Hammer Of God by Karen Miller Page A

Tassifer's Feast approached.
    Her last training session in the tiltyard, late in the afternoon, was witnessed by the privy council and Ludo and Ursa and what seemed like a quarter of Commander Idson's garrison and half the castle's courtiers and staff. When it was finished Zandakar pressed his fist to his chest. His eyes were glowing with savage pride.
    “You ready, Rhian hushla. You dance hotas like a queen.”
    He was bleeding in a dozen places where her shortsword had caught him. She bled as well, but not as much as the first time they trained in this fashion.
    Sword sheathed by her side, she returned his salute. “Zandakar—” She bit her lip. “I won't see you again until this is over. Thank you.”
    He bowed his head. “Rhian is welcome.”
    As she walked from the tiltyard those watching her began to applaud. Hands clapped, feet stamped, a few voices called out.
    “God bless Her Majesty! God bless our warrior queen!”
    She felt tired, yet triumphant. Afraid, yet strangely at peace. She acknowledged her enthusiastic people with a smile, then beckoned to Ursa.
    “See to Zandakar. I hurt him.”
    Ursa frowned. “I should see to you—”
    “He barely touched me, Ursa. See to Zandakar,” she said again. “How else can I reward him?”
    As Ursa withdrew, unhappy, Alasdair joined her. Leaving the chattering, excited crowd behind they walked towards the nearest castle entrance. Off to the right, castle servants put the finishing touches to the raised timber gallery of seats for the guests invited to witness the next day's judicial combat. Hammers banged. Workers shouted. Groundsmen prowled the lawn with heavy rollers, flattening the turf so a combatant might not trip on a tussock and so present his or her throat to a sword by mistake.
    “Kyrin, Damwin and their retinues have arrived in Kingseat,” Alasdair told her quietly. “Word came while you were training.”
    A mingling of sweat and blood trickled down her face. Zandakar's longsword had nicked her left cheekbone; she could feel the puffy swelling round the cut. “Do they lodge separately or together?”
    “Separately. Damwin's in his township residence. Kyrin's with his cousin, Hadin.”
    She nodded. “Very well. Can you see a herald is sent to them, with strict instructions for the morrow?”
    “Of course.” His fingers brushed her leather-sleeved arm. “You wish to be alone now?”
    Desperately. The thought of what she'd soon face was overwhelming. She made herself smile at him. “I'm sorry. I do.”
    “Bathe. Rest. We'll share a quiet supper,” he said. “Then an early night.”
    She closed her fingers round his wrist and held on tight, just for a moment. “That sounds perfect.”
    And it was, in its peaceful way. They dined privily, no servants attending, no other company but their own. Spoke not a word about Mijak, or Zandakar, or the dukes, and how she must defeat them. Instead they spoke of the future, of a royal progress around Ethrea, of sailing to other lands and seeing things wild and new. And then, dinner consumed, they retired to bed and consumed each other. Haunted but not speaking the truth: tonight might be our last.
    But afterwards, though Alasdair slept, Rhian stared at the ceiling. Sleep eluded her. Fears crowded in. So she slipped unnoticed from their bed, pulled on a linen shirt and woollen hose, slid her shortsword from its sheath and padded barefoot to the castle's Long Gallery where she could settle her nerves with one last dance. The castle guards bowed when they saw her. Alasdair insisted they patrol the castle corridors, fearing the dukes might attempt to emulate Marlan and send a murdering dagger against her. She wasn't worried, but surrendered to his fears. It was easier than arguing.
    Feet and hands thudding on the gallery's parquetry floor, her breathing steady and rhythmical, she danced the hotas in candlelight and silence, through shadows and soft flame. With their forms and discipline now second nature, she found