by Karen Miller
Rhian … Rhian … what have you done?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Alasdair stood at the library window and stared into the gardens below, where Rhian and the strange dark man who’d driven the peddler’s van leapt and spun and cheated death on the lawn. The sun was sinking, trailing dusk behind it with cool, shadowed fingers. A beautiful evening for dancing with knives.
“Tell me, Mr Jones,” he said. He’d been standing and watching for some time now. In the end an angry curiosity had overcome him and he’d sent for Rhian’s unlikely chaperone. “What exactly is Her Highness doing?”
“Ah,” said the toymaker. A pleasant fellow, it seemed. Earnest. Harmless. He stood ten deferential paces from the window, obedient to his summons but reluctant as well. “Yes. They’re called hotas, Your Grace.” He came hesitantly to the window. “Rhian—I’m sorry, forgive me, Her Highness—performs them morning and night, if she can.”
“Dare I ask why?”
“Why? Oh dear. Your Grace, perhaps it would be better if you asked Her Highness that.”
I would, if she’d stand still long enough for me to talk to . But since her startling marriage proposal they’d not managed a private word. She and her travelling companions were weary, they needed to bathe and change their clothes and eat something that wasn’t bread and cheese, Alasdair, they’d been on the road for days and days, if they didn’t soon sit down on something that wasn’t moving she swore every one of them would burst into tears.
He knew what she was saying, beneath the spate of words. I need time, Alasdair. I need space. Don’t crowd me. Stay back .
Because he loved her he’d listened and obeyed. He’d said nothing as she bustled and fussed, ordering the van and horses be housed in his stables, seeing the old woman and the toymaker and the dark man and the other man, the sulky one, the old woman’s apprentice, assigned rooms and servants in his largely empty manor. He understood she needed to recapture her calm. What she’d done was momentous, beyond imagining when her father was alive. But Eberg was dead and her world in disarray.
Still. He wasn’t prepared to wait forever. With her arrival on his doorstep his life was topsy-turvied too. His life. His duchy. His people, now he was their duke.
She wants me to be king? Father, can you believe it?
He’d taken Sardre aside, swiftly. “Word of the princess’ presence here must not spread. It must be as though she never came. If word should leave the manor grounds before the best time, the consequences will be dire for all of us.”
Sardre had served the House of Linfoi for three decades. “Your Grace,” he said. And that was enough.
Thank God for Sardre. I’d be lost without him.
On the close-clipped grass beyond the window Rhian flirted with death. Turning somersaults and cartwheels, leaping forward, darting back, swinging beneath her opponent’s slashing arm—and seemingly fearless—she looked like some fairytale warrior-queen. The tip of the dark man’s knife missed her shoulder by a whisper. Vivid as lightning, triumph lit her face. But it didn’t last long. She was shorter by two hands, he was superior in reach and speed. Dear God, he was fast. And focused. He’s frightening . Even as he watched, the man’s leg took Rhian’s out from under her, mid-spin. She crashed to the ground, her knife flying from her fingers.
The dark man smacked her hard on the side of the head.
“It’s all right, Your Grace!” said Mr Jones, stepping closer. “It’s just Zandakar’s way. He’d never hurt her. I know it’s alarming but this is how they train. I promise, you get used to it. More or less.”
Zandakar . What kind of a name was that?
Alasdair watched his fists relax. “More or less? I see. And who exactly is this Zandakar? Or is that another question best asked of Her Highness?”
“Yes, I think it is, Your Grace,” said Mr Jones. “I think you should definitely ask the princess.”
He turned. “Believe me, I will. But I’m interested in hearing what you have to say first.”
The toymaker bit his lip. “Forgive me, it’s not my place to—”
“I’m making it your place. Who is he, Mr Jones? How does he come here? Why does Rhian trust him with a knife—with her life ? Black skin, blue eyes, blue hair if his skull wasn’t shaved. I’ve not seen a man like him before.”
“I believe nobody has, Your Grace.”
“Nobody? Where does he come from?”
“Originally? I’m afraid I don’t know. But … I found him on a slave ship. In Kingseat Harbour.”
This was getting more ridiculous by the moment. “A slave ship ? Are you telling me you bought him?”
“Perhaps rescued him would be a better word,” said Mr Jones hastily. “Your Grace, I understand this is most disconcerting. It’s natural you should have a lot of questions. I wish I could answer them. But I beg you, ask the princess. It’s not right for me to tell you the little I know unless she gives me leave.”
He admired loyalty, so he didn’t press the man. Instead he turned back to the window and stared at the woman who would be his wife. His queen. Beyond the gardens and the manor’s fringe of woodland the languid sun was sinking in a haze of pink and violet. Rhian and Zandakar danced with their knives. There was an intimacy between them he could feel even at this distance, with glass and stone and air between them.
When I lived in Kingseat she and I would fence together. We hunted together. We stood at the butts and shot arrows together. If anyone is to teach her knife-play it should be me.
Except he’d never seen knife-play like these hotas . Never seen such speed and power. Such lethal combinations of cut and thrust. Rhian was a talented, natural athlete but compared to this Zandakar she was a clumsy dolt.
Where in God’s name does he come from?
Dragging his gaze away from Rhian, he looked at Mr Jones. “You’re a toymaker ?”
A glimmer of amusement touched the older man’s tired eyes. “By Royal Appointment, as my father was before me. I’ve known Her Highness since she was born. I made her first rattle. I made toys for the princes, too, may their souls be at peace.”
Grief for his friends, blunted now by his more recent, dearer loss, scraped his raw nerves. Ranald. Simon. What would you say if you were here now? What would they think of him marrying their sister?
“I see,” he said, thrusting aside the thought and the pain. “I suppose that explains how it is you know the princess. But how in God’s name did you get embroiled in this mess? In my experience toymakers don’t often truck with the politics of royal succession.”
Mr Jones snorted. Easy to see why Rhian trusted this plain, inconspicuous man. He had the kindest face … and an innate gentleness that couldn’t be denied. “We assuredly do not, Your Grace. But if I told you how I happen to have stumbled into it I fear you’d say I was moonstruck.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. But I do want to know.”
“Your Grace …” Mr Jones sighed. “Please. I mean no disrespect. But I must decline to answer until—”
“The princess gives you leave.” He waved a hand, accepting the refusal. “Very well, Mr Jones. You may go. But consider this conversation postponed, not abandoned.”
The toymaker bowed. “Your Grace.”
He turned back to the window as Mr Jones withdrew, to see that Rhian and Zandakar had finished their lethal training. They were stretching now, easing the kinks out of their muscles. Letting the sweat cool on their skins.
He went downstairs to join them.
“Alasdair!” said Rhian, and untwined herself from around her leg. Her knife was slid into her belt. “Is something the matter?”
Suddenly he felt shy. How ridiculous. Shy? He could feel the dark man’s gaze, considering him. Assessing him. “No. I just … I saw you from the library window.”
“And?”
“And I was most impressed,” he said lightly, warned by the dangerous light in her eyes. “Your Mr Jones tells me they’re called hotas .”
“ Dexterit
y told you—” She breathed hard for a moment, her lips pressed tight. Then she turned to the dark man. “Zandakar. Thank you.” She punched her fist to her breast. “Again in the morning, zho? ”
“ Zho . In the morning,” the man said, returning her salute. “Here. At dawn.” He turned. Nodded. “Your Grace.”
At least he thought it was “Your Grace”. The man’s accent was guttural. The words sounded more like “Yur Grarz”. He nodded back. “Zandakar.”
The tall dark man left them, heading for the stables. Rhian watched him for a moment then shifted her gaze. “What you want to know you ask me, Alasdair.”
She was rebuking him? “You were busy.”
“You’ve no right questioning my people. It’s not fair on them. If you want to know something, ask me. I’ll tell you.”
All right, then. “What does zho mean?”
“It means yes .”
“And what language would that be?”
She hesitated. Shrugged. “I don’t know what it’s called. It’s Zandakar’s language.”
“And who is Zandakar, Rhian?”
Her eyes were glinting again. He saw temper, and unease. “A friend.”
“A friend you know nothing about. Who came off a slave ship, from an unknown country.”
She frowned. “Dexterity’s got a busy tongue.”
“He hardly told me anything,” he said, close to temper himself. “He said to ask you. So I’m asking, Rhian. Why is Zandakar with you? What is going on?”
Hands fisted on her hips, she shifted away from him. In the swift-fading light it was hard to read her face. “It’s a long story, and it’s complicated.”
“Which I want to hear,” he said, trying desperately to sound reasonable. But he knew he was failing … and realised he didn’t care. “I want to know who he is, Rhian! He spent the last hour waving a knife in your face! He nearly cut your throat three times that I saw. Nearly stabbed you to death five times, at least! And you don’t even know what country he’s from?”
“What does it matter where he comes from, Alasdair?” she retorted. “What does it matter if his speech is strange? He saved my life . I’d be dead without him. What does anything matter compared to that?”
Did she even know the knife was back in her hand? Did she know how fierce she looked, how suddenly foreign? With her short hair and her boy’s clothes and a killing light ignited in her eyes?
She saw his shock, and the fury fled her. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m tired, Alasdair.” She let the knife fall to the grass. “I’m so tired … and I’m so alone.”
He opened his arms to her, and held her tight to his chest. “Idiot. You’re not alone. You’ve got me. You’re here, safe in Linfoi. What do you mean, he saved your life?”
“In duchy Arbat,” she said, muffled against velvet. “There were footpads. They attacked us. Zandakar …”
“He killed them?”
She nodded. “They had swords and knives. They weren’t intending to ask for directions.”
Could she feel his heart pounding? Surely she had to. “How many?”
“Six. And he was unarmed. Well, except for a club. At first, anyway.”
And you wonder why I’m worried? “I’m glad he saved you,” he said. “Of course I’m glad. But—”
She pulled free of him, stepping back. “What’s going on in duchy Arbat, Alasdair? Armed footpads roaming the country roads? Setting upon innocent travellers with swords ? What are Rudi’s soldiers about, letting ruffians like that run loose about the place?”
He shrugged. His arms were empty. “I don’t know. But you can ask him yourself soon enough. He’s coming here for Father’s funeral and my investiture as duke.”
“Coming here ?” she echoed, dismayed. “Well, yes. Of course he is. All the dukes are coming? Edward and Damwin and Kyrin?”
“That’s right.”
“How soon will they arrive?”
“Three days from now. After Father’s buried and I’m made the next duke we’re supposed to travel south to Kingseat, so I can be confirmed in the High Chapel by the prolate and my king. Except …”
“Yes,” she sighed. “I know. Except.” She pressed a hand to her eyes, then let it fall away. “You haven’t said if you’ll marry me.”
“Rhian …”
The only light now came from the rising moons. It wasn’t much. “What happens next, Alasdair, depends on your answer.”
He wanted to call for someone to bring flaming torches. This wasn’t a conversation to be held in the dark. “I know that. But Rhian—the implications—the consequences—have you thought of—”
“Since leaving the clerica I’ve thought of little else!” Her voice sounded bleak. “It’s you or one of the others. I don’t want them. Do you want me?”
“Do I want you? Rhian, how can you—”
She rested her hand against his chest. Her expression was solemn. Resolute. “I don’t care that my father forbade a match between us. His opinion no longer carries weight. If you want me you can have me. But you can’t have the crown.”
He knocked her hand away, furious. “You think I want you for the crown ?”
“Why not? Everyone else does.”
“I’m not everyone else! I wanted you before there was a crown, remember? I wanted you before Ranald and Simon died, before Eberg died. Even when I knew it was hopeless I wanted you. I wanted you when I was twelve and you were six!”
“You did?” She sounded surprised. “You never told me.”
He wasn’t going to be distracted. She might as well have cut him with her knife. “How can you stand there and accuse me of being like those others? Why come here to marry me if you think I’m like them ?”
“I don’t,” she said, quickly. “Alasdair, I don’t.”
“You just said—”
“Forget what I said. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. I told you, I’m exhausted. I’ve come a long way from Todding.”
“You certainly have.” She’d come so far he wasn’t certain he knew her. “Who else in Kingseat knows you’ve fled the clerica? Anyone?”
“The clerica’s dame. And Marlan. Cecily must have told him, she’d have had no choice. And there were Kingseat guards looking for someone at the Pipslock river-station. That’s why it took so long to reach you. We came by road most of the way.”
“Marlan,” he said, feeling sick. “Rhian, you can’t mean to stand against the Prolate of Ethrea. He’s as powerful as a king. And you’re his ward, you—”
Her chin came up, sharply. “No. I’m the Church’s ward. There’s a difference.”
By a hairsbreadth, maybe . But it was an argument that could wait for later. He took her hands. They felt small and cold. “Rhian … when you say I can’t have the crown…”
In the faint light, her eyes were shining. “It’s my birthright, Alasdair. I’m Eberg’s legitimate offspring, his only living heir. No man in this kingdom, not even you, has a greater claim to the throne. I won’t give it away just because I’m a woman. I won’t give it away because Marlan says I must. I won’t give it to him . I’ll go to hell first.”
He wasn’t surprised. How could he be surprised? She was Eberg’s daughter. “So if I marry you …”
“You’ll be my king consort. My chief advisor. Ethrea’s monarch after me. You’ll be a king, and the father of kings. Is that enough for you? I can’t—I won’t —give you more.”
To be made Alasdair, King Consort? He’d never dreamed so high. “And what happens to Linfoi? The duchy needs a duke.”
She slid her hands free of his and folded her arms. “Well… who’d become duke if you dropped dead in your sleep? Henrik?”
“Ludo. Henrik renounced his claim in my cousin’s favour when I came home and he took my place on the council.”
“Did he?” She pulled a face. “No-one told me. Then Ludo would be duke. Is that acceptable to you?”
He nodded. “Ludo’s a good man. I’d thought to name him to the council
once Henrik stepped down.”
“Then we’re agreed, at least in principle?” Her lips curved in a tiny smile. She was trying to flirt with him but her eyes were too anxious. “You’ll marry me, and be my king?”
He felt like a tree branch torn loose in a storm and flung pell-mell into a raging torrent. “In principle? Yes. I suppose. But it’s more complicated, surely! Aside from Marlan you’re still a minor in law, we can’t—”
“Hush,” she said, her fingers pressed against his lips. “We’re agreed in principle. Let’s leave it there for tonight. I’m tired and I’m hungry and I’m desperate for another bath. But first … will you take me to see your father?”
His father? “Yes. Of course. He’s in the chapel.”
He didn’t need torches to help him find his way to the free-standing stone chapel that had held services for the manor’s people for over five hundred years. As they walked through the darkness she slid her hand into his, he thought to seek comfort as well as offer it.
“Is there someone in there?” she said, seeing the lamp-glow through the ancient stained-glass windows.
“One of the chaplains from the venerable house,” he said. “There’s a vigil between now and the funeral. I’ll ask him to leave his praying for a while so he won’t see you.”
She stopped. “Send him away altogether. Tell him you want to stand the rest of the vigil yourself. It’s important,” she added, when he opened his mouth to argue. “I’ll explain later, I promise.”
“All right,” he said, and let go of her hand. “Wait here. I’ll dismiss him. Assuming he’ll let me.”
“Assuming nothing, Alasdair. You’re the Duke of Linfoi. Send him away.”
The chaplain departed with a walking-lamp, protesting but acquiescent in the end to his ducal authority. Once the man was gone Rhian entered the chapel and knelt by the bier supporting Alasdair’s father’s heavy, lead-lined coffin. It was draped in the Linfoi standard, seeming too small to contain such a larger-than-life man. Alasdair knelt beside her, his bones achingly familiar with the cushions placed before the bier.
They prayed in silence, and he remembered love and laughter and a life lived in duty.
