by Karen Miller
Helfred raised his hand. “Peace, Rudi. Your son is a man now, he speaks with his own tongue. His shame is his alone. The disrepute belongs to him.”
Adric opened his mouth to shout, but Rudi silenced him with a scorching look.
“Like it or not, my friends,” Helfred added, “we have come to a place where we stand not upon solid ground, but on faith. Faith that Hettie…and now Marlan…seek to help and not harm us. Faith that we can trust the son of our greatest enemy. Faith that a man with powers we don't understand has honour, and will not hold us to ransom when this grim business is done. Faith that a girl yet to reach her majority has the strength and courage to lead us into war.”
Dear God. Put like that, the situation sounded hopeless. Rhian looked at the faces of her council. At the two dukes old enough to be her father. At the two dukes young enough to be her brothers. At the man she loved, who was her husband. At the man she loved, who was bloodsworn to die for her. At the man she loved, who'd become a second father. At the man she would never love, but was coming to respect.
“My lords,” she said quietly, “our prolate is right, and you'd best come to terms with it. Today, God willing, I meet with the rulers of Harbisland and Arbenia. In doing so, I'll be throwing in my lot with Emperor Han of Tzhung-tzhungchai and that means I commit all of Ethrea to an alliance with him. It's a dangerous course…but it's the only one we can take. And I need to know you have faith in me.”
Another silence. Then Edward cleared his throat. “I'm sorry. Did you say you're meeting with—”
“Yes,” she said shortly. She glanced at the chamber clock. It was time. It was time. “In fact—”
And as if by some sorcery, the privy chamber doors opened and Ambassador Voolksyn was ushered in by the guards on duty.
Smiling gravely, she walked to him. “My lord ambassador, thank you for coming.”
Tall and sleek in his spotted sealskin tunic, his lips curved in smiling answer, his eyes untouched by warmth, and wary, Voolksyn looked around her council table, taking special notice of Zandakar, seated between Dexterity and Alasdair. Then he offered her a shallow bow.
“Majesty. I thought hard before agreeing to your invitation.”
“Sere, it doesn't matter that you thought. It matters that you came.”
Voolksyn smoothed his beard with one large, capable hand. His bald head gleamed in the light from the window. “My cousin Arbenia urged me to refuse it.”
He'd discussed her note with Gutten. How…inconvenient. Now her heart was drumming. “Your cousin Arbenia is a short-sighted man.”
“You think so?” said Voolksyn. “He is a good friend to Harbisland.”
“Sere Voolksyn,” said Dexterity, breaking the tense silence. “I think it's only fair to tell you that Icthia has indeed fallen to Mijak. Your brother ambassador, Sere Athnïj, and the staff he brought from his home, are among the last few living Icthians in the world.”
He'd not been invited to speak, but Rhian had no intention of scolding Dexterity. Of them all, she thought he stood the best chance of convincing Voolksyn.
“And how do you know this?” said the Harbish ambassador. “Another dream from your dead wife?”
“Alas,” said Dexterity, pulling a face behind his scruffy beard. “It was no dream. I returned from Jatharuj the night before last.”
“That…is not possible,” said Voolksyn slowly.
“It is perfectly possible,” said Rhian. “With the help of Tzhung-tzhungchai.”
“Tzhung-tzhungchai?” Voolksyn looked like he wanted to spit. “So you bed with their witch-men? Unclean sorcerers. The mother forbids her children their breath.”
“You may call them sorcerers, Voolksyn, though I believe you wrong them,” she said sharply. “And you should know this: Han's sorcerers were all that stood between us and Mijak for many weeks. But Mijak has broken them. Many are dead. And now Mijak sails to harvest our bones. The time Han's witch-men bought for us has been wasted. Their spent lives are wasted. God chose me to lead an alliance against Mijak, and because I failed to convince you and Arbenia that the threat is real, that you could trust my leadership, that Ethrea always was and always will be your friend , every living soul in the world stands threatened!”
Voolksyn stared at her closely. “You swore Ethrea had no pact with Tzhung-tzhungchai.”
“God have mercy , Sere Voolksyn!” she cried. “Have you heard nothing I said? The only pact I have with Han is the trading charter! I am as treatied with him as I am with you, no more and no less. There is no deception here, there is only desperation .”
“Desperation is fertile soil for deception,” said Voolksyn.
Now she was perilously close to tears. “That sounds like something Gutten would say.” Angrily she wiped a hand across her face. “I don't know, Sere. Perhaps I was naïve, expecting you to listen. Expecting you to see me as a queen in my own right, as a warrior you could trust. But you watched me fight for the throne of Ethrea, you saw me kill the men who dared challenge my crown, and I thought that would be enough. Clearly, I was wrong. Clearly, you won't believe a thing without blood.”
Before anyone could stop her, she unsheathed her blade and drew its cruel edge swiftly across her face twice, one cut in each cheek. The pain was immediate, bright and blazing. Blood poured hotly, scorching her skin.
“ Rhian !” shouted Alasdair, leaping from his chair. Zandakar took hold of him by one wrist, pinning him in place.
She ignored Alasdair's horror, his fury at Zandakar. “As God is my witness, Sere Voolksyn,” she said, almost blinded by the pain, “and as my spilled blood attests, here is my oath to you. I will not betray the people of Harbisland. I stand ready to fight for you and die for you, as though you were Ethrean, and mine.”
Voolksyn stared at her, shocked into silence. She stared back, dimly aware of her council's frantic babbling. Dimly aware of the chamber's ticking clock.
Han, Han, where are you? Must I shout aloud that I can't do this alone ?
And Han was there, in jade-green silk, stepping out of the swirling air like a thought transformed to flesh.
“Sere Voolksyn,” he said calmly, paying no attention to her pain. “As the Ethreans say, we have our backs against a wall. If Harbisland and Tzhung-tzhungchai do not help each other, countless innocent souls will perish. If that is what you desire, turn away from Ethrea's gallant queen. And remember this moment as you draw your dying breath.”
For the first time she could remember, Rhian saw Voolksyn look uncertain. “I do not speak for my slainta,” he said. “Even though he is my brother.”
Han smiled. “Then it is time your brother spoke for himself.”
“You speak in riddles,” said Voolksyn, still uncertain.
Bleeding sluggishly, the pain undiminished, Rhian sheathed her blade without cleaning it and crossed to Voolksyn. Took his hand in hers and held it, tightly.
“Trust me, Sere,” she said as Zandakar joined them. “No harm will befall you.”
“No harm?” said Voolksyn. “Little queen—”
Ignoring him, she glanced at Zandakar. “You have the knife?”
He nodded. “ Zho .”
She smiled at Han, though it hurt so much. “Emperor.”
Han clapped his hands…and the council chamber disappeared.
It was raining in Tyssa, capital city of Harbisland, where the slainta held his open court.
Dizzied by witching so far, by taking so many with him, Han stepped out of the wind and onto the wet grass. Rhian, Zandakar and Voolksyn stepped out beside him. The ambassador, gasping, bent over to retch. Rhian released her hold of him and stared at their surroundings. Zandakar stepped aside, drawing his scorpion knife from beneath his jerkin.
Han stared like Rhian, mildly curious. So many years since he had set foot in Harbisland. Who had been slainta then? This slainta's great grandfather. Oosyn of Harbisland, a belligerent man.
Court was held outdoors in Harbisland, in rain and bright weather, if it
snowed or if it scorched. The goddess of Harbisland was a deity of nature. Nothing of importance could occur within walls, beneath a roof. This court was in a pretty field, the ragged grass scattered with pink and yellow flowers. Beyond its boundaries the rustic dwellings and merchant-houses of Tyssa, drummed with the rain beneath the cloud-shrouded sky.
In this day the slainta of Harbisland was Dalsyn. He had the look of his brother the ambassador: tall and broad and brawny. His plaited red beard reached to his waist. His sealskin tunic glistened with the rain. Bare-headed, raw-fisted, he sat his sealskin-covered throne like a man daring to be challenged. Around him stood his clansmen, armed with cudgels, and before him knelt the Harbislanders who had come to court for justice.
Voolksyn finished retching, straightened and looked around him, astonished. “Harbisland? I am home?”
“You are home,” said Han. “And unharmed, as the Queen of Ethrea promised.”
Voolksyn stared down at Rhian. “You did not lie.”
“I've never lied to you, Voolksyn,” she said, rain slicking her sleek and supple black leathers, rain running through the blood dried thickly on her face. “Zandakar—”
The warrior from Mijak looked at her. “ Zho ?”
“You're all right?”
“ Zho . You?”
“I think – zho ,” she replied. “What an extraordinary feeling. I don't know what I was expecting, but…”
Zandakar smiled. “ Zho .”
Han watched Rhian smile back. So. This was interesting. This might be a problem…for Alasdair of Ethrea, at least. If it proved to be a problem for Tzhung-tzhungchai, he would address it.
Stirring out of their astonishment now, the clansmen of Harbisland's slainta raised their cudgels and advanced, anger plain in their faces. The kneeling petitioners scuttled out of their way.
Voolksyn stepped forward to greet them in the twisting tongue of Harbisland. Swiftly he was surrounded. Many voices filled the damp air.
“Han,” said Rhian, turning from Zandakar. “What will we do if this desperate attempt fails?”
His silk tunic was swiftly soaking through. It was cold here in Harbisland. He'd be shivering soon. “What Ethrea does is your affair. Tzhung-tzhungchai will fight Mijak until the last witch-man is dead. Until there are no more men and women of Tzhung to fling against our enemy. Why did you cut your face, Rhian?”
She touched fingertips to her cheek. They came away scarlet. “Desperation.”
“Witch-men have healing powers.”
“No. If you heal me, the point will be lost.” She looked again to Voolksyn and the crowding clansmen. “What are they saying? I don't speak a word of Harbish.”
“What they say doesn't matter. Only the slainta's words are important here.”
Rhian nodded, again staring about her. “Do you know, this is the first time I've stood on soil that wasn't Ethrean?” She laughed, then tilted her bloodied face to the sky and poked out her tongue. “Foreign rain,” she murmured. “Somehow it tastes sweeter. All my life I've wanted to travel. I was so jealous of my brothers. I nearly hated them when they left Kingseat harbour and I was left behind. It seemed so unfair. It was unfair. When Mijak is defeated, and I have a daughter, I'll make sure she travels the world.”
Cold in his rain-soaked silk tunic, Han looked at her and marvelled. Is she brave or is she foolish, to hold on to hope so hard? “What will you name this daughter, when you have her?”
“I don't know,” she said, musing. “Is there a feminine version of the Tzhung name Han ?”
So nearly she surprised him into laughter. “Hanyi.”
“Then perhaps I shall call my daughter Hanyi,” said Rhian. “If I have a daughter. If I don't die soon.”
Zandakar hissed between his teeth. “Rhian wei die.”
“We might all die, Zandakar,” Rhian said, so solemn again. “As Helfred says, God makes us no promises.”
Voolksyn the ambassador was now speaking with his brother. The Slainta Dalsyn was listening, his head low, one large hand gripping Voolksyn's shoulder. He nodded once. He nodded again. His head came up, and with a sweep of his arm, some short sharp words, he sent away his huddled Harbisland petitioners. Then he beckoned, frowning.
“Well,” said Rhian, her chin tilting and her shoulders pulling back. “Time to see if our gamble has paid off.”
Together they approached Dalsyn. Zandakar walked lightly, like a man poised to fight. Voolksyn was standing aside, his face giving nothing away. The slainta's clansmen held their cudgels at the ready. Their faces were easy to read: anger and suspicion and some lust for Rhian.
“So this is the little Queen of Ethrea,” said Dalsyn, in Ethrean. His tone was guttural, his accent pronounced.
“Come uninvited to your court, great Slainta,” said Rhian. “For which I apologise, but my need is great.”
“This my brother tells me,” said Dalsyn, eyes narrow with suspicion. “He tells me you speak the truth.”
“If you ask without asking whether Rhian of Ethrea has never told a lie, I do not lie. I have. But not about Mijak. Every word I've told your brother the ambassador, everything I will say to you now, is the truth.”
Dalsyn nodded, and looked at Zandakar. “Here is a man who brings a naked knife before me. Does this man desire to die?”
“ Tcha ,” said Rhian, her finger lightly on Zandakar's arm. “I stand here with a blade on my hip, Slainta. Will your men cudgel me too? Zandakar means you no harm.”
“I am to trust you?”
“You are the slainta. I am a queen. Rulers have honour, or so I am taught. We are treatied, you and I. We are bound like brother and sister.”
Dalsyn tugged his long, plaited beard. He had a hard face to read. “Zandakar,” he said. “A man with blue hair.”
“A man of Mijak,” said Rhian. “A godsent man, Slainta. Listen to what he has to say.”
“And he says what?” said Dalsyn. “This man with blue hair.”
“Believe Rhian hushla ,” said Zandakar simply. “Mijak comes. Mijak kills.”
“You are Mijak,” said Dalsyn. “Do you kill?”
Zandakar nodded. “ Zho . Before Ethrea, I kill for Mijak.”
“And who do you kill for now?”
“Rhian.”
“Hmm,” said the slainta, his green eyes lively with thought. His gaze shifted. “And here is Emperor Han. Another ruler uninvited.”
Han nodded to Dalsyn. “But required.”
Dalsyn smiled, revealing yellow teeth. “The pride of Tzhung-tzhungchai is legend in Harbisland.”
“The courage of Harbisland is legend in Tzhung-tzhungchai.”
As Dalsyn hissed, suspecting a hidden insult, his clansmen stepped forward, their cudgels raised. Though he was cold, and shivering, and exhausted from witching so far to Harbisland, Han readied himself to fight. Beside him, he heard Rhian curse softly.
“God save me from men,” she said. “Zandakar? Now !”
Zandakar, the warrior from Mijak, pointed his knife blade into the air. A stream of blue fire sizzled through the falling rain. The fresh air stank of cold stone, burning.
Dalsyn's clansmen dropped their cudgels and fell face-first into the rainwashed grass. The Slainta of Harbisland and Voolksyn, his brother, lost their colour until they looked like ice. But neither man flinched or cried out.
Han was impressed.
“Slainta,” said Rhian as blue fire seared the rainy air. “Your brother has told you of Mijak. Here is its brutal power. He has told you of Icthia, and Han, and his witch-men. We are treatied, you and I. Now I come to you asking that you honour that treaty. Help me defend Ethrea. And in defending Ethrea, save yourself.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“And Tzhung-tzhungchai?” said the Slainta Dalsyn. “What is Emperor Han to you?”
“An ally,” said Rhian. “As you are.”
Dalsyn sat back on his sealskin throne. “To Harbisland, the Tzhung are enemies time out of mind.”
“Then
you can die as enemies,” said Rhian. “At the hands of merciless Mijak.” The blood on her cheeks was almost washed away, so the wounds she had given herself were clearly defined. “Or you can live as enemies who put aside their quarrels long enough to see this merciless enemy defeated. Is your pride more important than your life, Slainta? Is it more important than the lives of your people?”
Han saw Rhian's challenge flick Dalsyn keenly, like a whip. She touched Zandakar's arm, and the warrior killed the blue fire. As the slainta's clansmen climbed churlish to their feet, she approached Dalsyn and dropped to one knee on the wet grass before him. The rain fell on her cropped hair, her gold circlet, her close-fitting leathers.
“Dalsyn,” she said, “when has Ethrea betrayed you? When has Ethrea broken its word? In this place, I am Ethrea. I give you my word, Emperor Han of the Tzhung answers to me. Every trading nation treatied with Ethrea answers to me. Any trading nation who uses this calamity to hurt a sister nation, that nation shall be cast out of Ethrea forever. That is our new treaty. That is Ethrea's pledge to you.” She touched her fingers to her wounded face. “I shed my blood before your ambassador. I swore him a blood-oath to die for Harbisland in battle. I'll bleed again here and now, for you, if that will convince you to trust me. If that will convince you to give me ships for our armada, and soldiers to fight in Ethrea if our armada should fail.”
Jewelled with raindrops, Dalsyn considered her. One thick, callused finger stroked his rainsoaked moustache. “My dreamers dream of a bloodthirsty horde,” he said. “They dream of us fighting together. The mother is worried for her children in Harbisland.” His stroking finger pointed. “Let Han bleed for me, and what you want, I give.”
Han clasped his hands tightly as Rhian slewed round to stare at him. “Han? No, Slainta, you can't ask—”
Dalsyn stood, towering over her, taller even than his tall brother. His clansmen gripped their cudgels tighter – one word would loose them to bludgeon and kill. “I can't?” said the slainta. “In my land, in my court, in the eyes of my mother, when you come to me begging, when you beg for Harbisland's blood? I can't ?”