her thoughts drifting towards her dead father.
Papa, can you see me? Could you see me in the tiltyard? It appears I've become a warrior queen…
The thought was enough to make her smile, even though fear gibbered and nibbled around her edges. Warrior queen. Ranald and Simon would laugh themselves blue-faced at the notion.
If I weren't so frightened I might laugh at it myself. By this time tomorrow I could be dead…
She'd already signed her writ of succession, naming Alasdair Ethrea's king without encumbrance. The privy council and Helfred had witnessed her declaration, and her prolate now held it safe in Church keeping.
By this time tomorrow…
Shaking herself free of such unhelpful morbid fancies, she blotted sweat from her face and prepared for another tumbling pass down the gallery. It would have to be the last one. She was exhausted, and the next day would start hideously early with a full Litany in the castle's chapel. She had no hope of evading it. Try, and she'd turn Helfred into a warrior prolate.
Rollin save me. There's a dreadful thought.
Tumble…leap…cartwheel…stab here…slash there…hamstrings – elbows – belly – throat – another leap…and another…with Zandakar's impatient voice ringing in her ears.
Rhian wei defend. Rhian defend, Rhian die. Attack, attack, like striking snake, attack. Speed, Rhian. Wei time duke touch you. Faster. Faster. Cut him. Duke die.
It was the heart of the hotas: no defence. Attacking only, with blinding speed and ruthless disregard for self. As a creed it called to something within her, released some inner wildness, unshackled a part of her that until she met Zandakar she'd only ever glimpsed.
A part of her that Alasdair didn't understand.
Reaching the end of the gallery she plundered the last of her physical reserves and danced all the way back again, punishing herself, pushing herself to her scarlet limit and beyond. There was pain, she ignored it. Lungs and muscles burned, she let them. Blinded by sweat, deafened by the waterfall thunder of blood through her veins, she reached for the dregs of her strength and poured them into the hotas.
Her last lethal cartwheel ended with her dropping to the floor, first to knees, then to hands, her shortsword clattering disregarded beside her. Head hanging, sweat pooling on the polished parquetry, she gasped and sobbed and prayed she was good enough to prevail. Good enough not to die.
When she looked up, Emperor Han stood before her.
Godspeaker 3 - Hammer of God
CHAPTER SIX
He nodded, almost a bow. “Your Majesty.” “Han…” She sat back on her heels, panting, too perplexed to feel angry. “If I tell you to stop doing this I don't suppose you'll oblige?”
As before, the emperor's long black hair was pulled back from his marvellous face. Instead of black silk he wore multi-coloured brocade, gold and crimson and emerald and blue. Silver thread sparkled in the waning candlelight. His dark eyes were hooded, something unreadable in their depths.
“What is that fighting style called, that you do?”
Games, games. Always games with the Tzhung. Letting her hands rest comfortably on her thighs, she shrugged. “Hotas.”
“Mijaki?”
“That's right.”
“And you think to defeat your dukes with the warfare of Mijak?”
Another shrug. “I think it's the only kind of warfare I know. My father never taught me how to wield a longsword.”
Han smiled. She noticed for the first time his white teeth were slightly crooked. “The quaint customs of Ethrea,” he said, faintly insulting. “No army to speak of, yet your noblemen play with their longswords and dream of the dead days killed by your holy man Rollin.”
“Would you rather we had killed each other instead?” she countered, then frowned. “Yes. Of course you would. Then Tzhung-tzhungchai could've overrun this island as it's overrun so many other helpless lands. I wonder if that's not what you're hoping for now. I wonder if you expect me to die
Papa, can you see me? Could you see me in the tiltyard? It appears I've become a warrior queen…
The thought was enough to make her smile, even though fear gibbered and nibbled around her edges. Warrior queen. Ranald and Simon would laugh themselves blue-faced at the notion.
If I weren't so frightened I might laugh at it myself. By this time tomorrow I could be dead…
She'd already signed her writ of succession, naming Alasdair Ethrea's king without encumbrance. The privy council and Helfred had witnessed her declaration, and her prolate now held it safe in Church keeping.
By this time tomorrow…
Shaking herself free of such unhelpful morbid fancies, she blotted sweat from her face and prepared for another tumbling pass down the gallery. It would have to be the last one. She was exhausted, and the next day would start hideously early with a full Litany in the castle's chapel. She had no hope of evading it. Try, and she'd turn Helfred into a warrior prolate.
Rollin save me. There's a dreadful thought.
Tumble…leap…cartwheel…stab here…slash there…hamstrings – elbows – belly – throat – another leap…and another…with Zandakar's impatient voice ringing in her ears.
Rhian wei defend. Rhian defend, Rhian die. Attack, attack, like striking snake, attack. Speed, Rhian. Wei time duke touch you. Faster. Faster. Cut him. Duke die.
It was the heart of the hotas: no defence. Attacking only, with blinding speed and ruthless disregard for self. As a creed it called to something within her, released some inner wildness, unshackled a part of her that until she met Zandakar she'd only ever glimpsed.
A part of her that Alasdair didn't understand.
Reaching the end of the gallery she plundered the last of her physical reserves and danced all the way back again, punishing herself, pushing herself to her scarlet limit and beyond. There was pain, she ignored it. Lungs and muscles burned, she let them. Blinded by sweat, deafened by the waterfall thunder of blood through her veins, she reached for the dregs of her strength and poured them into the hotas.
Her last lethal cartwheel ended with her dropping to the floor, first to knees, then to hands, her shortsword clattering disregarded beside her. Head hanging, sweat pooling on the polished parquetry, she gasped and sobbed and prayed she was good enough to prevail. Good enough not to die.
When she looked up, Emperor Han stood before her.
Godspeaker 3 - Hammer of God
CHAPTER SIX
He nodded, almost a bow. “Your Majesty.” “Han…” She sat back on her heels, panting, too perplexed to feel angry. “If I tell you to stop doing this I don't suppose you'll oblige?”
As before, the emperor's long black hair was pulled back from his marvellous face. Instead of black silk he wore multi-coloured brocade, gold and crimson and emerald and blue. Silver thread sparkled in the waning candlelight. His dark eyes were hooded, something unreadable in their depths.
“What is that fighting style called, that you do?”
Games, games. Always games with the Tzhung. Letting her hands rest comfortably on her thighs, she shrugged. “Hotas.”
“Mijaki?”
“That's right.”
“And you think to defeat your dukes with the warfare of Mijak?”
Another shrug. “I think it's the only kind of warfare I know. My father never taught me how to wield a longsword.”
Han smiled. She noticed for the first time his white teeth were slightly crooked. “The quaint customs of Ethrea,” he said, faintly insulting. “No army to speak of, yet your noblemen play with their longswords and dream of the dead days killed by your holy man Rollin.”
“Would you rather we had killed each other instead?” she countered, then frowned. “Yes. Of course you would. Then Tzhung-tzhungchai could've overrun this island as it's overrun so many other helpless lands. I wonder if that's not what you're hoping for now. I wonder if you expect me to die
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