Free Hammer Of God by Karen Miller Page A

power without forever shouting about it to everyone within earshot. Can you suggest a candidate?”
    As ever, he was warmed and softened by her compliment. “If I can think of one I'll be sure to steer them together.” He kissed her again, on the lips this time, with enough passion to reassure her – and himself – that disaster hadn't claimed them yet.
    Rhian returned his kiss eagerly. “I think we must make sure of an early supper,” she whispered against him. “After all, Edward and Rudi are senior in their years. Late nights can hardly be good for them.”
    “I agree,” he said, grinning, then withdrew before she could think to ask him what business he had and where he would go next.
    As he stepped into the corridor beyond the antechamber he saw Ven'Cedwin approaching, prayer beads swinging from his belt and a well-fed look upon his plump face. The venerable stopped and bowed. “Your Majesty.”
    “The queen awaits you, Ven'Cedwin. Make sure to draft these letters in your most elegant hand,” he said. “The dukes must not find fault in the manner of their chiding.”
    Ven'Cedwin's lips quirked in a discreet smile. “Indeed they must not, Your Majesty. I take your excellent advice to heart.”
    Leaving the venerable and Rhian to their exacting duty, Alasdair headed to the east wing and Zandakar, his gilded prisoner.
    The skein of guards lined the corridor end to end, as Rhian had promised. Each man's hand held a pikestaff, each man's side was graced with a sword. The senior officer, his name was…was Rigert, bowed when he reached them.
    “Your Majesty.”
    He nodded at the closed chamber door. “Zandakar's within?”
    “Majesty, he is.”
    “And you know his life is forfeit should he behave untoward?”
    Rigert's eyes flickered. “Her Majesty has not said so.”
    “You may take it I speak for the queen in this, Sergeant. Should Zandakar give you any cause to doubt him, stab first and question after. He's not a man to be taken lightly, is that clear?”
    “Majesty,” said Rigert. “I know enough of him to know he's a feisty one, right enough. My half-brother Ansard's in the pay of Duke Edward. Ansard was one picked by this Zandakar to help guard the queen on the road from Linfoi. You can trust I'll not blink if it comes to putting him down.”
    Alasdair clapped the man's shoulder. “Trust I'll hold you to that, Rigert.” And make you sorry if you fail. But that thought he kept to himself. It was the kind of blustering thing Adric would say.
    Zandakar was indeed within the east wing chamber. His hair seemed new-washed, inhumanly blue and bright in the sunlight filtering through the castle's mullioned windows. His ill-fitting attire – linen shirt, leather leggings – was clearly borrowed. He was barefoot. Doubtless Rhian had already ordered the castle tailor and bootmaker to appropriately clothe him. Standing with his back to the wall he watched warily as the chamber door was closed.
    “Alasdair king,” he said. “You want?”
    “Yes, Zandakar, I want,” he said curtly. “Rhian has told me she's released you from prison that you might help her chastise the dukes. You're willing to do this?”
    Zandakar nodded. “Zho.”
    “Why?”
    “Rhian will fight dukes. Rhian must train or she dies.”
    “But that's what you want, isn't it?” he demanded. “Rhian's death? My death? The death of every Ethrean in this kingdom? Isn't that why you've come here? To make us trust you, to reveal to you our soft bellies? So you can send word to your warriors of Mijak and—”
    “Wei!” said Zandakar, his face twisting. “You fool king. You think this? Ask Dexterity, he knows, he—”
    “I don't need conversation with a toymaker,” he snapped. “A man who put you, a stranger, before his loyalty to the queen.”
    With a hard-breathing effort, Zandakar relaxed. “Wei want Rhian dead. Wei want Mijak take Ethrea. I fight for Rhian, for Ethrea.” He held up his left arm. Beneath the loose long sleeve