by Karen Miller
Tob nodded, so solemn. “Aye, Majessy. Ursa's allus physickin' us cellar brats. Foreign sailors get rough when their beer's slopped too slow.”
Really? She didn't know that. Something to frown over, when this day was done. “I've no idea if she's dead or alive. But if she's alive, Tob, she'll save the king. Run to her. Tell her we're coming. And be careful , you hear me? Avoid any warriors you see.”
Tob scarpered, and she led the others with their precious burden, scouting ahead to be sure the way was clear.
God granted another miracle. They reached the clinic safely to find Ursa and Tob waiting, and nearly two score of townsfolk huddled in fear. Along one clinic wall marched a line of sheet-covered bodies.
For some reason Rhian found them more upsetting than any pile of hacked limbs.
“Mind now, mind now!” Ursa scolded, as they laid Alasdair on a pallet. “Rollin's mercy, those heathens have made a collander of him.”
“Maybe, but he's breathing,” snapped Rhian. “So you have to—”
“Ah,” said Ursa turning to follow her stare. “Jones. Yes. That's a story.”
Dexterity stood in the corner, gently wreathed in golden flames. His eyes were open but he seemed to see nothing. He didn't move, he didn't speak, he didn't come to greet his queen.
“He's been like that for hours,” said Ursa, briskly tallying Alasdair's wounds. “Killed a band of Mijaki warriors, healed everyone here who could be saved, killed two more bands of warriors, and hasn't said a word since.” She shrugged. “I can't explain it. It's like he's…gone away.” And then she sighed. “Majesty – Rhian—”
Rhian saw in Ursa's face what the old woman didn't want to say. She looked down at Alasdair, beneath the blood so still, so pale. She felt a dreadful shudder, rage and grief shaking her, and pushed to her feet.
“ No , Ursa. I won't have it. I'm telling you, I won't .”
She marched over to Dexterity and glared into his serenely burning face. “Mister Jones! Pay attention. Your queen has need of you.”
Nothing. Nothing. He burned and said nothing.
“Mister Jones! For the love of God, I'm begging you! Look at me!”
Still nothing.
He was burning. She shouldn't touch him. She shouldn't take that dreadful risk. But she needed him, she needed him. Alasdair needs him. Oh, God, please …
With the last of her strength, with the dregs of her faith, she slapped Dexterity as hard as she could.
“Mister Jones!”
He stirred, then stared at her through the near-translucent flames. “Rhian?”
She pointed. “Alasdair's dying. Heal him. Hurry .”
Dexterity nodded, and drifted to Alasdair. Arms folded, chewing on a ragged thumbnail, Rhian watched as her toymaker made Ethrea's king – her husband – whole.
When it was over, and Dexterity stepped back, she knelt beside Alasdair and took his quiet hand. Looked into his dear face, so plain, so bony. “My love, it's me. It's Rhian.” Alasdair, wake up .
He didn't stir.
“Look out now, Majesty,” said Ursa. “Give me some room.”
Standing, Rhian gave Ursa room, then looked at Dexterity. “I thought you healed him. Why doesn't he wake?”
“He'll wake in his own time,” said Dexterity, then frowned. “You're wounded too. Poor Rhian. Poor queen.”
His sympathy nearly ruined her. She gritted her teeth and forced back the tears. “If you can heal me, heal me. And that's all I need.”
So he healed her, for the second time.
“Thank you,” she said.
But he didn't say, “You're welcome.” Instead, he turned his head to stare through the clinic's broken doors, towards the harbour.
“What?” she said. “Dexterity? What is it?”
“Zandakar,” he whispered. “Take my hand, child. We have to run.”
Zandakar? She shook her head. “No, I can't, I can't leave Alasdair, I—”
Dexterity's flames flared high and hot. “ Yes, you can, Rhian! Now run! ”
So they ran hand-in-hand through the last of the light. The lowering dusk was a kindness. She couldn't see what had been done to her capital. No warrior challenged them and she didn't burn.
Just as they reached the harbour's Royal Gate they heard the dreadful searing sound of Dmitrak's gauntlet, and the faded evening lit up as a Mijaki warship burst into fire and splinters. A heartbeat later a blue flame streaked through the air, and smoke from scorched stone seared their lungs and stung their eyes.
“Rollin's mercy,” Rhian gasped. “Is that—”
“Yes,” said Dexterity. “That's Zandakar. He's at war with his brother.”
They ran through the gates, past the smouldering harbourmaster's office, down the stone steps to the harbour-front and the docks, just in time to see a shadowed figure roll away from another killing crimson streak.
Zandakar.
“God help him,” said Rhian, her voice catching on a sob. “Dexterity, stop them, before—”
“I can't,” said her toymaker, still gently burning. “It's not my place.”
“ What? Dexterity—”
“Hush,” he replied. “Rhian, you must have faith.”
And then, to her gasping shock, he pulled the flames inside himself. All that remained of them was a golden flicker in his eyes…and a soft glow in his hands.
She didn't resist when he tugged her into the shadows.
A blast of power from Dmitrak's gauntlet set fire to six more warships. Within scant moments the docks were bathed in a merry, dancing light. Rhian could see everything, and what she saw stole her breath.
Dmitrak was hunting his brother.
Shorter than Zandakar by perhaps two handspans, he was brutally muscular, not long and lithe. He reminded Rhian of a wild boar in the way he paced the docks, shoulders hunched, head lowered. In the light from the burning ships his hair glowed blood red. Like all of Mijak's warriors, it was long and plaited into many fine braids, festooned with amulets and pretty silver bells. Every step he took shivered them into song.
Dexterity touched her arm. “See there.”
She dragged her frightened gaze from Dmitrak and looked where he nodded. Two flame-flickered bodies sprawled on the ground.
“That's Vortka.” He sounded sorrowful. “Zandakar's father is dead. The woman is poor mad Hekat, Empress of Mijak.”
“And who are they?” she asked, pointing to the other bodies scattered around the docks.
“Godspeakers,” he said, still sorrowful. “The unholy priests of Mijak.”
She didn't ask how he knew, or how he could feel pity. He was her burning man of miracles, and that explained it all.
As she turned again to stare at Dmitrak, to look for Zandakar, a streak of blue fire burst from the shadows further along the harbour, where the warships were yet to burn. Zandakar burst into the light after it, his scorpion knife pointing. A second stream of blue fire lanced from its tip. But it didn't kill Dmitrak, it seared a thin line across the stone of the harbour-front, so the prowling warrior had to leap back.
“ Dmitrak !” Zandakar shouted, and then something else, something in his Mijaki tongue Rhian couldn't understand. He didn't sound angry. He sounded desperate and so sad.
Dear God, he's trying to reason with him. Kingseat's burning, it's littered with corpses and running with blood, and he thinks to reason with the man responsible.
If he'd been within reach, she'd have stabbed him herself.
Dmitrak's answer was a stream of crimson fire. Zandakar raised his ugly scorpion knife and met the crimson fire with blue. The two flames collided in a screaming of sound, the light and heat so intense Rhian threw up a hand to protect her eyes.
But still she watched. She couldn't look away.
The two streams of power burned hot and bright as the brothers struggled to destroy each other, as blue fire and crimson melded and writhed and screamed. And then came a great flash, a boom that echoed round the harbour. Zandakar cried out
as the scorpion knife flew from his grasp to strike the dock and skitter far out of reach. In the same heartbeat Dmitrak shouted as his gauntlet belched stinking smoke…and died.
Breathless, silent, the brothers stared at each other.
Then Dmitrak laughed. Rhian felt her skin crawl, felt the hair on her nape rise. She watched, cold sweat sliding, as Zandakar's brother pulled his knife from its sheath and crouched, ready to dance.
But Zandakar was unarmed. His scorpion knife was gone.
Rhian whipped Ranald's tiger-eye blade out of its sheath. “ Zandakar !” she shouted. “ Zandakar! Here! ”
He caught the thrown knife, no time to acknowledge her. Dmitrak was not distracted, he launched into his hotas , so fast, so deadly, so implacable in his hate. Zandakar answered with hotas of his own.
Rhian stood at the edge of the firelight and watched the hotas as they were meant to be danced, between bitter enemies, to a bitter death. And she saw, for the first time, how kind Zandakar had been.
He and his brother fought with a ferocity that stole her breath. She could hardly distinguish one hota from the next, they slashed and leapt and whirled and kicked so fast. How long could they fight like this? Their speed was inhuman. Surely not even these two could keep up this pace…
And as though they read her thought, the brothers broke apart, gasping harshly, staggering a little as they sought a brief respite. Dmitrak's blade had opened Zandakar's arms, his legs, his face and his chest. His fine linen shirt and leather leggings were sodden red. Dmitrak was just as wounded, but he wasn't wounded nearly enough.
And then Rhian realised – Zandakar wasn't trying to kill him. He still believed in a victory without death.
God knew, she understood him. Had it been Ranald or Simon she'd have felt the same. No matter their crimes, no matter their wickedness, she'd want to save them. She wouldn't want them to die.
But he doesn't love you, Zandakar. Dmitrak wants you dead.
It was her fight with Kyrin all over again. She felt a flare of anger, that Zandakar could be so two-faced. He'd scolded her for being sentimental, for not dispatching Hartshorn's duke swiftly…and now here he was, making the same mistake.
I'm sorry, Zandakar. You don't give me a choice.
She thought of Alasdair, healed and waiting. Thought of her kingdom, torn apart. Then she stepped from shadow into firelight, where there was nowhere to hide.
“ Zandakar ,” she said coldly, her skin hot with fear. “You said you'd not betray me. Was that a lie?”
He was too tired and hurt to school himself. Everything he felt for her blazed in his face. Dmitrak saw it. Dmitrak laughed. He said something in Mijaki and then he grabbed his crotch, hips pumping suggestively, greed in his eyes. Zandakar's blood on his knife-blade shimmered scarlet.
“ Rhian ,” said Zandakar. In his face, love and pain. He looked at his brother. He looked back at her. Watching his face, she felt a cruel stab of grief. How could she do this, make him choose between them? Who was she, what kind of woman, to force a good man to slaughter his brother?
I'm what you made me, Zandakar. Rhian hushla, a killing queen.
Dmitrak leapt for her, and Zandakar killed him.
The silence afterwards was broken only by the sound of warships, burning. Zandakar stood over the body of his brother, so neatly slain by an Ethrean knife.
Rhian looked into his face and wept. “ Yatzhay , Zandakar. Yatzhay. Yatzhay .”
He couldn't hear her. Or if he could, had no desire to answer. He turned away from Dmitrak and walked to his mother and father, tumbled together in death a little distance away. She didn't follow him. Gave him what privacy she could.
Dexterity joined her. Dear God, she'd forgotten him. His eyes still flickered golden, his hands glowed like a lantern. He smiled at her, unspeaking, and stripped the gauntlet from Dmitrak's arm. It was an extraordinary thing, crafted from red crystal and gold wire. Beautiful, despite its brutal purpose. But it was ruined now, all but one crystal cracked and blackened, much of its thin gold wire melted.
Dexterity stroked it, glowing fingers running its length. The fire in him flared, for a heartbeat he was too bright to look at…
… and then he faded again, and the gauntlet was whole.
After all she had seen, she shouldn't be surprised. But she was surprised. She was breathless. Shocked.
“ Why , Dexterity? Why would you—”
He smiled again, gently, and took the gauntlet to Zandakar. The warrior was seated on the dock between his mother and his father, one hand touching each of them, his face so desolate Rhian had to look away.
Dexterity dropped to a crouch before him. “You're not finished yet, Zandakar. The warriors they brought here still ravage this kingdom. You are their warlord. It's time to lead them home.” He held out the gauntlet. “No-one but you can wield this now. And when you die, it will die with you and there will be the end of all dark power in Mijak.”
Zandakar took the gauntlet. Slid it onto his arm, and flexed his gold-and-crystal fingers. Then he pushed to his feet. Raised his gauntleted fist above his head. Looked at the starred sky…and sent a bolt of blue fire towards the waxing moons.
Rhian heard herself gasp. “Rollin's mercy!”
He lowered his fist and looked at her. Walked to her, his pale eyes wide with grief. Standing before her, he pressed his fist to his chest. “ Yatzhay , Rhian hushla. Yatzhay for Ethrea.”
She laid her palm against his bloodied cheek. “ Yatzhay , Zandakar. Yatzhay for your family.”
And then she held him, lightly, so he could weep.
Alasdair woke not long after dawn. Rhian, steadfastly by his side in Ursa's emptied clinic, felt the change in him. Felt him stir beneath her hand. Watched his eyes open, and blink in the new light.
“Be still, my love,” she told him softly. “Everything's all right.”
“Mijak?” he croaked. “Defeated?”
She reached for the cup of water Ursa had left ready, and helped him sip a little. “Yes. It's defeated.”
He closed his fingers round her wrist. Oh God, his touch was warm. He wasn't dead. She nearly wept.
“You? You're all right?”
She smiled. “I'm fine.”
“Zandakar?”
“Lives,” she said. “Mijak's empress is dead, and all her priests. Many of her warriors. Her other son, Dmitrak.” She closed her eyes, remembering that death: so swift, so brutal. Dmitrak had stood no chance. And Zandakar had cried for him, like a man without a future.
“Rhian…”
She looked at her beautiful, breathing husband. “I don't know about Ludo. Or any of the others. I hope to hear soon. I hope…”
He nodded, so close to grief. “And Han?”
“Nothing,” she whispered. “I'm afraid – I'm afraid—”
He held out his arms. “Come, my love.”
With a muffled sob, she lay her head on his breast. Let him hold her. Let him comfort her. Beyond the clinic's walls her people were rising from Kingseat's ashes. Soon she'd leave to help them. Soon. But for now…for a moment…let the woman rule the queen.
Dexterity sat with his back against the harbour wall, letting the noon sun's thin autumn warmth seep into his bones. One way and another he'd been busy since dawn yesterday and he was oh, so very weary.
Weary, sad…but in a strange way, content. Even as he sat here like an old dog with arthritis, the warriors of Mijak were being rounded up and tamed. Those Zandakar confronted on the streets of Kingseat township, overnight, did not think to question him, for he wore the god's hammer. In their eyes the god had chosen him to lead them, and so they would follow. At first light they followed him out of Kingseat altogether.
“Rhian hushla ,” he'd said, so solemn, at the head of his tamed army. “Mijak's warriors trouble your kingdom. I will find them, I will smite them, and then we will leave.”
Standing on the steps of Kingseat's great chapel, Rhian had nodded. “Zandakar,” she told him. “That would be
best.”
Helfred and four of his most venerables rode out with him, lest there be any unfortunate misunderstandings. He and his Court Ecclesiastica had hidden themselves and as many people as they could manage in the crypts and cellars beneath the great chapel. The church was badly damaged, but it could be repaired.
Rhian stayed behind in her capital, with Alasdair. Kingseat's people needed her. She was their queen.
Bemused, Dexterity squinted over the harbour and what remained of Mijak's warships, across the distant ocean to the empty, far horizon. A horizon that would see no more raiding warriors from Mijak.
We did it, Hettie. Not tidily, but we did it.
“You certainly did, my love. And I'm so proud of you, I could burst.”
He turned his head to look at her, sitting beside him in the sunshine. Her gilt hair was soft and curling, she wore his favourite dress: the green one, with pretty pink ribbon on the bodice. She smelled of lavender and roses. To his surprise, she looked… well .
“Hello, Hettie,” he said, smiling.
She smiled back, her brown eyes warm. “Hello, Dex.”
“I wasn't sure I'd ever see you again.”
“To be honest, Dex,” she sighed, her smile fading, “neither was I.”
“But all's well that ends well,” he added, then showed her his glowing hands. “I don't suppose you'd care to make this go away? I've tried and I've tried, but…”
She bit her lip. “Let's talk about it later.”
He didn't like the sound of that, but it was a beautiful day…and he'd had all the fighting he cared for in one lifetime. “If I ask how the rest of Ethrea fares, will you tell me? Do you know?”
She took one glowing hand in hers and held it. Her touch was cool and welcome. She felt real. Alive. “Of course I know. And yes, Dex. I'll tell you.”
He sighed, contentment vanished. “So it's that bad, is it?”
“Dex…” Her fingers tightened around his hand. “My love, it's bad enough.”
In the sunshine, by the harbour, breathing the tainted salt air, he listened as she told him what had befallen Ethrea's duchies. Edward dead. Rudi dead. Adric dead. And Ludo.
“ Ludo ?” he cried. “Oh, Hettie .” It would break the king's heart and Rhian's. It broke his, and he wept. Everyone who knew him loved Alasdair's cousin.
