by Karen Miller
But it wasn't only Ludo, and Rhian's faithful dukes. It was farmers and potters, shepherds and tailors, weavers and beekeepers, and chaplains and devouts. It was schoolmistresses and their pupils, physicks and their patients. Babies and grandfolk and soldiers and their kin.
“How many, Hettie?” he whispered. “How many are perished?”
“Not so many that Ethrea is perished with them,” she said. “Ethrea will survive this. It will rise again.”
Of course it would, with Rhian to lead it. God had chosen her after all.
As the sun dried his tears, he looked again at his wife. “So, my love. Are you my love? Are you in truth my dear, sweet Hettie?”
She broke the silence with a sigh. “Yes, I am, Dex. And then again…I'm not. I'm…the memory of Hettie. Your memory. Your love of her. I'm the bridge between this world, and the world that lies beyond.”
He frowned, and gently pulled his hand free of her clasp. “But you told me you were Hettie, and I believed you. So that makes me a gullible fool.”
“A fool?” she said. “ No . You're the nails holding that bridge together, Dex. You're why the bridge is important.”
He pulled a face. “Is that so? Well, right now I'm feeling like a nail that's been hammered one time too often.”
“Oh, Dex,” she said, and giggled. She was Hettie. She was Hettie.
“Can I ask another question, Hettie?”
“Of course,” she said. “And I'll answer, if I can.”
“Where does the power of the witch-men come from?”
Hettie smiled. “I think you know, Dex.”
He thought he did too, but he was almost afraid to say it. If he was right, Helfred would have a fit. “So…God is God, no matter where you live? My miracles, everything Han and his people have done, the dreamers of Harbisland…it's all the same?”
“It comes from the same source, yes,” said Hettie. “God is too big to be just the one thing, Dex. He's too big to belong only to Ethrea, or Keldrave, or Barbruish or the Tzhung. Wherever there is good in this world, there is God.”
He shivered. “And wherever there's evil, there's Mijak?”
“In a way. Every light throws a shadow, my love.”
He fell silent a little time, considering that. “You make it sound simple. But I suspect God is far more complicated than that. I suspect he's not even really a ‘he’. Is he?”
Hettie smiled again, and kissed him. “Oh, Dex. You'll find out, one day.”
“So…it is over, then?” he asked her. “The world's safe? The world's saved?”
“Yes, my love. It's safe and saved. At least…for now.”
Horrified, he stared at her. “For now? What does that mean?”
“It means the world's always in danger, from greed and cruelty and misguided passions,” she said. “That's why good men and women must be vigilant. That's why the fight against evil never ends.”
He looked down at his hands. His persistent, glowing, lamplike hands. They were quite useful last night, he'd been his own torch. But now it was morning…and he wanted his old life back.
“Why do I have the feeling I'm not going to like this?”
“You're a good man, Dex. Zandakar's a good man too…but he can't save Mijak on his own. And Mijak's in desperate need of saving. The dark blood power of its godspeakers is weakened, not broken. To make sure that happens, Mijak needs a new high godspeaker. Dex, it needs you.”
“Me,” he said blankly. “Oh, no, Hettie. I can't.”
“Yes, you can. Dexterity Jones in Mijak will be a good thing for the world.”
“And who thinks that, Hettie?” he retorted. “You or God?”
Another smile, sweet and teasing. “Yes.”
Oh, Rollin's mercy. Go to Mijak? With Zandakar? Two men against an empire that had soaked in blood for centuries?
“Hettie, no. I can't .”
She stared at him, so earnest. So stubborn. So like Hettie. “The world needs you, Dex. How can it stay safe if good men say, ‘ Hettie, no. I can't .’”
“But – but—” He tugged at his beard. “Surely I'm not the only good man you can find!”
“No. But you're the best good man I know, my love.”
Go to Mijak. Go to Mijak . Hettie was mad .
Except…he remembered Jatharuj. He remembered Garabatsas. If he closed his eyes he'd see poor Kingseat township, a stone's throw behind him. And everywhere the shadow of Mijak had fallen, there was a Jatharuj, a Garabatsas, a Kingseat to be healed.
I suppose Hettie's right. Zandakar can't do it without help. And he shouldn't be alone. He's lost his family, and I know how that feels. He's got the weight of an empire on his shoulders now, and no-one to help him bear it. I suppose I could go to Mijak…at least for a while.
“Oh dear, oh dear, Hettie,” he moaned. “Ursa's going to kill me.”
When Zandakar returned to Kingseat capital five days after killing Dmitrak, his chastened warhost at his heels, he was greeted by Dexterity.
“We have to talk,” said the toymaker. “Are your warriors safe to leave in the garrison? What's left of it?”
He nodded. “ Zho .”
“Then leave them, and we'll sit for a spell.”
Numb, he did as Dexterity told him. The warhost – his warhost – obeyed without question. He wore the god's hammer. Why would they disobey?
He sat with Dexterity on a bench outside the partly ruined garrison. After five days, the air still reeked of smoke and blood. The city rang to the sound of hammers and voices. Already Rhian's people were rebuilding what his had destroyed.
Rhian. Rhian. Will you speak to me? Will I see you?
“ Wei ,” he said, when his friend stopped speaking. “You would not like Mijak, Dexterity. It is harsh. It is angry.”
Dexterity shrugged. “It's not a question of what I'd like, Zandakar. Hettie's asked me to do this, and I said I would.”
Tcha. Hettie. Was she so meddlesome when she was alive? He could not ask Dexterity that.
“You can't pretend you won't need help, Zandakar,” said Dexterity, and held up his glowing hands. “And I think this will be as persuasive as any scorpion pectoral.”
Yes. That was true. The people of Mijak, so long on the wrong path, had a blind belief in miracles. They could do worse than believe in this toymaker…
He sighed, and nodded. “If you are sure, Dexterity. If you are sure…”
“I'm sure of Hettie,” said Dexterity, tugging his beard. “And I'm sure of you, if you must know the truth. Like it or not, we've been chosen, Zandakar. And I suppose we'll have to see this through to the end, whatever that is. As Helfred would say, we just have to have faith.”
Faith. It was an Ethrean word. Perhaps he could learn it.
If Dexterity comes with me, I will not be alone. Yuma is dead…Vortka is dead…Dimmi, aieee, Dimmi. Dimmi is dead. I have wept, I have wept, I have no more tears for them. I am Zandakar warlord, I do not wish to be alone.
“Zho,” he said, and looked at Dexterity. “You will come with me to Mijak…and we will have faith.”
Six days after Zandakar killed Dmitrak, Mijak was ready to leave Ethrea forever.
Rhian stood in the dressing chamber of the town-house she and Alasdair had been given, staring at her reflection in the mirror. She still wore her huntsman leathers. The scars on her face were two thin, pink lines. The scars on her heart were…less well-healed.
So many dead. So much destruction. I know we're rebuilding, but…dear God. It will be a different Ethrea. There'll be a new trading charter. New alliances. Nothing can be the same as it was.
And Dexterity was leaving. She'd tried and Ursa tried, but they couldn't dissuade him. “ Hettie said ,” he said, and that was that.
“It's not so bad,” he'd told her, with tears in his eyes. “You won't miss me really. You've got Helfred, remember?”
She'd laughed, and then she'd wept. So much weeping in Ethrea, even though the war was won.
A swirling breez
e. A gust of windchimes. In the mirror, behind her, Han stepped out of the air. His black hair had turned milk white. He looked older than God.
“Han!” she said, spinning round. “Where have you been ? I've been worried sick , I thought—”
He nodded. “I nearly was.”
“And Tzhung-tzhungchai? Your witch-men?”
“The empire is strong. Like your kingdom of Ethrea, it will rise from these ashes. In time.”
She felt her shoulders slump. “A long time, yes?”
“A very long time,” Han said. “Perhaps a lifetime.” It was another loss. One she wasn't prepared for.
“Will I see you again?”
“The wind knows,” said Tzhung's emperor. His eyes narrowed in a smile.
A knock on the chamber's door. “Majesty, the carriage is here,” said Dinsy's muffled voice.
“I have to go,” she said, aching. “Zandakar and his warriors are sailing.”
Han nodded. “Then go, Rhian. And remember Tzhung-tzhungchai.”
A swirling breeze. A gust of windchimes. He stepped into the air.
“How could I forget it?” she asked the empty room.
Alasdair was waiting for her, down at the harbour. Helfred too. Ursa. And Dexterity, of course. Zandakar was waiting, his warriors obedient and silent in their ships. The preserved bodies of his family were safely stowed, too.
As well as the gauntlet, he wore Vortka's stone scorpion pectoral. A hideous thing, but she'd not told him that. He wore blue-striped horsehide leggings and a sleeveless jerkin. His blue hair was braided, thick with amulets and silver bells. They were all he had left of his father, his mother, his scarlet-haired brother.
They'd spoken privately once, since that night on the docks. He'd told her he did not blame her for Dmitrak. She wondered if he was lying. She never asked. She never would.
Now she took a deep breath and stepped forward to greet him. Her heart was thudding beneath her black leather doublet. I'll never see him again. When he leaves, he will be gone .
“Rhian hushla ,” he said, his fist to his chest. “The god sees you in its humble eye.”
“Rollin's mercy on you, Prince of Mijak,” she replied. “God's grace for a safe journey home.”
She was proud of herself. Her voice was steady.
“Mijak…Mijak…” Zandakar's voice broke. His pale blue eyes were luminous. “Mijak is Ethrea gajka, zho ?”
She nodded and pressed a fist to her heart. “ Zho . Mijak is gajka .” She tried to smile. “I will dance my hotas every day, Zandakar. Rhian hushla will never forget.”
“Godspeed, Zandakar,” said Alasdair, most reserved. He mourned Ludo deeply, inconsolable still. He and Henrik would take his body home to Linfoi tomorrow. “Take good care of Mister Jones.”
Zandakar nodded, and his braided hair chimed. “ Zho , Alasdair king. Mister Jones is safe.”
Dexterity . Rhian hugged him. She was the Queen of Ethrea and he was a toymaker. She hugged him, weeping, before the whole world. There was nothing more to say, and so they said nothing.
Ursa hugged him next, and pressed on him her old physick bag stuffed to bursting with potions and pills and God alone knew what.
“You're off to heathen lands, Jones,” she said, tears streaking her wrinkled cheeks. “You're going to need all the help you can get.”
Helfred prayed then, a heartfelt sermon of thanks and hope. Such a small group, they were. Such unlikely friends. Such a fantastical journey they'd taken together.
And then it was time for Mijak's warfleet to depart. Zandakar and Dexterity trod the gangplank to their ship. Helfred and Ursa withdrew, leaving Rhian and Alasdair alone. They watched in silence as Mijak's warships inched their way clear of their moorings, oars splashing the water, sails snapping in the breeze. All the scorpions on them were painted out.
Alasdair cleared his throat. “I thought…when the warships sailed…”
She stared at Zandakar, slowly retreating. “You thought I'd sail with them? Oh, Alasdair. You're a fool.”
Dexterity was waving. His hand gently glowed.
“A fool?” said Alasdair, waving back. “Perhaps. But you love him.”
She sighed. “Yes, Alasdair. I love him. But I belong to you and Ethrea. Zandakar was never meant for me.”
“I know that,” he said. “But I wasn't sure if you did.”
And he held her hand tightly until Mijak's warships had sailed from sight.
EPILOGUE
Seven and a half months later, Rhian stood in the grounds of battered Kingseat Castle, watching as the workmen at last began to rebuild her family's house. Despite Helfred's repeated urgings, she'd refused to have one new castle stone laid before the last dwelling and shop in Ethrea was repaired. Now her township was almost itself again…
Thank God, thank God. I want my home back.
A breeze from the bustling harbour ruffled her growing hair and swirled her blue linen gown about her legs. She preferred her huntsman's leathers but it was Alasdair's birthday. In honour of the occasion she'd worn a wretched dress.
She heard his familiar tread on the re-grown lawn and turned, surprised. He'd said he had work to do, and would leave her to gloat over the castle in private. Now he was here, and to her astonishment was huffing and puffing, carrying a large canvas-wrapped crate.
“Rollin's mercy – what kind of gift is that? And why would you bring it all the way up here?”
He grinned as he let the crate slide to the ground. “It's a gift that's travelled a considerable distance. And it's not mine. It's yours.”
Hers? And then she felt her heart trip. Felt the salty air catch in her throat. Could it be? Could it be?
Alasdair's knife quickly cut through the stitchings on the canvas, which fell away to reveal a sturdy wooden box with a clasp. Heart beating even harder, she opened it.
Oh. Dexterity.
The box was full of toys. Carved and painted and beautiful toys. Striped horses, stringed falcons with intricate wings that could fly. Sandcats and lizards and monkeys and ibis.
So many toys, made with so much love.
“At last!” said Alasdair, peering over her shoulder. “I was beginning to think he'd been swallowed alive.”
So was she, but she'd never said so. They didn't talk of Dexterity, in case it was bad luck.
“Is there a letter?” said Alasdair. “I want to know what he's been up to.”
So did she, and looked through the box. “No,” she said, disappointed.
“Oh well,” said Alasdair. “I suppose paper's hard to come by, in Mijak. Perhaps next time.”
One by one, she held every single toy, remembering her friend. Remembering the toymaker who'd saved a slave, saved a princess, saved that princess's kingdom…who'd travelled so far away to save an enemy from itself.
She laughed.
“What's so funny?” said Alasdair, puzzled.
“Nothing,” she said, because it was either laugh or weep.
And then she stood with her husband, with her king, with Alasdair, and smiled at Kingseat harbour, that busy jewel in the sun. Smiled at the trading ships from Keldrave and Barbruish and Harbisland.
From haughty Tzhung-tzhungchai, whose emperor was Han.
“Come on,” said Alasdair, his arm around her shoulders. “We'd best be on our way. It's Litany tonight, remember?”
Tcha . She'd forgotten. If she didn't go, Helfred would moan.
Alasdair bent to pick up the box of toys. Before he closed its lid, she snatched a cheeky-faced monkey…
… and rode to town in the gig with it warm in her hand.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Stephanie Smith, my editor. She has the patience of a saint and I tried it with this project. Stephanie, you're an angel. The god sees you in its eye.
Mark Timmony, who saved my bacon with his lovely maps.
The guys who make me look better than I am, my beta reader Usual Suspects – Mary, Elaine, Pete, Glenda and Mark.
extras
meet the author
KAREN MILLER was born in Vancouver, Canada, and moved to Australia with her family when she was two. She started writing stories while still in primary school, where she fell in love with speculative fiction after reading The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe . Over the years she has held down a wide variety of jobs, including horse stud groom in Buckingham, England. She is working on several new novels. Visit the official Karen Miller Web site at www.karenmiller.net.
Contents
Contents
Empress
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
PART TWO
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
PART THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The Riven Kingdom
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
CHAPTER ONE