed he understood.
“I know you’ve been keeping secrets, Zandakar. Hettie told me.”
“Hettie,” said Zandakar. He sounded … resigned.
“Yes,” he said. “She told me you were about to do something stupid, too, and she was right.” Without asking, he snatched up Zandakar’s left arm and looked at the bleeding knife-wound in it. “Look what you’ve done, you foolish man! You might’ve severed an artery! You might’ve bled to death. Can you wriggle your fingers? Can you make a fist?” He wriggled his own fingers, to explain, then clenched them tightly.
If the wound still hurt him, Zandakar didn’t show it. He wriggled his fingers. He made a fist.
Dexterity sighed. “Well, that’s something at least. You didn’t slice through a tendon. And of course Ursa’s not here, is she? The one time she’s needed she’s off saving folk from scaleytoe!” He reached for Zandakar’s knife, tugged his shirt out and slashed off a length of it from around the hem. “So a rough bandage will have to hold you until she gets back.”
“Dexterity …”
“You be quiet!” he said fiercely. “And sit up. I need to bind this wound.”
Obedient as a puppet now, Zandakar sat up.
“We’ll have to invent another reason for this cut, you know,” he added, swiftly wrapping Zandakar’s hurt forearm. “We don’t dare tell Ursa the truth. She’ll go spare if she hears you did it on purpose and believe me, Ursa going spare isn’t something you take lightly. There. How’s that? I think it’s tight enough to stop the bleeding.”
Zandakar looked at the rough bandage and shrugged.
“You’re welcome,” Dexterity said, glowering. You troublesome man . “Next time I think I will let you bleed to death.”
Zandakar lowered his head, his skull glinting blue in the sunshine where his hair had started growing back. Flakes of dried animal blood fell from his face and spiralled to the ground. “ Yatzhay, Dexterity.”
Oh dear. Oh Hettie . He clambered to his feet and stuck the knife through his own belt. “Come on. We can’t stay here. The men’s dinner hour will be over soon. They can’t come back and find us like this.” He looked around. “There’s a pump and scrubbing brush there,” he added, pointing. “Wash as much blood off as you can, quickly. Then you and I are going for a little walk in the manor woodland, Zandakar, and you’re going to tell me who you are and where you’re from and what you know about this great danger Ethrea faces. Do you understand? No more secrets . The time for secrets has passed .”
For a moment he thought Zandakar was going to refuse, or fight him. Every muscle in him was tensed, and his pale blue eyes were rebellious. Then he let out a long, slow sigh. Bone by bone, he got to his feet. “ Zho, Dexterity. We will talk.” His eyes glinted, strangely. “But Dexterity wei like what Zandakar says.”
The first workers were returning to the farmyard when he and Zandakar made their escape, abandoning the cultivated manor grounds and slipping into the dappled woodland edging the ducal estate. Well-worn paths wound through the trees, with old hoofprints showing this was a popular place for the duke and his people to ride. It was pleasantly cool in the shade. Sunlight filtered through to the soft damp ground. Birds and squirrels danced and chattered in the leafy branches overhead.
Despite the green tang of wildflower and fresh air, Dexterity could still smell the rank stench of death. If he closed his eyes he could see the knife, slashing, the butchered animal carcasses, the blood pouring into Zandakar’s open mouth.
A fallen tree, bearded with lichen and cushioned with moss, barred their path a few paces ahead. They were deep in the woodland now. It was unlikely they’d be discovered or overheard.
“Here,” he said, stopping. “We’ll talk here.”
Zandakar slowed. Halted. His expression was guarded. If his cut arm pained him he gave no sign.
Dexterity perched himself on the fallen tree. Just two friends chatting, that’s what we are. And if I’m sitting perhaps he won’t get confrontational . Even with the knife in his own belt he didn’t feel entirely safe. You’d better be watching, Hettie. If he gets confrontational you’d better be ready to save me. In my world knives are for whittling, not killing .
There was little purpose to beating around the bush. “Who are you, Zandakar? Where are you from?”
Zandakar leaned his shoulder against the bole of the nearest standing tree. Washed clean of the animal blood, emptied of that dreadful killing despair, he seemed his calm self again … at least on the surface. But Dexterity thought an echo of that madness still lurked in his eyes.
“Listen,” he persisted. “I understand you’re wary. You’re alone here. You’re frightened and you don’t know who to trust. But you can trust me, Zandakar. Haven’t I shown that? Haven’t I proven that you can trust me?”
Zandakar didn’t answer. From his lack of reaction a man might think he was deaf.
Come on, Hettie. A little help, please . “Zandakar, we’ve reached a crossroads. There are things that must be said now, because you and I didn’t meet by accident. Tens and tens of thousands of lives depend on what we do next. Trust me. I won’t betray you. Do you understand?”
Zandakar nodded. “Zho.”
“And do you believe me when I say I mean you no harm?”
“You wei mean harm.” Zandakar shrugged . “Harm still come.”
And there was the voice of bitter experience. “Not if I can help it. Zandakar, this is important .”
Zandakar frowned. “Hettie say?”
“Yes. She did. She also said these secrets of yours are hurting you. And since you were cutting yourself open with a knife I think it’s safe to say she’s right. And I won’t have it.”
Zandakar’s blue gaze touched him and slid away. “Hettie dead.”
Oh dear. “It’s complicated. Do you understand complicated? Did you understand what I told Duke Alasdair—the king—in the manor library?”
“Dead Hettie speak to Dexterity.”
“Yes. She does. Today she told me to learn your secrets. She told me to keep them, and keep them I will. And please, Zandakar—” He held up a hand. “Don’t insult me by saying you can’t remember. We both know that’s not true. You remember just fine.”
Zandakar exhaled in a long, slow sigh. Let his blue-stubbled head rest against the tree’s smooth bark. “Zho.”
It came as an odd kind of relief to hear him say it. “Very well, then. We understand each other. So who are you, Zandakar? Where are you from?”
“My land is Mijak,” said Zandakar. His eyes lost their focus, staring into the woodland. Staring at memories.
Mijak . No, he’d never heard of it. “Is it a long way from Ethrea?”
Such a sadness in Zandakar’s face. “ Zho . Mijak far. Travel many moons on land, with slaves. More moons in slave ship. Mijak far.”
“And who are you in Mijak, Zandakar?”
Again it seemed Zandakar struggled to answer. Not with remembering, but with his willingness to trust. “Chotzu,” he said eventually, with reluctance.
“ Chotzu? I’m sorry, I don’t know that—”
“Chotzu!” Zandakar banged a fist on the tree. “Like Rhian.”
Like Rhian ? “Zandakar, in Mijak … are you a king ?”
“ Wei. Wei . Rhian before queen.”
“Oh! You’re a prince ?”
Zandakar shrugged. “Chotzu.”
Well. That certainly expl
ained a few things. No wonder he carried himself like royalty. He was royalty. A warrior prince from an unknown land.
Who drinks animal blood and can kill six men without blinking.
“If you’re a prince—a chotzu —how is it you were sold as a slave?”
Zandakar said nothing. It was in his face, how much he hated to be questioned. How much he didn’t want to talk about his past.
Damn you, Zandakar. Don’t make me say what we’ll both regret … “Zandakar. Tell me.”
Zandakar’s fingers tightened to fists, his eyes full of anguish.
Dexterity stood. I have to do this. I have no choice . “If you don’t tell me I’ll tell Rhian you’re dangerous,” he threatened, his voice unsteady. I don’t want to be this man . “I’ll tell her Hettie told me to send you away. She’ll believe me. You know she will. You’ll be all alone, Zandakar. No friends. No home. No money to live. Is that what you want? It’s not what I want, but I swear I’ll do it. I’m your friend but I’ll do it.”
“Tcha!” said Zandakar. “Dexterity wei gajka !”
He stepped forward, heart pounding so hard. “How is it you became a slave?”
“Dmitrak!” said Zandakar, as though the word were cut from him with a knife.
He knew that name. He’d heard that name in Zandakar’s dreamings. “Who is Dmitrak?”
“Dimmi is—is—” Zandakar growled in frustration. “Helfred give word. Zho! Dimmi is brother.”
“Your brother sold you into slavery?” Dexterity said, horrified. “Why? So he could become chotzu ?” It was a popular theme, brothers usurping brothers for the sake of a crown.
“Wei.”
Oh. “Then who?”
“Vortka,” said Zandakar, still reluctant. “Dmitrak want to kill Zandakar. Vortka send Zandakar away.”
Another name from his delirious ramblings. “Who is Vortka?”
“Vortka—” Zandakar thought for a moment, his face softening. “Vortka gajka .”
He nodded. “I see. No, actually, I don’t. Your friend saved your life by making you a slave?”
“Wei!” said Zandakar. “Vortka send Zandakar away. Slave-men find. Slave-men take.”
Good God. I was right ? How amazing. “Zandakar. Who is Yuma?”
Zandakar’s face clenched in a spasm of pain. “ Wei. Wei talk more, Dexterity.”
“ Zho! We must.”
“Why?” Zandakar demanded. “Lilit gone. Wei talk Lilit alive.”
“I know,” he said. “I know it won’t bring her back. But not talking is killing you, Zandakar. Your secrets are killing you and I can’t let you die. I promised Hettie I wouldn’t. Don’t be afraid. You’re not alone. Whatever the truth is, we can face it together.”
Zandakar shoved away from the tree. “ Wei, Dexterity!”
“ Zho, Zandakar.” He grabbed the man’s arm, breathless. “Zandakar, zho .”
Stillness. Silence. A squirrel chattered, scolding. Close by a fox barked, derisive in the hush. Zandakar stood tall and straight and braced, as though he was the last living man on a battlefield … and the enemy rode towards him with his death in their eyes.
Dexterity let go of him. “Zandakar. Please.”
Something seemed to break in Zandakar, then. His mask slipped. Behind it, the face of the man who had dreamed. “Yuma is mother,” he whispered. “Hekat. Hushla . Mijak queen.”
It took him a moment to make sense of the words. “Your mother killed Lilit?” He knew he sounded disbelieving but he couldn’t help that. Mothers didn’t murder the women married to their sons. At least, not in his world.
I’ve left my world behind. I wonder if I’ll ever find it again?
Zandakar, his eyes dreadful, rounded his hands over his belly as though he was pregnant. Then he mimed slicing himself open with a knife. “ Wei . Yuma cut, son die. Dimmi kill Lilit. Zandakar wei save.”
Dear God, what a family. Oh Hettie. Hettie. No wonder he was dreaming. No wonder he screamed . Sickened, Dexterity put a hand on Zandakar’s shoulder. “ Yatzhay. Yatzhay , Zandakar …”
Perhaps it was the genuine sorrow in his voice. Perhaps it was the relief of telling someone, even a stranger, the terrible truth that had festered for so long. Zandakar pressed a hand to his face and sobbed, a dreadful mourning for all that he’d lost.
Dexterity waited for the storm of grief to pass. Eventually Zandakar lowered his hand and stood there, exhausted, as though he’d wept out all his strength.
“That’s terrible, Zandakar,” said Dexterity, quietly. “But it’s not everything. Hettie says Ethrea’s in danger. Your wife and child dying can’t put this kingdom in harm’s way. There’s something else. Something worse. You have more secrets and I need to know them all.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Zandakar said nothing. The woodland silence deepened.
Dexterity, watching him, felt his heart thud like a drum. If I didn’t know better I’d say he was afraid. I do know better … and yes. He reeks of fear .
Zandakar afraid was a frightening thing.
“Dexterity wei understand,” Zandakar said at last.
“Then help me! I’ll understand if you explain.”
“Dexterity …” Zandakar looked at the bound cut on his arm. “Chalava.”
That word again. He fished out the carving from under his shirt. “This is chalava, zho ? What is chalava ? Is it—is it your god?”
Zandakar looked at the crude carving. “Chalava,” he whispered, his face chased with awe and longing and despair. “ Zho . I think … god .”
“Good! See? I understand. Chalava is the god of Mijak.”
“Wei,” said Zandakar, frowning. “ Chalava is chalava .” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm.
God is god … everywhere? “No, Zandakar. Chalava is not god everywhere. There is no chalava in Ethrea. Or Slynt, or Barbruish, or Dev’karesh or Arbenia. Chalava is chalava in Mijak.”
Zandakar shook his head. “ Chalava is chalava .”
There was no point arguing. “You can discuss that with Helfred. He’s the chaplain, scriptural philosophy is his meat and ale. What I want to know is—”
“Dexterity,” said Zandakar. “ Chalava is chalava . God of Ethrea wei chalava . God of Ethrea— tcha .”
The contempt in his face was unmistakable. A good thing Helfred wasn’t here to see it. Dexterity, despite his own troubles with the Church, felt an uncomfortable sting of resentment. “I’m sure you’re free to think so,” he said. “But you’ll not find a soul in Ethrea who’ll agree. And I don’t suggest you voice that opinion, at least not while we’re travelling with Rhian, or we’ll have a nasty fight on our hands. Several ugly wars have been fought over who’s got the best god. Religious folk take their beliefs … very … seriously …” His voice trailed away. He felt sweat on his skin.
Zandakar in the farmyard, drinking clotted blood. Calling for chalava . Calling for help? Zandakar insistent: his god was everywhere.
Oh, Hettie. Hettie. Surely not …
Zandakar’s gaze was fixed on the carving. “ Chalava is chalava .”
The urge to sit down again was almost overwhelming. His knees had gone all wobbly. His head was light, his mouth dry. “And what does chalava want, Zandakar? Do you know? Can you tell me?”
Zandakar looked away. “ Chalava is chalava .”
He bit back a frustrated oath. “Yes, so you’ve said. I do understand that much. What I don’t understand is what that means to Ethrea.” He snatched up the wooden carving dangled round his neck. “You wanted me to have this. Why? For protection? Do you think this carving will save me from your god?”
Zandakar said nothing. His face had gone tight, with a small muscle leaping along his jaw.
He does. He does. Oh, Hettie. This is dreadful . “Your god is god of Mijak. Does it want to be god of other places, too? Does it want you to conquer for it?”
“Conquer?” said Zandakar. He was braced again, and wary. “ Wei understand.”
“Co
nquer. It means … take,” said Dexterity, and mimed snatching something precious to himself. “Take. Zho? ”
A long, dreadful silence. Then Zandakar nodded. “Zho.”
Oh, Hettie . He was suddenly cold. “You’re a warrior of Mijak, Zandakar. You’re chotzu . Mijak’s prince. Are you chotzu for chalava ? Some kind of holy warrior?”
“Wei. Wei.”
He didn’t believe that. “Perhaps not now. But you were, Zandakar. Before.”
Another slow, reluctant nod. “ Zho . Before.”
Before his mother killed his unborn son and his brother killed his wife. God have mercy. Here was the truth Hettie had charged him to find. Here was the danger that Ethrea faced.
“When you were chotzu, Zandakar. When you fought for your god. Did you conquer other countries?”
Zandakar understood that. It showed in his eyes that he understood. But he didn’t want to answer. He turned his head away.
“Zandakar! Did you? ”
“Zho,” said Zandakar, almost too softly to hear.
“How many? Who were they? Can you even remember? Or don’t their names matter?”
Zandakar flinched. “Targa. Zree. Drohne. Bryzin. Har—”
“And the people in those places?” he demanded, cutting short the list. So many names, Hettie. So many lost . “What happened to them when you came?”
Zandakar looked at him. His eyes were cold. Derisive. “What does Dexterity think?”
He felt sick. So sick. “I think you killed them.”
“Zho.”
“ All of them?”
“ Wei . Some slaves.”
It was like looking at a stranger. Did I nurse this man? Did I succour him? Was there pity in my heart? “How many, Zandakar? How many killed? How many enslaved?”
Zandakar sat on the fallen tree. Suddenly he looked tired. Abandoned. As though living was too hard. “I think you say … thousands.”
Dexterity felt his hands clench. His chest was hurting. It was hard to breathe through the piercing pain.
Thousands. Thousands. Hettie, he’s murdered thousands.
He was a peaceable man. He’d never liked ructions and raised voices. He liked his life quiet, and not stirred about. He’d never enjoyed cockfighting, or any sports made of blood and death. Never been drunk in an alehouse and found himself in a brawl. He was a plain man. A staid man. He was gentle. He made toys.