by Karen Miller
“Any molasses?”
“Yes. In the pantry.”
“Don’t be snippy,” she told him, and continued on her way.
Beyond the open window, dusk surrendered to evening. The first stars came out, winking as though they shared some private joke. Dexterity closed his eyes and breathed in the last of the day’s warm air, laced with perfume from the flower garden Hettie had planted, and tended, and loved so much.
Well, it seems I’ve saved Zandakar for you, dearest. Now perhaps you’d like to tell me why.
She didn’t answer.
Hettie, my darling, you mustn’t be so mysterious. Why is this man here? Why did I buy him? What kind of trouble is Ethrea facing?
And still, no answer.
Hettie, what kind of trouble is Rhian in? Hettie? Hettie!
“What’s the matter, Jones?” said Ursa, in the doorway. “Having a bout of constipation?”
She was nearly sixty, and looked tired to the bone. Burying resentful exasperation, he levered his aching body out of the armchair. “Ursa, you should go. I’m perfectly capable of making gruel and boiling an egg.”
She didn’t snap his nose off, which told him precisely how weary she was. Instead she crossed to the sleeping Zandakar and, bending over him, laid her palm on his forehead. “Still cool,” she murmured. She checked his pulse. “A little fast, but nothing alarming.” With a groan, she straightened. “All right, Jones. If you’re tired of my company. But I’ll be back after breakfast. If anything should go amiss overnight—”
“I’ll bring him straight to you,” he promised. “But I think he’ll be fine.”
“Hmmph,” she said. “We’ll see. The gruel’s on a low simmer and your egg’s about to boil. Make sure you have some bread and butter with it. And a good strong cup of tea. I’ve left you some feverkill, in case you need it. Extra ointments for those wounds I’ve left uncovered. If he wakes, and you think he’s thirsty, offer him water. Nothing else. If he keeps that down you can try him with the gruel. Add a dollop of molasses to it. Just a small one, mind you. And whatever you do, don’t let him up. He needs to rest a good while before I’ll trust him on his feet. Can you remember all that?”
He smiled. “Yes. Of course. Ursa, I should drive you home.”
“Tosh,” she said, and picked up her physicking bag. “I don’t live that far away. A walk in the fresh air will do me good. Besides, you can’t leave the poor wretch. And you’ll have to keep yourself awake through the night, in case he has need of you.”
He often worked from sunset to dawn. Besides, he had his shepherdess marionette to finish. “At least let me walk you to the gate. I can do that much, after all you’ve done.”
He watched her from the end of his front path, marching down the tree-lined street with her head high and her shoulders square, daring anyone to call her old.
Once she’d gone from his sight he hurried to feed Otto and tidy the donkey’s small stable. Those tasks completed, he returned to his cottage. The gruel was cooked so he took it off the hob. The egg had boiled dry, but he ate it anyway with a thick slice of buttered bread, surprised to discover how hungry he was. As he waited for the kettle to boil he put tea-leaves ready in the pot and collected his whittling tools and the unfinished shepherdess marionette. Then, with his hands full of puppet, knives and steaming mug, he returned to his vigil in Zandakar’s room.
Zandakar’s room . How odd, to think that. Odder still to find he didn’t resent this mysterious stranger, thrust upon him so outrageously, who’d cost him quite a lot of money, really. Not to mention his brand-new curtains.
But to resent him would be churlish. What is a little spent gold compared to this poor man’s sufferings? How strong must Zandakar be, to have survived that dreadful slave ship, and his brutal mishandling, and that terrible fever … and all the misadventures that have brought him to me here. I do hope we can find a way to understand each other. I want to know his story, I’m sure it’s quite amazing.
Settled once more in his armchair, with the lamps softly burning and his hot tea in one hand, Dexterity rested his gaze on sleeping Zandakar’s drawn face. No tears, now, no whispered muttering. But the man’s eyes were restless beneath his closed lids, and a certain tension thrummed through his long, blanket-covered body.
Ah, well. I’m certain we’ll come to some arrangement. Clearly he’s not a stupid fellow. One way or another we’ll learn to communicate, even if it’s only with signs.
He let his thoughts drift then, hoping Hettie would return and explain … well, everything. She didn’t. So he finished his cooling tea, set the empty mug to one side and turned his attention to his shepherdess marionette, who looked like Hettie when she was young, and alive.
Lost in the past, deep in stuporous sleep and burned hollow by fever, Zandakar godhammer dreamed … and remembered.
The hardest thing about the journey home to Et-Raklion was the silence. Dimmi refused to speak to him. Refused even to look at him, if he could help it. All their lives they’d been so close. Laughing and affectionate, teasing and together. This terrible coldness, this implacable rage, it was as though he rode with a snakeblade between his ribs, pricking his heart, blood weeping like tears.
He’d long since given up trying to explain.
The thought of Lilit sustained him, growing their son in the warlord’s palace. He was riding to his woman, to the woman the god had sent him. Knowing that she waited, knowing how she loved him, knowing she was his future, it made his brother’s rejection bearable. Just.
The highsuns passed, and passed, and passed. For the god’s glory he wore his gold-and-crystal gauntlet but he never used it, smiting was not his purpose now. One by one the godless lands he’d conquered fell behind them: Na’ha’leima. Harjha. Targa. Drohne. Bryzin. Zree. They did not stop at the Mijaki settlements, where godspeakers would try to interfere. They skirted the ruined cities he’d smitten to rubble and bones, he did not want to go there, they were haunted places echoed with screams. Several times they encountered caravans from Mijak and mounted messengers riding from the Empress or Vortka with questions or commands to be answered and obeyed. He did not stop to speak with them, they of course did not presume to delay him. He was Zandakar warlord, son of the Empress and the god’s smiting hammer. He and his silent brother reached the Sand River and cantered into its dry embrace.
There were no accidents this time, no blinding moments of stark terror where it seemed as though he would fail his beloved little brother, lose him to the quicksand, to the demons who everywhere lay in wait. In that first crossing, the knowledge that their mother would not mourn her second son had spurred him on when the strength born of griefstruck terror threatened to fail.
This time they crossed the Sand River as easily as if it had been a soft green meadow in the heart of Et-Raklion.
And the thought of Lilit beckoned, beckoned.
He almost wept at his first sight of Raklion’s Pinnacle, that mighty upthrust of the land with Vortka’s godhouse at its peak, and Mijak’s greatest city spread like bright jewelled skirts about its base.
In the city named for his father there was Lilit, and there was the Empress. Hekat. Yuma. His mother. Who must be pleased, surely, he had at last bedded a virgin and sown her fertile soil with his son. Though doubtless she would be taken aback by the reason for his unheralded return.
As he and Dimmi rode through the city’s main gates they were greeted by a panting, sweat-stippled godspeaker.
“Zandakar warlord,” he said, his godbraids and the hem of his robes dusty. “The god sees you in Et-Raklion, and every heart must fill with joy. Your arrival has been announced to the Empress. She and Vortka high godspeaker await you in the godtheatre.”
The godtheatre? Aieee, his timing was unfortunate. The news he brought home with him deserved a private telling in the palace, without witnesses. But this was not the godspeaker’s fault.
He nodded. “Then my brother and I will ride to the godtheatre with haste, that we
might not keep the Empress and high godspeaker waiting. My thanks, godspeaker, for your welcome.”
If the godspeaker noticed Dimmi’s ominous silence he did not comment. He only stepped back, so the horses might continue. “Warlord.”
Aieee, the sights and sounds and smells of glorious Et-Raklion! City of his childhood, city of his heart. After so long in the godless lands, in forsaken countries among peoples unseen by the god, to hear all around him the pure tongue of Mijak and the dulcet chiming of silver godbells, to taste in his mouth the promise of home.
He turned to Dimmi, his tired eyes blurring. Through a veil of tears he saw his brother’s cold, hard face, his hands tight on his stallion’s reins, no pleasure in him. Only rage, and pain.
Not for one moment would he relinquish his hate.
“Aieee, little brother. What a wound I have dealt you.”
Dimmi did not answer. It seemed more and more likely he never would.
Homecoming’s pleasure shrivelled and died.
It was not long before they attracted attention, attracted a crowd on either side of the road. The people threw amulets, threw gold coins, threw copper. They threw silver godbells and long years of godbraids cut from their heads. They had not forgotten him, they knew his blue hair.
“Zandakar! Zandakar! Zandakar warlord!”
No-one called for Dmitrak. Out in the world he’d become a tall man. He looked like a warrior, an obedient attendant. That was all the people saw.
Did Dimmi care? It was impossible to say.
They rode to the godtheatre on waves of acclaim. He entered that sacred space ahead of his brother, hot Mijaki sunshine on his face, in his eyes. The gold-and-crystal gauntlet on his arm drank down the heat, fractured the clean light into prisms of memory.
So many cities, killed in his eye. Killed by his hand. They would haunt him forever.
Ahead was the dais, and the Empress on her scorpion throne. Vortka beside her, aieee, he’d grown an old man. Lilit was on the dais, round as a fat godmoon, bursting with new life. Their child. His son.
Lilit … Lilit …
Yuma and Vortka faded away.
The laughing shouting pointing crowd of witnessing Mijakis fell silent. They were close enough to see his face, close enough to see the face of his brother. They were not stupid people. They saw something was wrong.
At the foot of the dais’s stone steps he drew rein. His horse was weary, it was glad to stop. He slid his feet from the stirrups and vaulted out of his saddle. So was he weary also, his bones shrieked for rest. With the gold-and-crystal gauntlet so heavy on his arm he trod up those stone steps till he stood with Lilit on the dais.
Their eyes met. She smiled, aieee, she smiled. The smile of his dreams was before him in the flesh. The lips he kissed after closing his eyes, the breasts that pillowed him instead of his saddle, his heart’s love, his Lilit, his gift from the god.
His appetite for Lilit’s face scarcely blunted, he looked at his mother. Six seasons he’d been gone from her, all this time riding home he’d wondered how much she was changed. If she was changed. If time had healed her ravaged body, if it had blunted, just a little, her burning godspark’s merciless edge.
She looked no different. She did not smile. She held herself rigid, tormented still by her stone scorpion throne. There was no silver in her hair but there were lines on her face, which was thinner now than it had been before. Vortka moved a little closer beside her, he was silent but his eyes were wide.
Aieee, such a pity they must do this in the godtheatre. He had hoped to speak with Vortka first, tell him of the god’s command in his heart, ask him how best to tell the Empress. He had never forgotten Vortka loved his difficult mother. The high godspeaker was a wise man. A good man. A man in whom the god burned gently. The friend of his green days, who softened Hekat’s blows.
Looking at Vortka now, he hoped the man was still in the god’s eye. That he too had heard its changed message. For if he was not, had not, then how much harder his task would be.
He turned to his mother and pressed his fist to his heart, felt the pounding in his chest. “The god sees you, Empress. Godtouched and precious, it sees you in its merciful eye.”
Her eyes were like blue ice, like the frozen water he had seen for the first time in the godless lands. “I did not look to see you here, warlord.” Her voice was cold too. She did not sound pleased to see him. “Tell me of your prowess in battle. Tell me of the new lands you have conquered, making great the god’s empire of Mijak.”
He wanted to kiss her cheek, take her hands in his, rest his head on her shoulder. Instead he removed the gold-and-crystal gauntlet from his arm and gave it to her. Though the sun was still shining his fingers were cold. “Empress, that is not why I am come.”
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 cou
ld 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.
