The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

  She smiled, despite herself. “So if I want to be queen I should think like a gardener?”

  “Or a physick,” said Ursa. “To keep the body healthy sometimes you have to lose a little flesh.”

  The van’s hinged doors swung open again and Helfred climbed inside, carrying the empty water bucket and Zandakar’s stained clothes. He dropped them in a corner then took his customary place on the far end of the bench. He looked distressed. The van creaked, moving again. The little hatch in the wall slid open.

  “We’re on our way,” said Dexterity. “I say we travel another hour then find somewhere to stop for the night. An hour should put enough distance between us and those bodies.”

  Rhian sat up. “Agreed. Where’s Zandakar?”

  “He’s walking ahead again … just in case.”

  With a knife and a sword, for their protection. “Good.” She pulled her knees to her chest, and wrapped her arms around them. “That’s good.”

  The hatch in the wall slid shut and they continued in silence.

  They met no more footpads. Nearly an hour and a half later they stopped for the night, in a small clearing by the side of the road. At dawn Rhian woke and joined Zandakar for their hotas .

  It felt dangerous to be dancing them with a knife. Trying to mimic him, she dropped the dagger many times. From the corner of her eye she saw him smiling. His eyes were laughing at her. He thought her amusing. She couldn’t believe how deftly he handled his blade. It was like part of his body, silver flesh and edged bone. It didn’t look deadly, it looked beautiful as he danced.

  But then she remembered. The dagger slipped from her fingers. Panting, sweating, she stood beneath the slow-climbing sun.

  Blood spurting. Men screaming. Men howling as they died.

  She didn’t realise she was weeping until she felt Zandakar’s fingertip touch her cheek. She struck his hand aside and turned away.

  “I’m all right, Zandakar! I’m perfectly fine!”

  “Not fine,” he said, behind her. So close she could feel his breath on her bare neck, no longer covered by coils of long hair. “Rhian is sad.”

  “No. No, I’m just …”

  Pathetic. A spoilt child. Want to be queen, do you? Want to dress up for the crowd? Fool. You fool. It’s going to take more than a pretty dress to put you on the throne. Just like those footpads, there are men in this kingdom who’ll take what’s yours if you let them. If you’re weak. It’s not enough just to say you’re the queen. If you want to be queen, Rhian, you’ll have to fight.

  She picked up her dagger. Turned and stared into Zandakar’s concerned face. “Well? Don’t stand there, Zandakar. Teach me my hotas . Make me a warrior so I can fight for my crown.” She lifted her chin, making her stare a challenge. “No more playing. No more pretend. Don’t indulge me. Don’t smile . You understand?”

  He understood. She could see it in his eyes. The concern in them slowly faded, and he looked her up and down in a new way. A cold way. A way that said he found her wanting. For a moment it stung her, his cold dismissal. Who was he to look at her like that? He was an ex-slave and she was a queen!

  Don’t be stupid, Rhian. Whoever he is, he’s a lot more than that.

  “Rhian is sure?” His tone was arrogant. Disbelieving. “She want to learn hard?”

  Learn hard? That sounded … daunting. Especially if up till now she’d learned soft . But once she reached duchy Linfoi she’d be fighting for her life. Even with Alasdair to help her … if he agreed to help her … still, in the end, she’d be on her own. She needed to be stronger. Tougher. Fiercer. She needed to shed spoilt sheltered Rhian, who hadn’t seen Marlan coming for her from the moment her brothers died.

  I need to remake myself in the image of this man.

  “Yes, Zandakar,” she said, though her heart was pounding. “That’s exactly what I want. I want to learn hard.”

  “Good God,” said Dexterity as he came down the van’s steps. “What is she doing? What is he doing? Ursa, what’s going on? Has Rhian lost her mind ?”

  “No!” said Ursa, cooking sausages over a small fire. She caught his arm as he blundered past her. “Keep your nose out of it, Jones. The princess is fine.”

  Across the road, in another cleared patch of countryside, Zandakar’s slashing knife skimmed a hairsbreadth past Rhian’s cheek.

  “Fine?” he demanded. “Ursa, he’s assaulting her! One mistake and he’ll kill her!”

  “Assaulting her?” echoed Ursa, and pushed to her feet. “You fool, Jones, he’s training her. Properly training, not that soft prancing like before. And of course he won’t kill her. You saw him last night. Do you think he’s capable of making a mistake? These hotas are like breathing to him. You might as well say he could make a mistake walking.”

  “But—but—” He held his breath as Rhian tried to match Zandakar’s mastery of the knife. The blade flew from her fingers and landed on the ground.

  “Tcha!” said Zandakar, and slapped the side of her head. Not gently. Not kindly, like a teasing friend. This blow was hard and impatient. It snapped Rhian’s head back. His eyes blazed contempt. “Rhian adzuk chu’hota! Adzuk. Tcha!”

  Rage and shame and embarrassment turned her sweat-streaked cheeks scarlet. Too furious to speak she shoved her way past him, snatched up the fallen dagger, took four angry paces …

  … and stopped. And turned.

  “ Adzuk? What is adzuk ?”

  Zandakar thought for a moment. “You say—I think— stupid .”

  She nodded. “I see. So I’m stupid?”

  “ Zho . Stupid.” He thought again. “Clumsy. Slow. Wei warrior.”

  “ Wei warrior?” she demanded. Her knuckles were white on the dagger’s dark hilt. “You arrogant bastard ! Who are you to—” Then she laughed. “Oh. I see. Very clever, Zandakar.” She slapped her own head. “You’re right. I’m adzuk . To fall for that trick? Adzuk, adzuk, adzuk .”

  Zandakar nodded. “Good. Again.”

  As their sparring continued, Dexterity looked at Ursa. “Trick?”

  “He was trying to provoke her,” said Ursa. “To break her focus.” She nodded. “He did a good job.”

  “Oh,” he said faintly. My heart’s not strong enough for this . “Oh—oh dear!” he added, as Rhian misjudged a cartwheel and crashed to the ground.

  “I think,” said Ursa, “I’d best make up a poultice. Keep an eye on the sausages, Jones. They’re almost done.”

  She clambered back into the van. A moment later Helfred came out, his blue chaplain’s robe pulled over his plain trousers and shirt. “We should say Litany, Mr Jones. We must—oh. In Rollin’s name. What is she doing ?”

  Dexterity sighed. “Being Rhian, Chaplain. What do you think?”

  Helfred ground his teeth. “I think I am the only sane one amongst us.”

  The sausages were starting to char round the edges. Ursa would skin Dexterity alive if he let them burn through. Hastily averting disaster, he glanced at Rhian and Zandakar then back up at Helfred. “Pass me that plate there, Chaplain.”

  Helfred passed him the plate. “Don’t tell me you approve of this, Dexterity. Don’t tell me you think she’s not in mortal danger.”

  “Of course she’s in danger,” he said, stabbing the sausages with a fork and putting them on the plate. “But not from Zandakar. She could’ve died last night, Helfred. We all could’ve died. Without Zandakar and his hotas I think we would be dead.” He put down the heavy plate, rose from his crouch and watched for a moment as Rhian executed a perfect cartwheel, her dagger held firmly in her hand. “It’s only sensible, that she learns how to protect herself.”

  Helfred squared his shoulders. “God will defend us! If our cause is just.”

  Dexterity sighed. “Perhaps God is defending us. Perhaps God sent us Zandakar. Did you never consider that?”

  And leaving Helfred to splutter incoherent protests behind him, he went to tell Rhian and Zandakar that breakfast was cooked.

  “I hope you don�
��t intend to scold me,” she told him, frowning. “Because—”

  “No,” he said. “I’m not that presumptuous. I’ve come to tell you it’s time to eat.”

  She nodded. “Excellent. I’m starving.” She glanced at Zandakar. “Thank you. I’ll do better tomorrow.”

  “Do better tonight,” Zandakar suggested.

  “Wei,” she said. “Tonight we’ll be on the river.”

  “The river?” said Dexterity, startled. “You mean—”

  “Yes, Dexterity. It’s time this journey ended,” she said. Beneath the mud and sweat her face was older. Determined. “I’m not prepared to risk any more footpads. As soon as we’ve eaten we’ll head for the nearest river-station, and charter a barge to duchy Linfoi. Ethrea is in dire need of its queen.”

  Alasdair, Duke of Linfoi, sat in the overstuffed leather armchair that had been his father’s and stared through the library windows out into the gardens in front of Linfoi Manor. Someone was in the rose beds, pruning. Or possibly collecting buds for forced blooming. He should tell them to stop. Bright scented roses seemed wrong, somehow, in a house dank with mourning.

  And anyway, Father hated them.

  Roses. Lapdogs. Chestnut horses. Roan bulls. All hated by Duke Berin with the same strength of passion he’d lavished on every part of his life.

  Dear God, I miss him. It’s not right that he’s gone.

  Wrenching his thoughts from that unprofitable avenue, for his dead father had hated maudlin men as much as roan bulls, he turned away from the windows and looked again at the letter clasped loosely in his hand. It was from Henrik, who stayed in Kingseat while the current discreetly contained crisis continued.

  I can’t believe Rhian hasn’t chosen someone. Since when was she unable to make up her mind?

  Rhian. Another unprofitable avenue. He refused to think of the wretched girl. Refused to let his vivid imagination run riot, seeing her wedding another man. Bedding another man. Oh, God . He’d done very well these past four months, not thinking of Rhian. Not remembering her blue eyes. Her black hair. Her soft skin. Her sweet smile. The feel of her shy lips pressed against his own.

  You have to marry someone, my love. You can’t rule alone.

  His uncle’s letter, brought by messenger, was typically circumspect and constrained. Handwritten by Henrik, with his clear, precise penmanship. Only someone who knew him very well, like a nephew, would notice a certain … tremor … in the pen strokes.

  Her Highness Princess Rhian has entrenched herself in the clerica at Todding, refusing to depart or declare her candidate for king. Marlan puts a good face on it but I think he is furious. My fellow councillors are torn between temper and hope. So long as she delays choosing there is still a chance for them. We must pray she knows what she is about. This kingdom needs a crowned head. I like not the whispers I’m hearing from Tzhung-tzhung-chai and Arbenia. Alasdair, I am sorry I cannot return home for the funeral. But I dare not leave the capital with matters so delicately poised.

  It was the third time he’d read the letter and the pain in it still hurt him. Henrik and his father had been close all their lives. Writing to tell his uncle of his only brother’s death had been a cruel thing.

  But I am the duke now. It’s my job to do cruel things. Like stand in the shadows watching the woman I love more than my life being bartered off to the highest bidder.

  The thought could stop his breathing. It was a knife thrust through his heart. A miracle, surely, the damned thing kept on beating.

  A deferential tap on the library door was a welcome distraction. He turned. “Yes, Sardre?”

  “Lord Henrik’s man is preparing for his return to Kingseat, Your Grace,” his houseman informed him. “Is there any reply to this morning’s missive?”

  This morning’s missive . Sardre was always so exquisitely correct. “Ah—yes. Yes. Tell the man to wait. I’ll bring it out directly.”

  Sardre nodded. “Your Grace.”

  Alasdair reached for the inkpot and quill and a fresh sheet of paper. Uncle, your news would be alarming if I did not know Rhian. But I’m certain she knows what she’s doing. Her first, last and only thought will be for Ethrea. I’m sure she’ll make the right choice at the right time . He looked up from the paper, undecided, then slowly continued. If you should chance to speak with her again, please tell her I have faith that she’ll do the right thing. If you think that is helpful. I trust you’ll know what’s best. What are these whispers you mention? Can you elaborate? I am far removed from Kingseat but what happens there affects me here. Tell me what you can. I would not be in the dark . The letter concluded, he signed it, folded it, snatched up the stick of sealing wax, melted its end in the candle-flame and sealed the note with his father’s signet ring. His signet ring. The ducal crest of Linfoi.

  How ridiculous. I’m a duke.

  Grief lashed out then, that barbed emotion, thudding his heart fast and catching him unawares. Lips pressed tight he stared at his father’s forbidding portrait, hung above the library mantelpiece. Not a very good artist, Hansyn. He’d caught all of the bluster and none of the smile.

  His uncle’s man waited in the manor house forecourt, mounted on a swift horse that would take him the first stage of the journey back to the capital.

  “Directly to Lord Henrik, mind,” he instructed, handing over the letter. “No other hand but yours and his must touch it, you understand?”

  The man tugged his green velvet cap’s flat brim. “Yes, Your Grace.” Then, with a light touch of spurs, he spun and galloped away down the long, oak-lined driveway leading to the manor’s wrought-iron gates.

  Alasdair watched him go. I wish it was me riding back to Kingseat. I’d like to stare Marlan full in the face and ask him myself why Rhian feels the need to hide. He hasn’t a whit of care for her. A man of God? There’s more piety in a tomcat.

  As he turned to retreat into the manor house, movement at the very end of the driveway caught his eye. He turned back. Shaded his face with one hand. What was that? A peddler’s van ?

  His late father had never had time for ceremony. He was a bluff man, a forthright man, duke of the stoniest, poorest duchy in Ethrea. Oh, there’d been mining, once. Some gold. A little tin. But the earth had yielded up its treasures many dukes ago. Duchy Linfoi had no riches the world wanted to buy. It had stone quarries. It had timber. It produced a thin, sour ale. And labour, of course. That was Linfoi’s primary produce. Sons and daughters who couldn’t wait to flee south.

  The wrought-iron gates at the end of the driveway always stood open. There was no-one worth keeping out. Hardly anyone visited. Certainly no-one important. He couldn’t remember the last time peddlers had stopped here.

  Perhaps they were lost.

  He waited, curious, prepared to be gracious. The dukes of Linfoi prided themselves on their egalitarian approach to the citizenry. It was one of many reasons why Rhian’s marriage to him had been deemed unsuitable. But peddlers were people, too. And who knew? They might have something interesting to sell.

  The brown cobs pulling the weather-beaten van looked weary. As though they’d travelled a very long way. The man driving the van—Alasdair stared. Good God . Dark skin. Bald head with—yes, a sheen of blue hair. Where was he from? I’ve never seen anyone like him before .

  The long driveway ended in a gravel circle at the manor’s wide front doors. The van stopped. Its extraordinary driver just sat there, unspeaking.

  Alasdair stepped forward. “Ah … can I help you?”

  The sound of wood banging against wood, then of feet crunching on the gravel. A moment later four people stepped out from behind the van. An elderly woman with liberally grey-streaked hair. A middle-aged man, clean-shaven and close-cropped. A younger man, closer to his own age, also close-cropped, wearing an expression of sour discontent. And a young lad—no—young woman —but dressed like a lad. With short curly black hair, and amazing blue eyes, and—

  Alasdair stared. “Rhian?” He walked forward, the ground
not quite solid beneath his feet. How was this possible? Rhian was in the clerica at Todding. “Is that you?”

  The girl’s chin came up defiantly.

  Oh, yes. It’s her.

  Heedless of the others he closed his arms about her in one hard, convulsive embrace. Then he let go and stepped back, tangled equally in foreboding and joy.

  “Rhian—what’s going on?” He folded his arms to stop himself from holding her again. Touching her. “What are you doing here? Henrik’s just sent me word you’re safe in a clerica. For the love of Rollin, why aren’t you safe in a clerica? What are you doing traipsing about Ethrea in a peddler’s van? Well, don’t just stand there! Say something!”

  She bared her teeth in a glittering smile. “I would, Alasdair, if you’d just bite your tongue.”

  He took a deep breath and let it out, hard and fast. “Rhian. Please. What’s going on? Why have you come here?”

  She put her hands on her slim hips and tipped her cropped head to one side. Her hair, her hair, her beautiful hair . He felt his pulse quicken: he mistrusted that look.

  “Actually, it’s quite simple,” she said. Behind the smile, he thought she was frightened. “I’ve come to get married.”

  “Married.” He felt his heart stutter. “You mean … to me ?”

  “No, Alasdair. To your kennel-boy. Of course to you.”

  God, he wanted to kiss her. Instead he shook his head. “Rhian … it’s impossible. You know it’s impossible. Your father—”

  “My father is dead.”

  “So is mine, as it happens,” he heard himself say. “Three days ago. I’m Linfoi’s new duke.”

  “Oh, Alasdair,” she whispered, and came to him, and pressed her palm to his cheek. Her eyes understood completely. “I’m so sorry.”

  He covered her hand with his. Her fingers were cold. “I know. So am I.” His voice broke. “I loved the old bastard.”

  “And I love the old bastard’s son,” she said softly. “I love him so much I want to make him my king. King Alasdair of Ethrea. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

  The power of speech had deserted him. So he did kiss her, and be damned to the world.