The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

  He sighed, his conscience pricking, and patted the man’s shoulder. “ Yatzhay, Zandakar. I hope soon we’ll share enough words so I can explain.”

  Zandakar pointed. It was Ursa, threading her way through the herb-beds and trellises.

  “Well?” she said, reaching them. “How did you go, Jones?”

  “I found the princess,” he said. “How about you?”

  “Cecily and I were having a fine old chinwag until some gormless little chaplain interrupted us and dragged her away.”

  “That was Helfred. He’s Marlan’s nephew.” Remembering, he felt the rage stir again. “Ursa, they’ve beaten Rhian. They’ve beaten her bloody . When I found her she was weeping as though her heart would break. She’s so unwell from her mistreatment she’s been taken to the infirmary.”

  “Who’s beaten her? What are you—”

  On a deep, ragged breath he caught hold of his temper. “Who do you think? The prolate and this Chaplain Helfred.”

  Ursa stared. “What? Oh Jones, that’s nonsense.”

  “It’s not nonsense! Rhian told me herself. And your friend, Dame Cecily, she’s in on it too! I had to hide in the chapel when they came for the princess. I heard them talking.”

  “But Jones—”

  “No!” he said fiercely. “It’s the truth. We have to get Rhian out of here tonight, before they hurt her again. And they’re going to, Ursa. All they care about is that she does what Marlan wants, because he’s the prolate and she’s just a girl. I was nearly sick, listening to them. No wonder she was weeping. No wonder she’s so desperate to run away. I’d run away from them and I’m a man grown!”

  Now Ursa looked distressed. “It’s hard to think Cecily could be like that,” she murmured. “She was always so gentle when we were girls.”

  “Power changes people, Ursa. And let a man get it into his head that his power comes from God, well . Will there be any stopping him? Or her, for that matter? Only with a great deal of difficulty.” He sighed, not indifferent to the pain in her eyes. “I’m sorry if your friend’s become a disappointment. That must be hard. But hard or not—”

  “I know, Jones! Don’t try teaching your grandmother to suck eggs.”

  That was better. Ursa all prickly was an Ursa he could recognise, and manage. “The princess will be in the infirmary all night. It’s probably our best chance to get her out of here. Has the dame invited you to dinner, like we hoped?”

  “Yes. A private supper. You and Zandakar are to eat with the lay servants in their hall.”

  He thought about that. “So … you can slip the sleeping potion into the dame’s dinner and I can take care of the servants, but what about the devouts? We can’t have them wide awake and prowling the corridors while we’re trying to steal Rhian out of the infirmary.”

  “No,” said Ursa, eyebrows pinched in a frown. “We can’t.” She shook herself. “I’ll just have to wangle my way into the kitchens. I can dose the devouts’ supper when the cook’s back is turned.”

  It sounded tricky. “Wangle how?”

  She smiled, briefly. “I’m an old friend of Cecily’s. Leave that to me.”

  Dinner in the clerica was eaten after the evening Litany. Dexterity, with Zandakar wide-eyed and uncomprehending beside him, sat at the back of the main chapel as Chaplain Helfred led the gathering in worship.

  It was the first time he’d set foot in church or recited the sacred words since Hettie’s funeral.

  Ursa, a privileged guest, sat right up in the front of the chapel with Dame Cecily and the clerica’s resident chaplain who’d been demoted to make way for the prolate’s nephew. Dexterity smouldered at Helfred, his guts tied into knots.

  Call yourself a man of God? God should strike you dead for what you’re doing to Rhian. Hettie, can you see him? Can you send him some boils to keep his pimples company? You knave. You gribbet. I’d like to beat you bloody, I’d like to do that.

  On and on the nasty little man maundered, but at last the service came to an end. Dexterity waited respectfully at the rear of the chapel as the devouts filed out, led by the chaplains, with Zandakar beside him and remembering not to speak. He knuckled his forehead as Ursa and the dame approached.

  “Mistress,” he said ingratiatingly.

  “My servants,” said Ursa to the Dame, her tone dismissive. “Useless lumps the pair of them, but I’m not rich enough to pay for better wits.” She turned. “You, Doggell. When you’ve eaten in the servants’ hall—and mind you don’t gobble a mouthful more than your share—see the horses hitched to the van and wait in it for me at the front gates.”

  “You’re certain you can’t stay the night, Ursa?” said Dame Cecily. She almost sounded wistful. “Your servants can sleep with mine, there are pallets to spare.”

  Ursa’s expression folded into regret. “Oh, I wish I could, Cecie. Alas, duty calls me back to Kingseat. I shouldn’t really be staying for supper but how could I refuse your kind invitation?”

  “You’ll be travelling nigh three hours in pitch darkness,” the dame protested. “It won’t be comfortable.”

  “No, but I’ll survive it,” said Ursa. “God didn’t put us here for our comfort, did he?”

  Dame Cecily nodded. “Very well. If you’re sure. Perhaps another time. You could come for a short retreat, a few days of worship and peaceful reflection.”

  “I’d like that,” said Ursa. “We’ve let too many years slide away from us, haven’t we? Doggell!”

  Dexterity jumped. “Mistress?”

  “Do you understand my orders?”

  He knuckled his forehead again. “Yes, Mistress.”

  “Then obey them,” she said, and left with the dame.

  Smothering a smile, he tugged at Zandakar’s sleeve. “Come along!” he said, loudly and slowly as though to a man as thick as a tree. “Food now. Come along!”

  Zandakar nodded and followed him out.

  As servants of an important guest he and Zandakar were invited to serve themselves first from the cauldron on the servants’ hall sideboard. Gesturing Zandakar to stay on the bench at the long wooden table, Dexterity ladled a modest helping of the fragrant leek and mutton stew into their bowls then, his heart thudding, emptied the vial of Ursa’s strong sleeping powder into the rest. A quick stir with the ladle and the deed was done.

  “It’s not any kind of potion that’ll raise suspicions in the morning,” Ursa had promised. “They won’t wake late or any such nonsense. But it’ll keep them soundly snoring while we’re about our business.”

  If she said so, he believed her. Nobody knew herb lore better than Ursa.

  When he and Zandakar had finished eating, Dexterity made their excuses with thanks and a smile. They returned in silence to the stables and hitched the two muscular brown cobs to the cosy peddler’s van he’d purchased—oh dear, all that gold!—and they trundled out of the clerica to sit in silence beyond its front gates.

  It was a cool night, with clouds drifting across the moons. Rain tomorrow, most likely. A mixed blessing. It was always a misery travelling in rain, but it meant folk would be preoccupied with their own discomforts and less likely to pay attention to others on the road.

  With Zandakar stowed in the back of the van among the bits and pieces they’d brought with them for the long trip to duchy Linfoi, Dexterity huddled in a blanket on the driver’s seat and tried not to let his imagination run away with him.

  We won’t get caught. Hettie won’t let us. There’d be no point in us coming in the first place if we were going to get caught. Oh dear, hurry up, Ursa. Eat quickly for once. All this waiting is upsetting my stomach.

  Since she wasn’t coming with them they’d have to drive most of the way back to Kingseat before turning again for the closest river-station so they could take a barge north all the way up the Eth river.

  The van was supplied with things to help them disguise themselves as best they could. Of course disguising Zandakar might prove something of a problem, but then he could spend most o
f his time hidden in the back. If they made sure he only came out late at night the chances were good he’d not attract undue attention. And the further they travelled from Kingseat the easier it would be for Rhian. Outside of the capital few people knew what she looked like.

  If I could keep her hidden in the van I’d be much happier … but I’ll need another pair of hands. And I don’t think too many people will question a man and his daughter, humble travelling peddlers, quietly going about their business. I doubt even a duke’s soldiers would think of stopping us.

  “Jones!” said Ursa in a piercing whisper, appearing without warning out of the dark. “What are you doing, sitting there muttering to yourself? Help me up, I’ve eaten so much I’m going to burst!”

  “What are you doing, sneaking up like that?” he whispered back, taking her wrist and hauling her beside him. “You nearly scared me out of my wits!”

  “What wits?” she said, settling under his blanket. “Now hush up, voices carry at night, and drive on a bit. We’ll have to wait somewhere inconspicuous till it’s time to do the deed.”

  She was right but he still felt annoyed. The way she went on sometimes you’d think she was the only one who knew anything and that was a fact.

  He picked up the reins and chirruped to the brown cobs. The horses grunted, leaning into their harness. The single lit torch on the peddler’s van stuttered and flared, throwing a little light on the road before them.

  “This’ll do,” said Ursa as they reached a rutted laneway some minutes from the clerica’s gates. “Let’s wait here.”

  It was as good a place to stop as any. Dexterity halted the horses and extinguished the van’s torch. They plunged into darkness, the night damp on their skin. Overhead the starry sky streamed with clouds.

  Dexterity pulled his share of the blanket closer.

  Well, then, Hettie. Here I am, just as you wanted. So you make sure things go exactly to plan.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Mantled in night, the clerica slept.

  Rhian shifted beneath her light blanket, wincing as movement stirred her pains from slumber. Was it her imagination or did the place seem even more silent than usual? She was the infirmary’s only patient but the devout in charge of the pills and potions, Agitha, had assured her that she or her assistant always remained awake between dusk and dawn, in case of trouble. But Agitha hadn’t returned to check on her since supper, and that was hours ago. No-one else had checked on her either. Not even Helfred, and she’d been sure he’d come to stand over her and gloat.

  Something’s going on.

  The clerica’s deep silence—did it have to do with Mr Jones? She thought it must have. She didn’t really believe in coincidences. He was here. He’d come to help her escape. Though how he expected to spirit her out from under Dame Cecily’s nose she couldn’t begin to imagine …

  A lamp burned on a table by the window, shedding enough light so she could comfortably see. She sat up, cautiously, swallowing a whimper. Whatever was in the foul concoction Agitha had forced upon her earlier had eased the alternating heat and shivers … but done nothing to alleviate her acute discomfort.

  They want me to suffer, they just don’t want me to die.

  Her ruined blue dress had been taken away. For rags, most likely. It was fit for nothing else now. In its place she’d been given a plain brown clerica robe. On edge, skin prickling with premonition, she slid off her narrow cot and slipped the robe over the cotton shift she wore for modesty since her various underthings had been taken away too. The rough wool was heavy enough to hurt, and the room swung around her in a dizzy swoop. She staggered sideways a few paces and groped for the wall.

  “Your Highness!” a voice whispered from the door.

  She turned, and was swamped by a crashing wave of relief. “Mr Jones!”

  His teeth appeared in a smile, which was genuine but a trifle strained. “We have to hurry. I don’t know how much longer we can trust the clerica to remain asleep.”

  So he was responsible for the silence. God bless the man. She took a step towards him and gasped. Oh, it hurt . She could grit her teeth and keep walking if she had to, but as for hurrying …

  She felt her eyes burn. “Mr Jones …”

  His smile disappeared and his face turned grim. “It’s all right. Don’t worry.” He looked away, into the corridor. “Zandakar! Come!” His hand beckoned urgently. “Come.”

  Zandakar? What an outlandish name. Who was—

  “Oh,” she said faintly. “Mr Jones?”

  The tallest man she’d ever seen in her life stood in the doorway behind the toymaker. His skin was dark. His head was bald, like a venerable’s. His eyes were the most incredible blue, and so exquisitely beautiful she felt her heart thud. He was beautiful. He was—he was—

  “Zandakar,” said Mr Jones, and tugged the man by his plain sleeve into the room. The man Zandakar looked down at him enquiringly but didn’t speak. Mr Jones mimed picking something up and holding it like a baby, then pointed.

  What? Did he mean her ? Oh no. Oh no. Oh—

  “Forgive me, Your Highness,” whispered Mr Jones as the tall dark man Zandakar swept her easily off her feet. “But we really are in a terrible hurry.”

  “Mr Jones, who is this?” she demanded, keeping her voice low.

  “It’s a long story. I’ll explain on the road. He won’t hurt you, though. I can promise you that. And he doesn’t speak much Ethrean, either. Best let me do the talking.” He looked up at the tall man holding her. “Good, Zandakar. Now come.”

  Cradled against the man’s broad chest, feeling his heart thumping steadily beneath her ear, Rhian was surprised by a sensation she’d not experienced for years.

  Safe. I feel safe. I don’t know this man, and yet … I feel safe.

  She also felt pain. His strong arms were pressed against her battered back, but that didn’t matter. They were getting her out. She’d endure more than this to escape Marlan’s clutches.

  In silence they made their swift way along the infirmary corridor. As they passed one open door she glanced in, to see Devout Agitha sleeping face-down at a desk. She wanted to ask Mr Jones how exactly he’d accomplished this miracle, but satisfying her curiosity would have to wait.

  The corridor they travelled joined with another, running across it. Mr Jones turned left and Zandakar followed. Incredibly, he wasn’t even breathing hard. Carrying a strong young woman at a fast walk was no burden to him.

  Who is this man? Where does he come from? And what is he doing with Mr Jones?

  A door stood open at the end of this corridor. She felt the night air caress her face and caught a glimpse of the moons, half shrouded by cloud. Then they were outside the clerica, on tended lawn. Freedom was only moments away.

  Mr Jones touched her shoulder. “Not long now, Your Highness. It’s nearly done.”

  They rounded the corner of the building … and came face to face with Helfred, prowling the grounds.

  “Your Highness?” said her chaplain, his voice squeaky with shock. The prayer beads he was counting fell from his hands. “What are you doing ? Who are these men ?”

  It was like being doused with a tubful of iced water. She couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. Mr Jones was silent too, his mouth open, his eyes wide with dismay.

  Helfred snatched up his prayer beads then took a step closer. It was hard to see his face clearly in the clerica grounds’ guttering torchlight but she could easily imagine the expression her chaplain wore. As she stared, and he stared, she felt a spit of rain on her cheek. A breeze sprang up abruptly, sighing with the cold.

  “You’re running away,” said Helfred. He sounded accusing. “You’ve found some accomplices and you’re running away .”

  She’d have preferred to confront him on her own two feet but she wasn’t strong enough to stand, thanks to him and Marlan. There was tension in Zandakar now, she could feel it in his arms, in his whole body. She knew, without being told, without knowing how she knew, that
he was poised on the brink of violence. She eased one hand free and pressed her palm to his breast, hoping he’d understand the gesture.

  He stared down at her, a question in those amazing eyes. She smiled at him, nodding, and felt a little of the tension leave him. Relieved, she looked at her chaplain.

  “Yes, Helfred. I’m running,” she said, and was amazed by how calm she sounded. “What choice have you given me, you and your uncle? You’re trying to steal the kingdom—my birthright—from me. Worse, you’re trying to steal the people’s future. If you have your way Ethrea will be plunged into misery. I won’t let that happen. I’ll fight to prevent it with my dying breath, I swear.”

  Helfred groaned. “Your Highness—”

  “You can let me go, Helfred, or you can stand in my way and pay the price. Your choice.”

  “You’d accost me?” he demanded. “You’d lay hands on a man of God?”

  She met his outrage with leashed fury of her own. “Why not? You laid hands on a queen of Ethrea.”

  Mr Jones stirred. “Your Highness …” His voice was a warning.

  She glanced at him. “I know.” Then she fixed her gaze on Helfred again. “Make up your mind, Chaplain. And know that God will judge you for your decision.”

  “God has judged me already, Highness,” said Helfred after a short and difficult silence. “I have spent hours praying, and my prayers have been answered.”

  To her surprise he sounded … different. The outrage had left him, and the self-righteous pomposity. Now he seemed resigned. Almost afraid. Or humble.

  Helfred, humble? The world must be ending.

  “Princess Rhian, I won’t stop you from running,” her chaplain added. “In fact …” He took a deep breath and released it tremulously. “I’m going to run with you.”

  For a moment she couldn’t speak. “What?” she said, when her voice returned. “ No . I don’t want you. After I leave here I never want to lay eyes on you again! I hate you, Helfred. I despise you. I loathe you.”