by Karen Miller
Oh, Hettie. It's monstrous. How could you let things come to this?
Hettie didn't answer. He'd not heard or seen her for so long. He thought he was abandoned, and had almost resigned himself. So many had turned their backs on him. Why not Hettie, too?
“Jones,” said Ursa severely. “You're scruffy and ill-kempt and so is your garden. I think it's time you roused yourself from this slough of self-pity and put yourself to better use.”
He indicated his whittling knife and the partially carved puppet's arm beside him. “I'm working, Ursa.”
Hands fisted on her hips, she shook her head. “On the outside, maybe. But on the inside you're sulking.”
“Ursa…” He closed his eyes and tilted his face to the sun. “Must we have this argument again? You side with Rhian. You think I betrayed her. We don't agree, but we've argued that to death, too. If you've come to poke at me, then I'll ask you to leave. I'm weary of arguments. I'd like to sit in the sun and finish my puppet, if you please. It might fetch a few piggets at the next harbour market and I sorely need the income, with my shop closed for business and the castle denied me.”
Disgruntled, Ursa dropped to the other end of the bench. “Aren't you even going to ask me how she does?”
“Why should I? I doubt she asks after me.”
And yes, it was a petulant answer. Didn't he have the right to feel petulant? Hard done by? Unfairly chastised? She wouldn't be queen if it weren't for him.
“No, she doesn't,” said Ursa quietly. “But she would, if that Havrell pride of hers would take off its spurs and stop its pricking.”
“I'll ask you how Zandakar does,” he replied, still too raw and smarting to talk more of Rhian. “When will she relent and let him out of his cell? She owes her life to him, Ursa, twice. Is she so mean and short of memory that she'd keep him locked away in the dark until he dies?”
Ursa was staring. “Is it that long since I've come to see you?”
He felt the corners of his mouth pull down. So bitter he knew his face had grown, these past weeks, he no longer cared to look in a mirror. “He's dead then, is he? She finally let the council persuade her?”
“Not on that,” said Ursa. “Zandakar is free, Jones. Well…” She sighed. “Not free, as such, but let out of his prison cell. He's kept close in the castle now. Fed, clothed, guarded, but left alone. He's been training Rhian with a sword.”
“Ah.” Dexterity felt a pang run through his chest, as though her words were a sharp blade. “She still has some use for him , then. He's not discarded.”
“Oh, Jones ,” said Ursa, and banged a fist on his knee. “See past your bruised pride, will you? I've come to tell you how things stand. And there's no point sitting there with a face like to sour milk, pretending you don't care or have no interest in Rhian's doings for we both know that's a lie. And we know she could be dead by sunset. I've come to see if you've a message for her.” She cleared her throat. “Could be I might pass it along, just in case things do fall out that way.”
“She'll not be dead by sunset,” he replied, with far more confidence than he felt. “Why would we have been put to so much trouble and effort only to see Rhian cut down now?”
“I admit,” Ursa said after a moment, “it doesn't seem to make much sense. But sometimes life doesn't, Jones. And if we think we've been working on the side of God in this, who's to say those heathen Mijaki warriors and their bloodthirsty holy men aren't working just as hard for evil? If the Tzhung witch-men can see them, perhaps they can see us. Perhaps even now they're harnessing demons to make sure Rhian fails against the dukes!”
Dexterity had to shift on his bench a little, and stare. “Ursa? In all the years I've known you I've never heard you so superstitious! What would Helfred say if he could hear you?”
“Nothing flattering,” she muttered. Her cheeks were pink. “And I'm not superstitious , Jones. I'm just – I think—” She folded her arms. “God protect us all, you saw those Tzhung witch-men! Are you telling me you danced into that heathen Sun-dao's embrace willingly?”
Dexterity flinched, remembering how it felt to be turned into a puppet. How his body had been plucked from a chair and whirled across the castle chamber like so much leaf litter. The sorcerer's power could have crushed him, smeared him bug-like on the floor. Worst of all he remembered feeling a familiar echo in that power. A taste, a touch, a flavour not unknown.
He hadn't told Ursa that. He hadn't told anyone. That was a question he was saving for Hettie…in the unlikely event that Hettie came back.
“Well, Jones?” said Ursa. “Don't just sit there with that fish look on your face!”
He shrugged. “I don't know what to say, Ursa. I'm not in this now. I've been shoved out of the chamber and the door's shut fast in my face. If you say Zandakar's freed from his prison, I'm pleased to hear it. You could – you could give him my regards if you happen to cross paths.”
“He asks after you,” she said. Her face was unhappy. “He's worried, and wants to see you. Of course I've told him that's not possible. Even if he wasn't trailed by a dozen guards every step he takes, well…”
“You sound sorry for him,” he said. “I thought you'd hardened your heart to Zandakar.”
Ursa stood as though he'd jabbed her with a pin. Pacing a small distance from the bench, she thrust her hands into her tunic pockets and kept her back to him. Her shoulders were slumped, but hinting of the defensive.
“After all those weeks on the road with Helfred,” he added, “Rollin's Admonitions are fairly dinned into my memory. Beware of judgement on a man who has strayed, or who never knew what it is to be in God's sight. For surely the righteous know how easily we come to straying, and how much God loves a compassionate heart . I think that's how it goes. If Zandakar has done grievous wrong in his life – and I won't deny it, Hettie showed me what he's done – then I promise you he regrets it. Or aren't I someone to be believed any more?”
Ursa scuffed her toe at the ragged grass. “You sound like our prolate.”
“Now there's an insult. I've never been a tedious prosy a day in my life.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “He's not as prosy as he was. Marlan's death changed him.”
Another memory he wished would die. Not that he'd killed the man. He'd just been there when it happened. Still…in the time that had passed since Marlan's immolation he'd woken more than once in the small of the night, sweating and stricken and in despair.
“I'm sorry,” said Ursa, awkward. “Didn't mean to stir up that business.”
He shrugged. “Never mind. It wasn't your doing, Ursa. Everything then was a madness, I think.”
Slowly she sat beside him again. “I've mended my fair share of sailors,” she said after a moment. “Some of them black-hearted ruffians and no mistake, with the fresh blood of murder on their hands. I don't know why one life taken shocks me less than thousands killed, Jones, but it does and I can't pretend otherwise. And I can't see how one or two good deeds afterwards can wash an ocean of spilled blood from a man's soul.” Then she sighed, and shook her head. “But I know Zandakar would die for Rhian. It's all very confusing.”
Love often was. “Has he had enough time with her, Ursa? Are her hotas skilled enough to defeat Damwin and Kyrin?” Please, Hettie, please. Let that much be true .
“How should I know?” she retorted. “I fight my battles with a poultice, not a sword.” Then she sniffed. “But having said that, I did watch her training yesterday. She looked fierce to me. And Zandakar seemed pleased enough. He didn't slap her at least, and you'll recall he slapped her often on the road from Linfoi.”
He recalled everything that had happened on the road from Linfoi. On the whole, he wished he didn't. “If you're to preside as physick at this duel, Ursa, you'll have to go.”
She stood. “Rhian won't ignore you forever, Jones. Let this business of the dukes be put behind her and then you'll see. She's young. She's not cruel. You'll get your life back.”
She sounded
surer than he felt. Instead of answering, he picked up his whittling knife and half-carved puppet.
Ursa started to leave, then hesitated. “No message for her, Jones?”
He looked to his whittling. “Whatever you tell her, Ursa, let that be enough. If it's words from me that Rhian wants she can summon me to the castle and hear them for herself.”
“Rollin save me,” said Ursa, hissing. “You're a mirksome stubborn man.”
And if he was, what of it? But as Ursa stamped back up the garden he felt a burning sting in his eyes.
Take care of Rhian, Hettie. Don't you dare let those dukes kill her. Don't you dare let all we've done come to naught.
Rhian stood on her castle battlements, a lively breeze ruffling her crown-confined hair, and looked down upon the Great Lawn, transformed into a judicial tiltyard. The chosen witnesses would sit opposite each other in the two large stands built specially for the purpose. The third enclosing side of the tiltyard was the carpeted royal dais, its back to the castle wall. Upon it would sit Alasdair, the privy council and the Court Ecclesiastica. The fourth side contained no seating; the ducal challengers would join them from that direction, and afterwards Commander Idson and a handpicked skein of guards would stand sentinel there in case of…incident.
Less than an hour before the appointed time, and the first witnesses were arriving. From their attire Rhian judged them to be her ordinary subjects, chosen by lotteries held in their duchy venerable houses. Chattering like magpies, they obeyed the directions of the royal stewards and took the seats apportioned to them. She supposed it wasn't surprising they should feel a certain excitement: Ethrea's last judicial trial by combat had taken place more than three centuries ago. In that case history showed that the challenger – a Duke of Arbat, though not one of Rudi's direct ancestors – had emerged victorious, his dishonoured wife avenged, and the new Duke of Morvell had buried his older brother without much show of regret.
They were less civilised times. I wonder if I do the right thing in resurrecting them.
Which was a singularly foolish thing to think. It was far too late to turn back now.
Oddly, she didn't feel nervous. She didn't feel anything. Her body was numb, her imagination snared to immobility like a fly drowned in treacle. In a matter of hours she might be dead, or so badly maimed she'd wish for death to claim her. Or she might be twice more a killer.
It's in God's hands, Helfred says. Strange. While I fought to become queen I grew so used to God speaking through Dexterity. It was like God travelled with me…but now he's gone.
And so had Dexterity. That she could remedy, of course. The power was hers, to summon or send away on a whim.
Why is it easier to forgive Zandakar than him?
Impatiently she shook her head. Let her survive this day's madness and perhaps she'd give the conundrum more thought. Perhaps she'd summon Dexterity and they'd find their way back to that friendship born on the road.
Far below her some merchants and noblemen arrived. Two most venerables. Three dames. One of them was Dame Cecily from the clerica at Todding.
Rhian felt her throat close, remembering the clerica. Remembering Marlan, and the brutality he'd visited on her there. Felt a tingle in the scars she'd carry to her grave. After much prayerful consideration Helfred had left Cecily in authority, though with a heavy burden of meditation and common service. She had attended Ethrea's queen and king consort's hastily convened coronation, but been denied speech with her new sovereign.
I'm not even certain if I'll speak with her today.
More senior clergy, merchants and nobles presented themselves. Swiftly the temporary tiltyard's seating filled. Liveried message boys began scurrying about the stands, plying the witnesses with wine and cider.
The first ambassadors arrived and were shown to their reserved seats: Gutten of Arbenia and Voolksyn of Harbisland. Their nations' joint history was pocked with dispute and disarray, although at the moment they were happily treatied. Indeed, the men seemed positively spritely with good cheer. Should she be concerned? Possibly. No, probably. Assuming she survived, she'd be sure to discuss it with her council.
A gaggle of ambassadors from the minor nations arrived next: Dev'Karesh, Haisun, Slynt and Barbruish. She suspected they clotted together to create an illusion of strength against Harbisland and Arbenia, who – like Tzhung-tzhungchai – never hesitated to impose their mighty wills upon lesser principalities.
A handful more nobles and the ambassadors of Icthia and Keldrave joined the throng. The witness stands were practically full. And then it seemed to Rhian that the world stopped, and every person in it held his breath. Silence ruled. All heads turned, each avid gaze trained upon the same place.
Han.
Ambassador Lai walked three self-effacing steps behind his emperor, dressed in crimson and gold with much jade dangling about him. By contrast Han looked carved from amber and basalt, as though he shouted Let lesser men dress gaudily, like peacocks. I am Han. I am my own decoration .
As he followed a servant to his reserved seat Han looked up, unerring. Rhian felt the force of his regard like a hot sun. Standing straight and unsupported she stared back at him, unflinching. Then he looked away again, so easily she might have been a shadow of a woman, not flesh and blood and bone. She didn't know whether to be relieved or insulted.
The sound of footsteps turned her. She felt her heart leap. “Alasdair.”
Like her, like Han, Ethrea's king wore black. Velvet, though, not leather or silk. His crown was unrelieved gold etched with a wreath of snowdrops. His Havrell House badge was picked out on his breast in gold, diamonds, rubies and emeralds. Creamy-white seed pearls studded his diamond-quilted sleeves. White ruffled silk showed at throat and both wrists. A plain black sheath housed a dagger at his hip, its hilt unjewelled but inlaid with gold wire. He wasn't handsome…would never be handsome…but he was striking. Kingship became him.
“Rhian,” he said. His voice was steady, his gaze cool and unperturbed. But she knew him well, now. Beneath the calm veneer his blood ran hot with fear. “It's time.”
Her earlier numbness was fading. I'm frightened…I'm frightened …“Are Damwin and Kyrin arrived?”
He nodded. “Idson has them and their retinues under his eye, assembled and waiting for your command that they appear. Rhian, we must go. Helfred and the others are waiting.”
He was right. The sun stood almost directly overhead, beating down with a ferocity usually reserved for mid-summer. It would be hot indeed fighting for her life beneath it, dressed head to toe in leather, dancing the hotas . But that was her choice, and she'd not moan about it now.
They left the battlements together, made their way down the castle's spiralling stone stairs side by side, but as soon as they reached the ground he dropped behind and let her lead him to the castle's east courtyard where the royal party was gathered.
Ludo stood apart, his expression unreadable. Edward, Rudi and Adric clustered, talking in low voices. Edward was in command of her sword, holding it reverently in its scabbard as he listened to hot-headed Adric's voice rise. Ursa waited some small distance from them with her apprenticed physick, Bamfield. Each was dressed in a neat green smock, and they stood guard over a mighty leather physick's bag. Rhian eyed it askance.
Please God, let them not need to fuss overmuch with me.
Ursa saw her sideways look and nodded, salt-and-pepper eyebrows pulled low. Without saying a word she said so much that Rhian felt her throat close, her eyes burn. She let her lips frame two words: thank you .
Helfred and his Court Ecclesiastica, breathtaking in their church regalia, stood to one side, their heads bowed in silent prayer. Ven'Cedwin prayed with them, always a venerable before he was a privy council secretary.
Raising one hand so Alasdair would pause, she crossed the close-clipped grass to her prolate and stood obediently waiting. Almost immediately Helfred opened his eyes and raised his head.
“Your Majesty.”
She
nodded. “Your Eminence.”
For the Litany in her chapel that morning he'd worn his usual plain dark blue habit. Since then, though, he'd seen fit to change his attire. Slowly she looked him up and down, astonished that he was in velvet and ermine and silk and brocade, gaudy as a Keldravian parrot. That the prayer beads dangling from his gold-and-jewelled belt were exquisitely enamelled in vibrant greens and aquas and crimson, that a small jewelled replica of Rollin's Admonitions dangled from that same extravagant belt.
“Are you a prolate or peacock?” she murmured.
His severe frown admonished her, but still she thought she caught a fleeting smile in his eyes. “Majesty, here is no occasion for levity. We are about God's dread and sombre business.”
“ Yatzhay ,” she said. “It's just I'm not accustomed to seeing you so splendid.”
He looked down at himself, and sighed. “I'm told the court artist, Master Hedgepoole, is in attendance. It seemed politic under those circumstances that I not give history a reason to snigger.”
“Hedgepoole?” she said, startled, and glanced at Alasdair before she could stop herself. “Commemorating the day?”
His eyebrows lifted. “Judicial combat is hardly commonplace, Majesty.”
“No. But—” She shook her head. “Never mind.”
Placing a finger beneath her elbow, Helfred drifted her sideways, out of earshot of his most venerables and Ven'Cedwin. “It distresses you, to think of a painting on a castle wall showing you bloodied and victorious?”
“Perhaps it'll show me bloodied and dead,” she replied. “Unless God has told you something he's not confided in me.”
This time Helfred's anger was untempered. “For shame, Rhian. You of all people in this kingdom should know better than the mockery of God. Fie on you for an undisciplined tongue.”
And that was the Helfred she remembered. “If my tongue is undisciplined, Prolate, be sure my sword is not, nor my body neither,” she retorted. “Both are honed for killing. Is that something you think I wish to see celebrated in art ?”
