The Godspeaker Trilogy (60 page)

Lilit gasped. She took a step forward, hope blazing in her face. “Zandakar? You have spared Na’ha’leima?”

He let his eyes answer her, and felt his heart leap to see the shining joy in her face. Aieee, to know that he had pleased her. It doused the pain in him, the cold bitter emptiness of Dimmi’s long silence.

Behind him on the stone steps, his angry brother spoke. “He would not smite that godforsaken city. He says the god spoke to him. I say he lies.”

The god’s hammer slid from Yuma’s grasp. Vortka caught it before it hit the dais. “Zandakar?” she demanded; she would never listen to Dimmi or believe a single word that fell from his tongue.

All his great love for her, he poured into his gaze. “Empress, I tell you, it is no lie. The god spoke in my heart, it told me conquest was over. It told me to come home. It has had its fill of blood.”

His mother turned to Vortka. “High godspeaker?”

“Empress …” Vortka shook his head. “The warlord’s purpose remains unchanged. The god sees him in its conquering eye. He is the warlord, the god’s smiting hammer. His purpose is to reshape the world.”

No. No. That could not be right. Vortka was mistaken, Mijak’s high godspeaker had misheard the god. Crashing into his back, Dimmi’s hard fists. “I knew it! You liar, you deceiver!” his brother cried. “You sinning betrayer of the god!”

He should never have begun this here, in public. They must return to the palace, to the privacy of home. “Empress. Yuma. I would have words with you alone.”

“We are alone,” his mother said coldly. “If you have words for me, speak them.”

Lilit clasped her hands, let them rest on her belly where his precious son slept. “Zandakar, beloved, tell us what happened. Everything will be all right.”

Her beautiful eyes narrow, her lined, scarred face like stone, his mother slid her snakeblade out of its sheath, she held it up so the sunlight flashed on its edge. Her glance flickered sideways. “One more word, you will not speak another.”

Aieee, this was madness! He reached out his hand. “Yuma!”

His mother’s glare smote him like a blow from the god. “I am not Yuma! I am the Empress!”

He dropped to his knees like a slaughtered bull and bowed his head, trembling. “You are the Empress. Empress, forgive me. I did hear the god. In my heart it told me, enough.”

“Hekat …” Vortka’s voice now, filled with tears. “It was not the god.”

Dimmi said, “Tcha. I knew it. He has turned from you, Empress, as he turned from me. All he cares for is that piebald bitch. You should taste her blood, Vortka. I think she is a demon.”

He looked up, then, as Hekat caught her breath. Terrible betrayal was in her face, pain as he had never seen, as though he had stabbed her.

Dimmi said, “I tried to reason with him, Empress. I tried to make him listen to the god. He cut me with his snakeblade! He tried to kill me with the hammer!”

Aieee, Dimmi, you are not helping! Dimmi, hold your wicked tongue!

“Is this so, warlord?” his mother whispered. “Did you turn the god’s hammer on your brother?”

He was shivering so hard his godbells cried. How could he explain what had happened? How could he make her understand? “Yuma, I swear, I heard the god. I am not meant to make Mijak the world. I am meant for another purpose.”

Breathing ragged, his mother the Empress tipped her face towards the hot sky. Around her neck, the scorpion amulet burned. “Aieeeeeeee! The god see me! My son Zandakar is dead!”

Dead? Dead? What did she mean? She meant to disown him, was that her desire? But all he had done was obey the god! How could she disown him for obedience? For doing nothing more than what she had trained him to do since he was born? Stunned, he stared at her.

And as he stared she leapt from her stone throne, she slashed through her scarred face with her cruel snakeblade, she slashed her breasts and her arms and never cried in pain once. Others cried out, though. Lilit. Vortka. The crowd. Even Dimmi protested, he sounded sincere.

Someone else was shouting. He realised it was him. He heard the horror in his voice, saw his hands reaching. “No, Yuma! Yuma, stop! Yuma!”

There was so much noise, his mother could not hear him. Blood filled her eyes, she could not see his hands.

His beloved Lilit was weeping. “Please, Empress, do not do this! Zandakar is your son!”

“Be silent, you patched slut!” his mother raged at Lilit. “Did you not hear me, there is no Zandakar! Zandakar is dead! Dead in the god’s eye, dead in mine!”

“No, no, he kneels before you!” Lilit wept. “Do not disown him, forgive him, Empress. Whatever he did, he did for me! For his son in my belly, for the love between us!”

Something terrible happened to his mother’s face then. Beneath the blood her blue eyes blazed as though they looked into the coldest pit of hell. Her lips peeled back. The open wounds in her flesh gaped like the screaming mouths of demons. A garbled, choked sound bubbled from her throat. She lifted her snakeblade and spun on her toes.

Lunging forward, he screamed. “Yuma, no!”

With five swift strikes of her snakeblade his mother opened Lilit’s bulging belly. As though the god had nailed him in place he saw Lilit’s slashed flesh sag. Saw the front of her silk robe turn scarlet. Saw his knifed child slide from the safety of its mother’s womb and fall to the stone dais at her feet.

He saw his beautiful son gasp once, and die.

Lilit shrieked, then dropped to the blood-slicked stone dais beside their child, Dimmi’s snakeblade plunged into her throat.

Zandakar woke, screaming and weeping, on fire with grief and guilt now as he’d burned with fever before.

“Lilit! Lilit! Aieee, Lilit!”

Strong hands seized his shoulders, held him down as he howled. The dream was familiar, he’d endured it so many times, but the face thrust close to his was not. White skin. Reddish hair. Brown eyes. Cheeks and chin hidden beneath a wiry beard. A light voice, speaking gibberish, except for his name.

“Zandakar. Zandakar.”

Slowly, so slowly, the horror of the dream faded. Then he realised he had seen the man before. Memory returned in snatches. The slave ship. A wheeled cart. A stern woman with grey hair. She cut off his godbraids: for that alone, he could weep anew. Lilit had loved them. She had loved his hair.

The white man’s lips were still moving, more sounds came out. He could not understand a word being said. But the man’s tone was not angry and there were tears in his eyes. In some strange way he could not understand, something about the man reminded him of Vortka.

So. Not an enemy. At least, not yet.

Abruptly, he became aware of pain and crushing weakness. His wasted body was a mass of sores, he knew that already. He tried to look at himself, glimpsed ointment and bandages. Like the godless lands, did this place have no healers, then? Healers who could summon the god’s power and knit flesh with a thought? Clearly not.

Aieee, Lilit. Where am I? And why am I brought here? Why am I not allowed to die?

The bearded man stopped talking. Now his face was anxious. He held up one finger, smiled, then withdrew from the room. A few moments later he was back, with water.

His body’s demands would not be ignored. He drank the water, thirsty as a camel. Smiling again, the bearded man put aside the emptied cup and said something else.

He shook his head. “You waste your breath. I have more hope of understanding a monkey.”

The bearded man blew out air between his lips, frustrated. Then he held one hand under his chin, as though it were a bowl, and with the other mimicked eating with a spoon. Finished with that, he patted his belly. The question was plain. Are you hungry ?

“No,” Zandakar said, and closed his eyes. “I desire no food. I desire nothing from you. Leave me alone. I wish to die.”

The last thing he felt as darkness claimed him was the bearded man’s warm hand on his shoulder, as though there was caring. As though they were friends.

M
ajesty,” said Marlan, bending low. The man in the high bed scarcely stirred. “ Eberg … attend me. Your time is short. If you would go to God with a clear conscience you must leave behind no unfinished business.”

Eberg dragged open his eyes. “Rhian,” he muttered. His voice was thin. Depleted. Death approached swiftly, defeating that final rallying of the flesh.

“Yes, Eberg. You must make provision for Rhian, so Ethrea might have its new king.”

It was that cold, dark hour between midnight and dawn. Marlan had been roused from his deep sleep by an urgent summons: the king was failing, he must come at once. One look at Eberg’s pinched, fallen face told him this was no exaggeration. They were alone in the stifling chamber. Beyond its closed door waited the physick and the chosen witnesses, ready to enter and sign their names to the future.

The future I will bring them. The future they require.

“List,” whispered Eberg. “Names. Husband … for Rhian.”

Marlan shook his head. “Not yet completed.”

“Marlan …” A meagre tear trickled from the king’s right eye. “I was to decide … with her.”

As if the girl were qualified to have an opinion. “I am sorry, Majesty,” he said, not sorry at all. “I fear there’ll be no time for that. But I will guide her wisely, you have my word.”

Another tear, trickling. “Rhian’s decision.”

The man was a fool. A soft, indulgent, short-sighted fool. “Of course. Eberg, attend. While you are able you must sign the writ of abdication. Failure to formally create a regency council will lead to unfortunate consequences.”

Eberg nodded. “Yes.”

“Majesty …” He leaned closer, resting his hand on the dying man’s shoulder. “By law the princess must become a ward of the Church. But I would suggest to you an alternative arrangement. Still legal, as I am the Church’s prolate, but less … institutional. Make your daughter my personal ward. I can never replace you as her father, nor would I try. But I have known her since she was born. Indeed, I can tell you in this moment of extremity that in my heart she is the daughter I never had. Grant me that closer bond with your dear child, Eberg. Let the Church be her bulwark, but let me stand a little closer. I would look upon it as a great favour from you.”

Eberg’s half-lidded eyes glinted. “No.”

“No?” Marlan felt his face tighten. “Majesty—”

“You and Rhian … do not deal well … together,” said Eberg, breathing painfully. “She needs … light hand. Find … wise devout, Marlan. Woman’s touch. Misses her … mother.”

With an effort Marlan relaxed his clenched jaw. It makes no difference. The man is dying. When he is gone Rhian will still be mine. I will still use her as I see fit. He cannot prevent that. His time of thwarting me is done . “Yes, Your Majesty. As Your Majesty desires.”

“Marlan …” Eberg had enough strength left to raise one hand and take feeble hold of his prolate’s wrist. “Marriage. Rhian … must be … happy. Right man for Ethrea … but Rhian … happy.” The hand fell away laxly. “Help my child … be happy.”

The dregs of Eberg’s strength were rapidly dwindling. “I will do my best, Majesty,” said Marlan.

“Want … to see her.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Over my own dead body …

Eberg nodded. “Good. Sign writ now.”

Marlan went to the door. Opening it, he nodded to the men waiting tensely beyond. “It is time, gentlemen,” he said softly. “Let us finish our sad business, then pray for the king.”

Dexterity stood in his kitchen, peeling carrots for his planned dinner of mutton stew and keeping one ear cocked for any commotion from the spare room where Ursa was checking on their unlikely patient. The sun was well up, promising a fine, clear day. A pity he’d not be out in it. He’d never liked being cooped up inside.

“He’ll do,” said Ursa, rejoining him after some ten minutes with Zandakar. She looked less weary this morning, most of her acerbic energy returned. “I’ve dosed him with a good strong draught of shuteye. It should see him sleep till this time tomorrow.”

Dexterity looked up from his peeling. “Sleep without dreaming?”

“That’s the idea, Jones.”

He set aside the paring knife, reached for his cutting knife and started dicing the carrots. “Good. Because if you’d seen his face, Ursa. If you’d heard him screaming …”

Ursa sighed, stowed her physick bag beside the back door and dropped herself into one of the kitchen chairs. “He was a slave, Jones. That’s hardly a picnic. I’m sure he’s seen any number of horrible sights.”

“No,” he said, and shook his head. “It was more than that. I’m almost certain it was something personal. Something to do with someone called Lilit . And someone else called Yuma . He kept saying Wei, Yuma. Wei, Yuma . Since we’re reasonably sure wei means no, I think he was telling this Yuma person not to do something. Something dreadful. I think to this Lilit, whoever he or she is. Or was.”

“Jones …” Ursa sighed again. “Don’t get involved.”

He stared. “What are you talking about? I’m already involved. He’s asleep in my spare room. I paid for him with my gold.”

“You know what I mean,” she said, glowering. “You’re a soft touch, Jones. You always have been. Every time I turn around you’ve rescued a baby bird that’s fallen from its nest or a stray cat with an infected claw or found a sack of abandoned mongrel puppies that didn’t drown like they were meant to. And when you’re not rescuing the waifs and strays and bringing them to me for healing after, you’re giving away toys to children whose folk can’t afford them. And don’t try to deny it, because you know it’s true!”

Yes. It was true. Hadn’t Hettie scolded him for his too-tender heart, oh, so many times? But what did they expect him to do, turn a blind eye to suffering when it was right under his nose? “Ursa—”

“Don’t you ‘Ursa’ me!” she said, and rapped her knuckles on the kitchen table. “When I say ‘don’t get involved’ I mean don’t go making this man’s troubles your own. Don’t go breaking your heart over his sad story, whatever it is, because for one thing you can’t undo what’s been done and for another he might well have brought it on himself!”

Frowning, Dexterity dropped the chopped carrots into the stew pot then swept up the peelings ready for the compost heap. “That’s the second time you’ve suggested Zandakar could be some kind of—of criminal.”