The Godspeaker Trilogy (149 page)

Han released a shuddering breath and opened his eyes. Beneath the pain his witch-senses were humming. Sun-dao approached. A moment later the Sighing Room's door slid open and Sun-dao entered swiftly, on bare feet. He slid the door closed and turned. His eyes were wide and dark with rage.

“You feel it?”

Han nodded. “Of course.”

Sun-dao joined him and sank cross-legged to the cold floor, facing him. The sighing wind played with his long, plaited moustaches and rattled together their sacred bones. Together in spirit they once more sank out of the world, sank into the sighing wind, into the twilight place of the witch-man.

No peace. No tranquillity. The twilight was tortured. Mijak's black power burned like acid in the air. The witch-men of Tzhung breathed their spirits upon it, breathed it to thinness, even as they struggled to keep their desperate hold on the trade winds.

Han felt the pain of their struggle as he struggled with them, as he fought against Mijak's blood-fed dark power. He felt Sun-dao beside him and wept for his pain. The twilight filled with keening as Tzhung and Mijak fought. A wild wind raged within the red-walled Sighing Room.

Heartbeat by heartbeat, Mijak's black power retreated. Thinned to vanishing. Vanished. Gasping, groaning, Han returned to the world. Sun-dao returned with him and for a long time they sprawled side by side on the cold marble floor. The raging wind died. Slowly, raggedly, the blown-out candles reignited, shedding light.

At last Han stirred. Touched Sun-dao's arm. “You breathe?”

“I breathe,” said Sun-dao, sitting up. The whites of his eyes had flooded crimson. “And you breathe. Mijak is defeated.”

Han shivered. “For now.”

They stared at each other, still gasping. Han felt his eyes change, even as he watched the red fade from Sun-dao's eyes.

“It is a strange thing,” said Sun-dao slowly. “Mijak spilled less blood this time. Far less blood than broke us in the desert.”

It was true. In that far-distant eastern desert, where the witch-men of Tzhung had for so long held back the warriors of Mijak, enough human blood was spilled to make an ocean. Hundreds of witch-men had died broken that day…and the witch-men of Tzhung were rare enough as it was. To lose so many with one blow…it was dreadful.

In the dark of night, tormented by doubts, Han wondered if Tzhung-tzhungchai would ever recover from their loss. Yet it must recover. It was his sacred duty to protect the witch-men of Tzhung. It was also his sacred duty to protect the empire.

His greatest fear was that in protecting Tzhung-tzhungchai from Mijak with his witch-men, he would kill Tzhung-tzhungchai by killing them.

“Why would Mijak spill less blood?” he said, frowning at his brother. “When it knows blood can break us?”

Sun-dao's fingers smoothed the tails of his moustaches, bumping gently over the sacred bones. “I cannot say. I cannot see. My vision clouds further with each passing day.”

“They will try again,” Han murmured. “But how soon?”

Sun-dao's lips thinned. “As soon as they can.”

“But we hold, Sun-dao,” he said, swallowing more scalding fear. “Tzhung holds against them.”

“We hold for the moment,” Sun-dao said bleakly. “It hurts, but we hold. But if they kill as many again as they killed in the desert, Mijak will break us a second time. The trade winds will blow and Mijak will come.”

Han nodded. “I know.” Around the Sighing Room, the candle flames fluttered. The blood-red walls flickered. The wind sighed its pain.

“Han…” Sun-dao folded his hands in his lap. “Never in our history have Tzhung's witch-men been so challenged. Your witch-men love and obey you, but love and obedience are not enough. They weaken.”

And he knew that also. It broke his heart. The witch-men who survived that battle in the desert had been hurt in their spirits, wounded in their souls. Now, not fully recovered, they were again pitted against Mijak's evil. Hour by hour he could feel their strength wane. The fight against Mijak was brutal, and had lasted so long already. His witch-men suffered, faded, and he could not see the end of strife.

“Han,” said Sun-dao. “The girl must be told.”

The girl . Rhian. Little Queen of Ethrea, queen of a realm so small. So important. Every night the wind whispered her name in his dreams. It whispered too of Zandakar, blood-soaked fallen prince of Mijak. Rhian and Zandakar. A girl and a murderer: the wind blew him strange allies. Strange inferiors who must stand tall above him.

“How can Rhian help us?” he said. “She has no power to speak of.”

Sun-dao raised a chiding finger. “You know her power, Han. She is the eye of the tempest.”

Of all men breathing, my brother calls me Han. And Rhian calls me Han. This girl, this child, she sees herself my equal.

The thought was amusing. Preposterous. And yet…and yet…

“The wind has blown us to her,” said Sun-dao severely. “It wishes us to work together against Mijak. Would you defy the wind?”

His head came up. “You know I would not.”

“Then you must confide in the Ethrean queen,” said Sun-dao, so solemn. “Tzhung-tzhungchai is not as mighty as it was. The wind knows we can no longer hope to defeat Mijak alone. Mijak will break us, Han, and sooner than we can bear. We must have help.”

Yes, yes, Sun-dao was right. He was the wind's greatest witch-man. He was always right. Han pushed to his feet, anguished. To hear such a truth spoken aloud when his bones still burned with his witch-men's pain, with his own pain…it was hard, so hard. To be an emperor, and helpless. That was hard.

“And if I tell her our secret, Sun-dao? That we hold back the trade winds? How will that help us?”

“The girl's thought of an armada is a good thought,” said Sun-dao, standing. His face creased with the effort: he was hurting too. “But there is little time for its creation, even with the help of Tzhung-tzhungchai. Every day the ambassadors delay in agreeing to it is a day closer to Mijak's breaking of us. Rhian must be told how little time there is. She must be made to press these reluctant ambassadors. She must not scruple to use Ethrea as a weapon. Go to her now and tell her, Han. Before it is too late. Before Mijak breaks us.”

He is Sun-dao, the greatest witch-man in the world. He is my brother, the better part of myself. What I must know he tells me, whether I would hear it or not. To play emperor with him is to be a great fool.

Han bowed. “I go.”

Bathed and dressed in sober dark green silk, he wrapped the wind about himself and stepped into the witching twilight. Stepped out of it into early afternoon sunshine, into the castle's privy garden where Rhian fled to seek peace. Its beauty came as a startlement after the darkness of Mijak.

Ethrea's queen stood at the garden's edge, dressed in her common huntsman's leathers, staring over the busy harbour to the empty ocean beyond. Staring at the horizon. Waiting for Mijak. Her head tilted, just a little. She knew he stood behind her.

“How is it,” she asked, not turning, “you always manage to find me?”

It was possible to answer without betraying Tzhung-tzhungchai. “You have a bright soul, Majesty. It is easy to find.”

That made her turn. Blue eyes wide, her cheeks tinted pink, she stared. “What an extraordinary thing to say.”

He smiled. “And yet it is true.”

She shook her head, baffled, as he'd meant her to be. “You need something else from me, Han?”

Han . “Your help.”

“My help? ” She considered him, arms folded hard across her chest. “And how can I help the mighty Emperor of the Tzhung?”

There was a note of scornful teasing in her voice. Beneath it, suspicion. Still she was not easy about him. Too many mysteries. Too much unexplained. She was brave but he frightened her, though she would never show it. Not willingly.

He clasped his hands behind him. A salt breeze blew in his face, tugging at his hair. “The witch-men of Tzhung-tzhungchai hold back the trade winds from Icthia. Tzhung-tzhungchai keeps Mijak at bay. But my witch-men cannot fight Mijak alone forever. You must form your armada quickly, before they falter and break.”

When she was angry her eyes turned the deepest blue. “Your witch-men are holding back the trade winds,” she repeated, as though she could scarcely believe it. “And this was something you felt wasn't worth mentioning ?”

“No,” he said, shrugging. “At least, not until now.”

She flung away from him to stare again across the harbour. “Emperor Han, your arrogance astounds me.” Her voice was unsteady. “Have you no idea of the trouble this will cause?”

He waited until his silence made her turn back again.

“ Well? ” she demanded. “Don't you realise what you've done ?”

“I have spent my witch-men in the service of Ethrea,” he said, and let his voice chill. “The warriors of Mijak might be sailing into your harbour now if my witch-men didn't break their hearts restraining them.”

Now she fisted her hands on her hips. “I take it you expect me to thank you?”

He was aware of his own anger. “Yes.”

“ Han —” She let out a sharp, impatient breath and began to speak, then stopped. Stared for a moment at the gravel-covered ground. “Yes,” she said, still angry. “If your witch-men are throwing Mijak into disarray, I do thank you. But surely you see I'm in an impossible position!” Then she shook her head. “Or perhaps you don't. You're the Emperor of Tzhung-tzhungchai. Your lightest whim is imperial law. Have you ever had to wrangle with anyone to get your way? I can't imagine you have.”

He thought of his childhood, and kept his face schooled. “What has that to do with Mijak?”

“Oh, only everything,” she retorted. “Han, why didn't you tell the trading nations this? When we met in the castle to discuss the threat of Mijak, why didn't you say ?”

“The secrets of Tzhung-tzhungchai are not for the world to know.”

“But don't you see how this will look to the ambassadors?” she demanded. “I told them, I swore to them, that Tzhung-tzhungchai did not meddle for me. And now you've made a liar of me. When they find out—” With an effort she controlled her temper. “Han, in the two days since I told them of Mijak only Voolksyn has said he's sent word to his master.” She pulled a face. “Well, Athnïj has too, for all the good it'll do him or Ethrea. But the other ambassadors still haven't committed to my cause. They're waiting to see what Gutten does, and Gutten—” She bit off a curse. “Surely you understand this is only going to make things worse.”

“Worse?” he said, and took a step towards her. “ Worse is the warships of Mijak sailing into your harbour! Worse is the slaughter of your people in the streets. Rhian, my witch-men cannot hold back Mijak much longer. You must make the other nations agree to your armada before Mijak comes to Ethrea.”

“How?” she said, glaring. “By snapping my fingers? Doubtless that will bring Gutten to heel!”

Gutten was a cur dog who'd do better spitted on a sword than speaking for his master the Count of Arbenia. “Rhian, I'm not ruler here. It's for you to bring the trading nations together. That is why your God chose you, yes?”

She muttered something under her breath. “We should continue this conversation with my privy council – except I hardly have a privy council at the moment, with Ludo and Adric at the dukes' funerals, and Edward and Rudi inspecting the kingdom's garrisons.” Her eyes were bright blue again, her anger rekindled. “But Alasdair is here, at least, and Helfred. Dexterity, though he's at home taking care of personal matters. And then there's Zandakar. He—”

“ No ,” he said. “You cannot tell the Prince of Mijak.”

Her chin came up, defiant. “Why not? His heart is sworn to Ethrea.”

“Exactly. Trust him with your secrets, Rhian, if that's what you wish. You will not trust him with mine.”

“You say you trust me, but you won't trust who I trust?” She sneered. “What kind of trust is that, Han?”

“It is the trust of Tzhung-tzhungchai. Would you prefer I withdraw from our alliance? Would you rather my witch-men fight only for the Tzhung?”

“Of course not,” she said, after a moment. “Very well. I'll not tell Zandakar.”

In aggravated silence she led him from the garden into the castle, sending the first servant she saw to summon the king and the prolate to the privy council chamber.

“And the toymaker?” he enquired as he followed her up the nearest staircase.

“It'll take too long for him to come. I want this dealt with,” she replied, over her shoulder.

As they waited for King Alasdair and Prolate Helfred to join them, she stood at the council chamber window, her back resolutely turned. Han sat in one of the council table's chairs, patiently silent.

Eventually the council doors opened, and King Alasdair arrived. “Rhian? What's—” And then he stopped.

Han stood. “Your Majesty.”

“How…unexpected,” said King Alasdair, sounding not at all pleased. “And yet, it seems, typical. Emperor Han, for what reason—”

Rhian turned from the window. “Do you mind if we wait for Helfred, Alasdair? This is a tale I'd prefer to tell only once.”

The king nodded. “All right.”

Han favoured him with a small smile. “Forgive me,” he said, scrupulously polite. “If your queen is in a temper you must lay the blame at my feet.”

“Have no fear,” said King Alasdair, sitting. “I do.”

Hiding a larger smile, Han resumed his own seat. This new-crowned king, subordinate to his queen, still had some bite. That was good. Toothless men were of no use against Mijak.

The doors opened a second time and the prolate entered. “Your Majesty? What's amiss?”

“Thank you for attending so promptly, Helfred,” said Rhian. “Emperor Han brings news. I suggest you sit down, for it's like to knock you quite off balance.”

Cautious, the young prolate groped for a chair. “Emperor Han. God's blessings on you.”

Another smile. “And may the wind blow good fortune to you, Your Eminence.”

Rhian marched around the table, kicked the chamber door shut, then began pacing. “Very well, gentlemen. Consider our discussion privy state business, and this a meeting of council.”

“If it's a meeting of the council,” said Helfred, “then Ven'Cedwin should—”

She raised a hand, still pacing. “No. No record. When the others return we can tell them what we've said here.”