The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

  The sour chaplain pushed forward, daring to lay a hand on Rhian’s bridle. “I tell you this is forbidden by the Church! You are a hussy and your marriage is unlawful! Get you and your rabble gone from our streets or by Rollin I shall—”

  “You little man,” said Zandakar. “Get back from her … or die.”

  Gasps from the crowd as Zandakar nudged his black stallion closer. Bright morning light glinted on his knife.

  “No, Zandakar!” said Rhian. “I’m in no danger. Put your blade away.”

  Zandakar’s blue hair, much longer now, shone like sapphire in the sun. “ Wei . He threatens you. He is not safe.”

  Wei . The watching dukes could guess that word. Rhian flicked a glance at their shocked faces, knowing too well how this appeared. Dexterity felt his skin crawl.

  Zandakar, obey her. The trouble you’ll cause us if you don’t!

  Rhian lifted her chin. Her eyes were coldly angry. “Zandakar. I am hushla . Do as I say.”

  A muscle leapt along Zandakar’s jaw. Then he nodded. “Zho. Hushla.” He sheathed his blade.

  More protests and babbling from the chaplain and the crowd. Then everything went silent: the beeman and his son and the weeping woman were in their midst.

  “Where’s Graythorne?” said Loryn and laid his child on the hard ground. The woman knelt beside him, keening with fear.

  “I’m here,” said the physick, shoving his way back through the crowd, burdened with a physicking bag and two corked jugs. “Let me see him. Physick Ursa, you’ll look with me?”

  “I will,” said Ursa, and with a grunt crouched beside him in the street.

  The swarm-stung boy Walder sprawled insensible, his naked body a mass of swollen, weeping boils. Dead bees tangled in his curly yellow hair. His father and mother clutched each other, stricken.

  “It’s not promising,” said Ursa.

  “No,” said Physick Graythorne.

  “Save him. Please save him,” sobbed Beeman Loryn. “My poor Walder!”

  Graythorne uncorked one jug and poured something brown and sticky down the boy’s swollen throat. Ursa pulled her mortar from her physicking bag, slopped in a splash of oil then added some dried plant from the green leather pouch.

  Graythorne stared. “What’s that?”

  “Yadder-root,” said Ursa, grinding hard with the pestle.

  “Yadder-root? I don’t know—”

  “It’s a Dev’kareshi plant. Strong blood purgative.”

  “Foreign?” said the physick, doubtful. “Can I trust—”

  “You can try,” said Ursa fiercely. “Can it hurt the boy now?”

  Walder’s mother wailed, hearing that. Her husband, his arm around her shoulders, pressed his cheek to hers and groaned.

  “All right,” said Graythorne, his face drawn and defeated. “As you say. I doubt it could hurt him now.”

  A terrible hush descended, broken only by the harsh, dry sobs of Walder’s mother. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked. A cow lowed. Comfortable, familiar sounds made ugly by this looming tragedy.

  As Ursa carefully trickled more pinchfuls of the powdered yadder-root into her mortar and Physick Graythorne watched anxiously to see if his brown elixir was taking any effect, Dexterity let his gaze roam the weeping, watching crowd. Fresh young girls, worry-worn women. Farmers and shopkeepers. Cheeky boys and their sober older brothers. Villages were small places where every face was known, if not loved. Where joy was shared joyfully and one broken heart broke all.

  “Don’t just stand there gawking, Jones!” said Ursa. “Help us get this paste on the child!”

  Kneeling, he joined her and Graythorne in smearing the stinking concoction over the boy’s hot, lumpy skin. The child whimpered pitifully as the greeny paste touched him, but there was no fighting strength in the sound of protest.

  Walder was dying.

  “How quickly does this yadder-root work?” asked Graythorne. His eyes were hollow with despair.

  “Quick enough as a rule,” said Ursa. “But this time …” She flicked a look at the boy’s distraught parents. “I’ve never seen so many beestings before.”

  Rhian looked to the village chaplain. “A prayer,” she said. “Walder’s one of your own. Don’t abandon him because of me.”

  “Chaplain Mede?” said Walder’s mother, her voice catching on a sob. “Call for God’s grace! Please ask God to save my boy!”

  “I will not!” spat the chaplain. “Duchy Linfoi is under interdict! A prayer for the dying will perjure my soul!”

  His refusal sparked more furious outcry. Rhian, the king, Ursa and the nearest villagers, they all shouted at the recalcitrant man. Letting the protests wash over him, Dexterity again wandered his gaze across the tear-streaked faces of Heddonvale’s people.

  Hettie stood among them, her fair hair bedraggled and covered in an unravelling gossamer shawl, her hands folded before her, her brown eyes haunted and brimful of tears. They met his, and held his, and she slowly shook her head.

  No, Hettie! Do something! Don’t let this little boy die!

  Physick Graythorne pressed his fingers to the boy Walder’s throat. Let them rest there a moment then sighed, and looked up.

  “Listen to me! Listen! ”

  The shouting stopped.

  “I’m sorry. So sorry. But Walder is dead.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “ N o!” screamed Walder’s mother. “No, not dead, not my little boy!”

  “It’s God’s will!” said Chaplain Mede, lifting his voice above the crowd’s wailing and the terrible weeping of the dead boy’s parents. “This is a judgement. We allowed this wicked woman and her blasphemous followers into our village and God has judged us for our sin!”

  “How dare you say so!” King Alasdair shouted, as Rhian choked back a sob and the dukes sat straighter in their saddles, hands hovering above the hilts of their swords. “You think God makes his point on the bodies of children? If anyone in this place has lost sight of God it’s you, Chaplain Mede. Not Her Majesty. She’s the Church’s true daughter and unlike you she grieves for Walder. He was her subject and as her subject she loved him.” He stared at the villagers. “She loves every one of you. She is your queen !”

  Chaplain Mede started ranting again. Still kneeling with Ursa, Dexterity looked at her face. It was still and sad. She’d seen a great deal of death in her time. He took her hand in his and squeezed, then looked for Hettie.

  Yes. She was still here, in the crowd, weeping.

  Do something, Hettie! Don’t just stand there in tears.

  She shook her head. I can’t, Dexie love. But you can. You can save him .

  Her lips hadn’t moved but he heard her voice anyway. A whisper, a breeze of words, sighing through his heart.

  Me? I can’t save him!

  She smiled. Yes you can, my love. Trust me. Trust God. Have faith … and save the child .

  Before the last echo of her words faded he felt a wave of scorching heat rush through his body. He stared at his hands. beneath the dried smears of Ursa’s ointment his skin began to glow.

  Ursa noticed. “Jones?” she said, alarmed, letting go of him. “What’s that? Good God have mercy. Are you doing it again ?”

  He couldn’t answer. There was a roaring in his head as though his skull were full of flames. Memory returned.

  Oh dear. Yes, Ursa. I’m doing it again.

  He looked for Hettie … but Hettie was gone.

  Everyone scrambled to get away from him, even Walder’s distraught parents. The villagers were shouting and pointing. Chaplain Mede gobbled, incoherent. Ursa kept hold of Physick Graythorne, keeping him safely at a distance. King Alasdair’s arm slid around Rhian. A terrible hope was burning in her eyes.

  The heat in his body was so intense now. He couldn’t see properly, the air had taken on a fuzzy reddish-gold glow. It blurred all the faces around him, they looked like they were made of wax and melting. With dreamlike surprise he saw his shining hands drift towards dead
Walder and lay themselves palm-down on his motionless beestung chest. Through the roaring in his head he heard voices cry out. Then he heard another voice … and realised it was his. He was a puppet again, his body used by someone … something … else.

  “Rise, Walder! Breathe again! In the name of Rhian, Eberg’s daughter, Ethrea’s true and noble queen, awake from your cold sleep and live with joy!”

  Walder, the dead boy, opened his eyes.

  “Rise, Walder! Stand and embrace your loving family! Praise Ethrea’s Queen Rhian who with God’s blessing has been raised so high!”

  Walder, the dead boy, got to his feet.

  “Mama?” he whispered, confused and afraid. “Mama, what happened?”

  “Walder!” his mother cried, and flung herself upon him. His father was only a heartbeat behind. Beneath Ursa’s ointment the boy’s previously swollen, pustuled skin was flawless.

  Still snared in his dream-state like a bee in its honey, Dexterity lifted his hands in front of his eyes. As he watched, the shining light faded from them. They became his ordinary whittling hands again, stained with ointment, marked with pale scars. His burning blood cooled and the world cooled with it, the air fading slowly from reddish-gold to gone. As though someone had magically vanished his bones he felt himself slip sideways to slump on the ground.

  “Jones!”

  That was Ursa. He’d know her voice anywhere.

  “Don’t stand there, Graythorne! Help me get him on his feet!”

  Strong arms slid around him and he was hauled to the vertical. Muzzily he blinked and blinked. His head felt empty, his body light as thistledown.

  Silence. Everyone was staring at him. Walder. Walder’s parents. Chaplain Mede. The villagers. Rhian and Alasdair. Zandakar. The dukes.

  “Are you all right, Dexterity?” said Rhian, her voice hushed. “Can you speak?”

  He cleared his throat. “I—I think so, Your Majesty.”

  Walder’s mother said, “Thank you. God bless you .”

  “Oh …” He blinked. His empty head was spinning. If he wasn’t careful a breeze would blow him away. Is this what you meant, Hettie, when you asked for that favour? I’m not sure I like it. I’m not sure at all! “Er … yes … you’re welcome …”

  “And God bless Queen Rhian!” Beeman Loryn cried loudly. His arms were tight around his son, now wrapped in someone’s hastily donated shirt for decency. “With God’s intervention she gave my son back to me!”

  Chaplain Mede clenched his fists. “Loryn, you damn yourself! The prolate has declared this woman anathema. This was not the work of God, it is evil, God will disown you if—”

  “Be silent, you foolish man. God will do nothing of the sort.”

  Helfred.

  Chaplain Mede turned on him. “And who are you?” he demanded. Spittle flecked his lips and his eyes were wide with zeal.

  “I’m a brother chaplain,” said Helfred. His hands were clasped quietly before him, his travel-worn robes edged with dust from the street. “Whatever you’ve been told by the prolate, disregard it. Prolate Marlan is … mistaken.”

  “ Mistaken? God’s prolate ?” Chaplain Mede growled in his throat. “What kind of a chaplain are you, to make such a pronouncement?”

  Helfred smiled, thinly. “The kind who knows more of the prolate than a village divine who’s doubtless never seen him in the flesh. Prolate Marlan is—”

  “Your superior,” said Rhian. “Helfred, you forget yourself. Return to the van.”

  Shocked, Helfred stared at her. “Your Majesty—”

  “Do not call her that!” cried Chaplain Mede. “Every soul here is interdict because of her!”

  “You fool,” said Helfred. “The interdict is nothing but an attempt to steal power. God has chosen Queen Rhian to lead Ethrea out of danger. The child Walder lives to show you a sign! Do you deny what has happened here? Do you say there was no miracle?” He flung a challenging glare at the crowd. “Well, you people? Do you deny it?”

  The villagers looked at each other then slowly shook their heads. How could they deny it with Walder standing before them, alive when moments before he’d been dead?

  “Evil can hide itself in miracles!” said Chaplain Mede. “Evil can—it can—”

  Ignoring him, and Rhian, Helfred turned again to the crowd. “Good people of Heddonvale, do not despair!” His expression was transformed into a peaceful serenity, all past peevishness washed away. “Clouds cover the sun’s face, the land is darkened… but briefly. In God’s name, as his divinely ordained chaplain, I tell you to celebrate the miracle you have seen. Keep it not secret but spread the joyful word: Rhian is God’s chosen queen of Ethrea. She is the light. Let her light shine!”

  “God save Queen Rhian!” cried King Alasdair. “God’s mercy on Ethrea and Rhian, our queen!”

  The people of Heddonvale took up the cry. Under its cover, Rhian nudged her horse forward. “Thank you, Helfred. Now get back in the van .”

  Dexterity watched startled Helfred flinch. Then the chaplain nodded. “Your Majesty,” he murmured, and did as he was told.

  They left Heddonvale soon after, with Chaplain Mede vanquished and the villagers’ shouting as great a benediction as any reading of the Litany. Ursa, insistent, put Dexterity in with Helfred to sleep and drove the peddler’s van herself. They did not stop again until twilight fell.

  Once the royal party was settled for the night, Dexterity was summoned before Rhian.

  “All right, Mr Jones,” she said, seated on a fox-pelt travelling stool in her small pavilion. Behind her stood the king, the dukes and a pensive Helfred. “I’d like an explanation.”

  Oh, Hettie. Hettie. I could do with you now …

  “Your Majesty, I’m not certain I can give you one.”

  Rhian leaned forward, her hands fisted on her knees. “I don’t wish to hear that! The child was dead and you brought him back to life. How did you do it? I want to know, now! ”

  “That’s just it,” he said, helpless. “I didn’t do it, Majesty. It was Hettie. She saved him. I was just… there.”

  “I see,” said Rhian, after a moment. “And you’re all right? You look all right. Certainly you don’t look any different .”

  I’m shaken to pieces but aside from that … “Perfectly fine, Majesty. Thank you for asking.”

  “I think it’s time you told us about this Hettie, ” said Duke Edward, his whiskered face grim. “I think it’s time you told us everything, Your Majesty.”

  “I agree,” said Duke Rudi. “I want to know all there is to know of this woman. And how it comes to pass that a foreign mercenary seems willing to kill a chaplain of Ethrea for you without bothering to wait for an invitation. Or how that foreign mercenary fell in with a simple toymaker in the first place. There are many such mysteries here, Your Majesty. Edward and I have risked our duchies and kinsmen for you. I think you owe us more than half-truths and excuses.”

  Rhian looked at him, her eyes hot. “I’ve made your son Duke of Kingseat, Rudi. Are you certain you wish to be speaking of debts?”

  “And I’m honoured and humbled by that, Your Majesty,” said Duke Adric, a handsome young man with dark hair and eyes and his father’s hookish nose. “However, if I may be so bold as to speak, like my father and Duke Edward … I am curious and concerned.”

  “Rhian,” the king said quietly. “It’s time. And if you didn’t think so you wouldn’t have called Mr Jones before your full council.”

  Rhian’s lips thinned for a moment, then she nodded. “Perhaps. Helfred. Who is Hettie?”

  Dexterity nearly bit his tongue. Helfred? Why ask Helfred ?

  From the look on his face the chaplain was wondering the same thing. “Your Majesty?”

  “You’re the chaplain here, aren’t you?” said Rhian, impatient. “And we’ve witnessed our second miracle, this one even more miraculous than the first. Surely this is the provenance of our Church.”

  “Your Majesty,” said Helfred faintly. Then he collected hi
mself and looked at the dukes. His face now held an echo of his former lecturing pomposity. “Hettie, Your Graces, is a messenger from God who appears to Mr Jones in the guise of his dead wife.”

  “Rollin save me,” said Duke Edward. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Not outside of scripture, and these aren’t scriptural times.”

  Dexterity cleared his throat. “You can’t be more surprised than I am, Your Grace.”

  “Hmmph,” said the duke, then turned to Helfred. “Have you seen this—this messenger, Chaplain?”

  “I have seen its manifestation in miracle, Your Grace,” said Helfred. “As have we all. I suggest doubt at this point is… pointless. And displeasing to God.”

  “But why him ?” said Duke Rudi. He sounded almost offended. “Why is he singled out for God’s favour? He’s a toymaker. He’s—he’s—”

  “Loyal, brave and wise,” said Rhian, sharply. “He risked everything for me with no thought for himself. If I live to be a thousand I’ll never be able to repay him.”

  “Nor will I,” said King Alasdair. “I’d not be wed to Her Majesty if this man hadn’t saved her from the clerica, and Marlan. We are all in his debt, Your Graces. This kingdom most deeply of all.”

  “Blessed Rollin was a humble man,” added Helfred. “It seems God has a fondness for those unspoiled by high station.”

  The dukes exchanged affronted looks, but forbore protest.

  “Very well,” said Duke Edward. “You’re the chaplain. If you’re satisfied then so must we be.”

  “What about Zandakar?” said Duke Adric. “A fierce man, and most … unusual. Have we seen his race in Ethrea before?”

  Rhian said, “I’m not certain. So many foreigners set foot on our shores these days. His is a sad tale, Your Graces. The physick, Ursa, patched him up after he was brought to her in a terrible state. A harbour-tavern brawl, you know what sailors are like. His ship sailed without him. Abandoned him without a care. Mr Jones took pity on him, offered him work and a roof over his head till he could find his way home again. He’s a generous soul. Isn’t that so, Mr Jones?”