The Godspeaker Trilogy (133 page)

His eyes burned. There were tears on his cheeks.

“Hettie!” he shouted. “Hettie, where are you? Hettie, where am I? Hettie, please, answer !”

And she was beside him, dress tattered, hair wild. So little colour to her that for the first time she looked truly a ghost. “Here I am, Dex.”

He staggered back from her, nearly stumbling over a dead woman and her son. What looked like her son. The monstrously burned child was clasped in her spasmed arms. “Where are we, Hettie? What is this place? Why have you brought me here?”

The sorrow in her face was as stark as a wound. “This city is … was … called Garabatsas.”

“Garabatsas?” He shook his head. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“It was a small place. Unimportant. There’s no reason you would.”

“What country, Hettie? What country are we in?”

She looked at him, sadly. “Sharvay.”

“Sharvay?” He felt a nasty jolt under his ribs. “I’ve heard of Sharvay.”

“I know you have, Dex. That’s why we’re here.”

“Sharvian beadwork! It’s prized by the court ladies. You can spend a fortune on one little—”

“Dexie, I know,” she said, and clasped her hands together. They were pale and trembling. “My love, let me speak.”

But he couldn’t. Not yet. Memory was returning, sharp enough to blot out the dreadful sight of Garabatsas, destroyed. “Hettie—in the manor house. Something happened to me—something—” He shuddered. “I was glowing ! And walking and talking but somehow it wasn’t me ! Hettie, was it you ?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

Rolling through him, a terrible sense of betrayal. A feeling he’d never known her at all. “Without asking me? Without warning ? Hettie, how could you?”

“Oh, Dex …” She tried to smile but her eyes were bleak with sorrow. “If I had asked … if I had warned … would you have helped me?”

“I don’t know! Most likely! But—”

“Then it’s all right, isn’t it? Dex, I’m sorry. I was in a hurry, I had no time. And you weren’t harmed, were you? You have to know I’d never harm you.”

Such love in her face. How could he doubt her? “Yes—of course—I know you wouldn’t—but really, Hettie, that’s not the point! It was very frightening and—and—” He stopped. “Where am I, really? While I’m having this dream? Am I still in the Great—”

“You’re tucked up in bed, my love, with Ursa counting every breath and eye-twitch.”

Well, at least that was something. “But what happened? Has Rhian managed to convince the dukes? Have they—”

“You’ll find out shortly,” said Hettie. “Right now I have to show you something else. Take my hand.”

“Why?” he asked, ashamed of his suspicion. “I don’t want to see any more dead people, Hettie.” He looked around at the slaughtered Garabatsas and felt a fresh burning in his eyes. “I’ve seen enough. I’d like to go now, please. I’d like to wake up.”

“You will soon. I promise.”

He took her hand, reluctant, and looked again at the dead. “All these poor people …” he whispered. Dear God, her fingers were so cold. “Who could do such a terrible thing?”

“You already know, Dex.”

“No. Not Zandakar !”

Hettie raised her other hand and waved it slowly across the face of the red, sullen sun. Garabatsas the charnel-house rippled and was remade around them. Now the air was free of smoke, sweet-smelling and fresh. The buildings stood intact, brick and timber painted yellow, orange and blue. Bright colours. Bright, cheerful faces of the people in Garabatsas, a short race with olive skin and light hair. This was a marketplace. Chickens squawked in wooden cages, luscious fruits piled high under canvas awnings. Horses hitched to spindly carts swished their tails at biting flies and dogs hunted among the market-goers for scraps and attention. Men and women bought and sold their wares. Squealing children chased the dogs and each other.

Dexterity glanced at Hettie. “They can’t see us?”

“No.”

“Then why—”

She squeezed his hand. “Hush, my love. Watch … and wait.”

So he stood unseen in the marketplace of Garabatsas and smiled to see the people so unafraid.

And then someone screamed, a shrill shriek of fear. Above the marketplace sounds, a dreadful deep chanting. Coming closer. Growing in strength.

“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

The warriors came on horseback, their long curved knives unsheathed and shining in the sun. Thousands and thousands of them, too many to count, rank upon rank in a slow, steady jog. Their hair was tightly braided, sewn with amulets and silver bells. Their horses’ hides were blue and black and striped and spotted, not like any horse he’d ever seen.

The warrior who led them had braids as red as blood.

“Not Zandakar,” he whispered, and could have wept with the relief.

“No,” said Hettie. “His brother.”

“Dmitrak.” Dexterity felt sick again, fresh bile in his mouth. “Hettie, can’t you stop this?”

“It’s the past, Dex. It’s already happened.”

Dmitrak didn’t carry an unsheathed knife. On his right arm he wore some kind of gauntlet, made of red crystal and gold. He raised his arm above his head. Closed his eyes. Cried out to his god. To chalava . His fingers clenched tight … and the gauntlet caught fire. A bright scarlet stream of it, surging towards the sun.

“Oh, Hettie!” he sobbed, as Dmitrak’s arm came down, fire streaming from his fist, and the people died and the buildings burned and Dmitrak’s warriors slaughtered whoever the killing flames didn’t touch. “No … no … no …”

Hettie snapped her fingers and Garabatsas disappeared.

Now they stood beside a tranquil pond in the heart of a forest. Deer grazed all around them, spotted fawns and liquid-eyed does and a magnificent stag with its many-pointed antlers. Pale pink butterflies floated over the grass. But its beauty wasn’t real to him. All he could see was the death of Garabatsas. All he could hear was the sound of agonised screaming … the terrible chanting as Mijak’s warriors rode through blood.

“Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

He fell to his knees and wept without restraint.

“Why did you show me that?” he demanded, when he could speak.

“Because seeing is believing, Dex. I needed you to know.”

“Zandakar told me. I knew already!”

“It’s not the same.”

No, it wasn’t the same. “Those people! Those poor people!”

“I know, Dex,” said Hettie. She was kneeling beside him, her cold hand on his shoulder. “But it’s over. The people of Sharvay are beyond our help.”

“Then why —”

“Because there are others we can help. God needs us to help them.”

He pulled away from her. “God? You show me that then talk to me of God ? There is no God, Hettie! Or if there is he’s not a God I can believe in! What is God for if not to stop things like that? How can God love us and allow such brutal slaughter?”

She caught his face between her hands. Pressed her forehead against his. Her tears fell on his skin, warm and swift. “I know it seems like that. It’s complicated, Dexie. One day you’ll understand. For now, can you believe me when I say God does what he can? That’s why I’m here. And why you’re here with me.”

He took her hands in his and gently tugged them from his cheeks. “Hettie, I have to know this. Is chalava God?”

Her face twisted, the gentle Hettie he knew almost lost in revulsion. “No.”

“Then what—”

“They think it is,” she said, shivering even though the meadow was warm. “The people of Mijak. Their priests believe they commune with God. But what they touch is an ancient pool of dark power. It feeds and replenishes itself and them on endless offerings of blood and death. Drunk on that power the priests perform miracles. Abominations. The priests and their warriors live only that they might kill. And the more they kill the more powerful they become.”

It sounded … appalling . “I have to tell Zandakar. He has to know the truth. If he—”

“ No, Dex! He won’t understand. He’ll think you’re trying to destroy him. And we need Zandakar’s help. We won’t save Ethrea without him. Promise you won’t tell him, Dex.”

Slowly, he nodded. “All right. I promise.” After all, what was one more secret? He closed his eyes and saw again the terrible streams of fire from the red-crystal gauntlet. “This blood power. That’s how Dmitrak was able to—”

“Yes. And Zandakar too, before he … stopped.”

“And their mother? This Hekat?”

“She’s mad, Dexterity. Mad and convinced she does her god’s will.”

“And you think I can stop them?” He stood and turned his back to her. The deer kept grazing, undismayed. “A toymaker from Kingseat? Hettie, you’re mad.”

“Not by yourself, Dex,” she said. “That’s why you need Zandakar. That’s why you have to protect his secret. And why you have to make sure Rhian is not defeated by Marlan and his petty dukes. She’s so important, my love. She has the power to unite the untouched nations against the warhost of Mijak. Not just because Ethrea alone holds no allegiances, and can be trusted by all the rest, but because she is special . God’s grace is in her. She was born to do this … but she needs help.”

The forest’s heart was safe and beautiful. Her words had left him cold and afraid. He turned. “Hettie … you’ve never told me this much before.”

She was standing now, too. Her sad smile was translucent. “It wasn’t time, before. But the blood of slain innocents broke through the barrier that kept Hekat’s warhost at bay. She has crossed the great desert. Sharvay has fallen and more lands will fall after it. The world is in peril, Dex … I have no more time.”

She was talking in riddles. “Hettie—”

“I’ve said all I can, my love. Now I must ask a favour. And I am asking this time. It’s too big a thing not to ask first …”

“What?” He folded his arms, uncertain. “Are you talking about more glowing, Hettie? And walking about like one of my own puppets come to life?”

“A little like that.”

“Why?”

“For Rhian. She must become queen.” Hettie’s eyes filled with tears. “Please say you’ll do it, Dex. It’s ever so important.”

How could he refuse her when she looked at him like that? “Yes. All right. I’ll do it. For you and for Rhian, but—”

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Make sure Rhian goes by road back to Kingseat. By road, not by river.”

“Oh, but—”

She kissed him to silence, stealing his breath. His heart broke all over again, feeling her lips on his. Searing heat rushed through him… suns burst into life behind his closed eyes …

And he was alone.

“Hettie!” He spun in a circle, the world spinning with him. The startled deer scattered. “Hettie, come back here! Hettie? Come back !”

“Hettie’s not here, Jones,” said Ursa, tartly. “You’re dreaming again. Time to open your eyes.”

He sat up, unsurprised to find himself in the manor house. His lips still tingled from Hettie’s kiss. It was a kind of torture, to feel that again. His chamber’s curtains weren’t quite drawn properly. Beyond the window it was night. He was in bed and he’d been dressed in a nightshirt.

He plucked at it. “Ursa, did you do this?”

“I did, Jones,” she answered, unperturbed. “And I didn’t see anything I’ve not seen before. Although I’m curious to know why you wear that carved monstrosity under your shirt.”

He slapped his hand to his chest but the chalava was still there. More than ever he wanted to tear if off, throw it away, but he didn’t dare. “As a favour to Zandakar. Ursa, what’s happening?”

“Hush,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

“Do you want me to hush or answer the question?”

“Jones …”

“I’m fine.”

Ursa sat back in her chair and considered him. “For a man who burst into flames but doesn’t have a mark on him, yes, you certainly look fine.”

“I burst into flames? I don’t remember that. I remember I was glowing …”

“Glowing was just the start of it, Jones. You glowed, you burned, you delivered messages from God. It was miraculous. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“It wasn’t me, it was Hettie,” he said, and rubbed his hands across his face.

“I gathered that much,” said Ursa, dryly. “When you woke up shouting for her to come back. Well?”

He looked at her, cautiously. “Well what?”

“Well what did she have to say this time?”

Nothing I can tell you, Ursa. At least almost nothing . With an effort he thrust aside the dreadful memory of Garabatsas and settled himself onto his pillows again. “You should prepare yourself for … more miracles.”

The wry amusement died out of Ursa’s eyes. “I don’t think that’s wise, Jones. You’re not a saint, you’re a flesh and blood man. Humans weren’t meant to glow and burn with holy fire. If you could’ve seen Helfred after you collapsed. I had to pour half a goblet of brandy down his throat before I could get one sensible word from him!”

“But I’m not harmed, Ursa. You said so yourself. And this is important. It’s for Rhian. After everything else I’ve done, how can I stop helping her now?”

“Driving her from Todding to Linfoi is one thing,” snapped Ursa. “Bursting into flames at the drop of a hat is something else entirely! You weren’t harmed this time, it’s true, but what about next time? What does Hettie expect you to do? Burn from here to Kingseat proclaiming Rhian queen?”

It was a fair question. “I don’t know,” he said tiredly. “I just know I said I’d do it, so carping at me isn’t much use. Hettie’s gone. Until I see her again we’ll just have to trust she knows what she’s doing.”

“Jones!” said Ursa, her fingers knotted in her lap. “If you’re not the most infuriating man!”

He dredged up a smile for her. “I know. I’m sorry.” He rubbed his face again, then considered her. “You’re taking this very calmly, I must say. I thought you were convinced I couldn’t be a new Rollin.”

She shrugged. “I was wrong. I’ve always believed in miracles, Jones. I’m a woman of faith. You think I go to church for fun? Besides, physicking is full of wonders. I must see three a week, at least.”

How could he have expected another answer? He shook his head. “Of course. Now, tell me what’s happened since I was carted up here.”

“The dukes of Arbat and Morvell have agreed it’s God’s will they support Rhian. But Damwin of Meercheq and Kyrin of Hartshorn stormed off, swearing bloody vengeance and God’s wrath. So did Marlan’s spy, the lovely Ven’Martin. Rhian, King Alasdair, the newly invested Duke Ludo and Helfred, along with Dukes Rudi and Edward, are meeting in the library to decide what we’ll do next.”