The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

  Again, Ursa’s quirky smile. “Politely put.” She drained her mug in one long swallow and set it on the bench. “And kindly done of you. But even if I did attend His Majesty I doubt there’s any more I could do. Ardell’s a touch too attached to his own self-importance for my tastes but he’s as good a physick as any in Kingseat. In the kingdom, most likely. If the king is gravely ill despite Ardell’s best efforts then … well, I think it must be hopeless.”

  “Hopeless?” He felt his mouth go dry again. His heart was pounding. “Do you mean His Majesty’s sure to die?”

  “Nothing’s ever sure in physicking, Jones, but I have to say the facts don’t bode a good outcome. The pestilence the princes brought home with them from Dev’karesh killed everyone it infected, poor souls. If the princess hadn’t been out of the capital when her brothers returned I suspect we’d have long since buried her beside them. I’ve never said so but to my mind it’s a miracle the king’s lived this long.” Ursa shook her head. “Thank God the outbreak was contained quickly or we’d likely be a kingdom of corpses by now.”

  That made him stare. “You’ve been expecting this?”

  “I’m a physick, Jones. Disease is my livelihood. Of course I’ve been expecting it.”

  “You never said a word!”

  She shrugged. “To what end? What’s done is done. No point stirring people to a panic over what can’t be changed or helped.”

  “Oh dear. And all this time I thought there was some hope.” He slapped the bench top. “It’s so unfair ! Rhian’s young and beautiful, she should be dancing at balls, breaking hearts, being courted by some young lord, riding her favourite horse through the woods … not spending every waking moment cooped up in a sick-room watching her father die!”

  No-one should be forced to watch a loved one die. If only I could help her through this nightmare . But he couldn’t. He was nothing but a toymaker, the plain, unimportant man who’d made her giggle as a child and smile with fond memory now she was grown. He wasn’t a great lord with the right to speak to her as an equal and offer his shoulder’s strength in this time of woe.

  “There’s little point fretting yourself about it,” said Ursa sharply. “You can’t help the princess or the king and that’s all there is to it.”

  Moodily, he rubbed the edge of his thumb over a knot in the bench between them. “I know. It just hurts to see her so … wounded.”

  “You may be as irritating as a shirtful of ants, Jones,” she said, softening, “but I can’t deny it—you’re a good, sweet man.”

  She didn’t often pay him compliments. Any other time he’d tease her for it but his mood was too sombre. “I hate to think what will happen to Rhian if you’re right, and the king dies.”

  “What do you mean?” said Ursa, surprised. “You know what will happen. With no prince to wear Eberg’s crown she’ll marry a son from one of Ethrea’s great Houses. He’ll leave his name behind, become a Havrell and take the throne as king. She, as queen consort, will give birth to the Havrell heir.”

  He tugged his beard. “You make it sound so simple, but I fear it won’t be. Rhian’s unspoken for. The dukes have sons, and brothers, and nephews. They’ll see the king’s death as a bright opportunity to further their own fortunes. Who knows what kind of pressures will be placed on the princess to choose this man instead of that one? And not for her benefit or even for the kingdom’s, but for the benefit of a virtual stranger.” He slapped his knee. “It’s a great pity she wasn’t matched before the king fell so ill. Now she’s got no-one to protect her from the scheming and the politics and the men who see her as nothing more than a pawn to further their own ambitions.”

  “She has Prolate Marlan,” said Ursa. “As the kingdom’s leading man of God he’ll see she’s not importuned or harassed.”

  Ursa, so acute in all else, had this one blindness. Like every faithful church-goer she set great store by Prolate Marlan. For himself, he wasn’t so sure. Ethrea’s prolate had always struck him as unctuous and intolerant, an unattractive combination. But it did no good to say that to Ursa.

  “I hope so,” he said. “Certainly it’s his duty to protect her.”

  Ursa was watching him closely, narrow-eyed and purse-lipped. “You’re taking this very personally, Jones.”

  He managed a faint smile. “Call me foolish but she could be my daughter. Hettie and I … we dreamed of a daughter.” The old, familiar ache caught him. They’d dreamed of many things beneath the willows fringing the duck pond at the end of their lane. He closed his eyes. Time to face facts . “I did hear her, you know, Ursa. I just don’t know why. I don’t know what it means.”

  Ursa’s hand closed over his. “Jones, my dear friend. Hettie is dead. What you heard was wishful thinking.”

  “No,” he said, and looked at her. “It was more than that.”

  Instead of arguing, Ursa cleared the bench of plates and mugs and stacked them neatly in the sink under the window. Her face, in profile, looked troubled. When she finally turned to him her eyes were the grey of storm clouds.

  “You’ve come to me as your physick and asked for my opinion. Here it is. I don’t believe the dead speak to us. Not unless we’re a prophet like Rollin, and Jones, you are surely not a new Rollin. But I don’t think you’re sick, either. You’ve no signs of fever or wilting or addlement. I say you’re missing your wife more than usual because it’s that time of year again and you should let it rest there.”

  He wished he could. He wanted to. But … “I can’t.”

  “Jones, what did she say to you? At least—what do you think she said?”

  Braced for scorn he whispered, “She said the kingdom’s in trouble and I have to save it.”

  No scorn. Only pity. He thought that was worse.

  “Oh, Jones . Do you hear yourself? Does that really sound likely?”

  Of course not. It was the most un likely thing he’d ever heard. But unlikely or not … “I can’t help that it sounds ridiculous, Ursa. I want to disbelieve it. But I was there. I heard her. Hettie spoke to me.”

  Ursa pulled a face. “Then I don’t know what to tell you. I’m a physick, not a devout. If it’s advice on miracles you’re asking for, Jones, put your nose round a church door. It’s been long enough.”

  There was more than a hint of censure in her voice and gaze but he refused to be shamed. The day he buried Hettie was the day he and God fell out and that was that. Ursa knew better than to try and change his mind on that score … or should do, after all these years.

  Her scolding frown eased and she said more kindly, “There’s no mystery here, Jones. The answer’s staring you in the face. Next to no sleep last night and no breakfast to set you up for a busy day. That’s what’s ailing you. A decent meal and a good night’s rest is the cure you’re after. Go home. Cook yourself a proper dinner and get some shuteye. In the morning you’ll laugh and forget all about this.”

  Something tells me that’s easier said than done . He glanced out of the window at the fading sky. “It’s not even sunset, Ursa.”

  “Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and unlikely to hear voices coming out of thin air,” Ursa prescribed flatly. “You’ve got my advice, you can take it or leave it. Now stop being such an old hen and leave me to get on with my work.”

  He pushed himself to his feet. “You’re probably right.”

  “I’m the physick. I’m always right.”

  Snorting, he kissed her cheek. “Your modesty overwhelms me. Goodbye.”

  She smiled. “Goodbye. Sleep well.”

  Outside in the laneway, Otto, his little grey donkey, was lipping at some dusty grass and practising put-upon sighs.

  “I did hear her,” Dexterity told him, unhitching the reins from a handy tree branch and clambering onto his brightly painted cart. “I’m not frazzled or addled or underslept. I heard Hettie. And I don’t understand what it means, Otto.”

  Otto’s ears indicated that he didn’t understand it either, nor di
d he much care and could they just get on home to the stable and dinner, please?

  “Go on then,” Dexterity said, and rattled the reins. “Shake a leg.”

  With Otto-like perversity the donkey shook his head instead. Then he leaned into his harness, broke into a grumpy trot and aimed his long ears towards home. There was no time now to see about the parlour curtains. And given the state of the world, perhaps redecorating the cottage should wait.

  The sun was just sinking below the horizon as Otto turned in at the cottage gate. By the time Dexterity had unhitched and tended the donkey and stowed his emptied trunk in his workshop, then smothered his day’s earnings in the kitchen’s flour barrel, lit the lamps, pumped water for his bath, heated it over the flames in the parlour fireplace and filled the tub, stars were pricking the night sky and moths were gathered at his cottage’s glowing windows. He tugged the old green curtains across the glass, shutting out the world.

  The flickering lamplight warmed his rose-pink parlour walls, sinking the corners and crannies into shadow so the commonplace was made mysterious. Hettie smiled at him from her place on the mantelpiece, pleased by the buttercups he’d vased beside her that morning. The portrait was fading now, with age and the heat from fires in this little home they’d created all those years ago. The picture frame was cracked in the bottom right-hand corner, the paint chipped on the left. He’d dropped it a week ago, while he was dusting. She wouldn’t like it much, could she see it; neat as a pin and twice as sharp was his Hettie.

  “I’ll make you a new frame, my love,” he promised as he peeled off his clothes, dropping waistcoat and shirt and breeches and smalls and stockings in a pile by the door. “As soon as I’ve the time. I’ll paint it blue and gold, would you like that?”

  Her silent smile lamented his untidiness, but gave no answer.

  He dipped his toe in the bath water and sighed. Just right. Hettie would have added lavender oil and rose petals to it and laughed at his complaining. An unscented bath, breathing heat, deep enough for drowning: just what he needed at the end of a trying day. He clambered over the side of the tub and sank inch by inch into the steaming water until his beard touched its surface. Closing his eyes with a groan of pleasure, he surrendered to hard-won luxury.

  “Dex? Dexie love, pay attention. This is ever so important.”

  Heart thudding, he held his breath and cracked one eye open like a man unlatching his door to the tax collector.

  “Hettie?”

  She was standing before the hearth, not a moment older than the day he’d buried her, with her fair hair curling against her cheeks and her brown eyes warm with love for him. She was wearing her green dress, the one with pink ribbon threaded around the bodice. He’d always loved it on her. The small parlour smelled of lavender and roses.

  A sob rose within him and he fumbled out of the bathtub, heedless of dripping water, of naked skin, wanting only to touch her, to hold her, to fold her into his empty arms. But he was too afraid …

  “Hettie?” he whispered, hardly daring to believe. “Is it really you?”

  “Yes, you great daftie, of course it’s me,” she said, her voice a familiar muddle of affectionate exasperation. Tears sprang to his eyes to hear it. “Now listen, for I’ve not much time and a deal to tell you. There’s terrible trouble coming to Ethrea, Dex. Darkness and despair the likes of which our folk have never known.”

  “What do you mean?” he demanded. “What kind of trouble? And why are you telling me? There’s nothing I can do about it. You should be telling His Majesty, or the prolate.”

  Hettie shook her head. “They wouldn’t listen. I can’t tell this to a dying king or a prolate arrogant and deaf in his office. You’re the one man I can reach, Dexie, and the only man who can reach the princess. This is her fight as well and she’ll need a good friend. As for your importance … well, you may be a simple toymaker now but in the days to come, my love, you’ll be the most important man in the kingdom.”

  “Me?” he said, incredulous. “I don’t think so, Hettie. What I think is that Ursa’s plum duff on an empty stomach has given me the collywobbles! I’m dreaming . I must be.”

  Hettie’s arms were folded under her plump bosom and her chin was lifted in the way that meant she was serious. “Dexie, it’s no dream. You’ve been chosen to aid Ethrea in its greatest hour of peril, when the future of this land and all its people, great and small, will hang by a thread no stronger than cotton. There’s no point fussing about it or saying you won’t because you must and that’s all there is to it.”

  “Must?” he echoed. “Don’t I get a say in the matter? Who is it tells me I must ?”

  Her eyes were sorrowful, as brimful of sadness as the day she’d kissed his hand and told him she was dying. “God.”

  He laughed. “Lass, you’re addled. I’ve got no use for God.”

  “Maybe you have and maybe you haven’t,” she replied, tart as unripe apples. “But God’s got a use for you, Dexterity Jones. Now listen . On the morrow, as the sun rises, go down to the harbour. Search out the slave ship with the red dragon figurehead and speak to the sailor with the triple-plaited beard. For a few coins he’ll let you on board. There you’re to find the man with blue hair and buy him, no matter what he costs.”

  And that dropped his jaw all over again. “ Buy him? Hettie, don’t be silly. Slavery’s for uncivilised foreigners, not us.”

  “Remember well, my love,” she said, and rippled like a reflection on wind-stirred water. “The ship with the red dragon figurehead. The sailor with the triple-plaited beard. The man with the blue hair. His name is Zandakar. You must take care of him till I can come to you again.”

  She was fading before his eyes, he could see right through her to the fire-danced hearth and the mantelpiece and the cracked picture frame. “No, Hettie, don’t go!” he cried. “I don’t understand. Why must I buy him? What do I do with him? Is he the cause of our troubles? Hettie, tell me!”

  She was smiling, and his heart was breaking. “Don’t be afraid,” she said, thinned almost to nothing. “Remember I love you.”

  “No, Hettie! Don’t go! Don’t leave me, not again! Hettie! ” Desperate, he lunged towards her, threw his arms wide to catch her to him …

  … and tripped and found himself half pitched over the side of the bathtub, choking and gasping and coughing in a tidal wave of cooling water that slopped onto the carpet and up into his face. Shaken and shivering he fell back into his bath and covered his eyes, his heart pounding as wild as the harbour waves at storm’s height.

  Beyond that, the only sound in the room was the tock tick tock of the clock on the mantelpiece.

  Minutes passed. After some time he felt able to uncover his eyes. The room was empty. Hettie was gone … if she’d even been there at all.

  “Hettie?” he whispered to the lamplit room. “Are you there, Hettie?”

  The curtains stirred as though tugged by living fingers, and in the air a sweet pungency of roses and lavender.

  “Hettie …”

  He sighed, a deep groaning of air. Mad, he was mad to think she’d been here. Red dragon figureheads and sailors with triple-plaited beards and men with blue hair. Whoever heard of a man with blue hair? Or with an outlandish name like Zandakar .

  Dexterity Jones, chosen by God ? Chosen by indigestion was more like it. The whole business was impossible. Outrageous. Ridiculous.

  “Ridiculous!” he said out loud, daring the shadows to contradict him. “It never happened. It was nothing but a collywobble dream. And I’m not going to pay a dream any mind at all. The only proper place for a man at sunrise is where he should be. In bed. And when the cock crows on the morrow, that’s where I’ll be. In bed.”

  Then he sank himself to the bottom of the bathtub, to make his point to whoever might, or might not, be listening.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Rhian …”

  Startled awake, Rhian dropped the book she’d been dozing over. “Yes, Papa? What is it? Do you nee
d something?” Taking his hand between her palms she chafed the dry skin and tried not to think of his brittle bones, snapping.

  “What time is it, Rhian?”

  She glanced at the clock. “Early. Would you like the curtains opened, Papa?”

  He nodded, wincing, so she slipped from the chair and drew back the windows’ heavy crimson drapes, spilling the sunrise all over herself. The spring light felt clean on her skin, chasing away the shadows of another long, painful bedside vigil.

  They were alone. Ven’Justin had mercifully departed at midnight and was yet to return. But return he would, with his droning and his bead-clicking. If she and her father were to talk of things that mattered they must talk now. Although he was a little restored with sleep, his pinched face told her, unequivocally, she could no longer delay.

  If I wait until later I might be too late. God, give me the words. Please give me the strength.

  As she slid back into her chair her father said, “I wish you would not coop yourself in here with me.”

  “What’s this?” she said, striving for humour. “Are you saying you’re tired of my company, Papa?”

  With an effort, he stretched his hand towards her. “Silly girl. You know my meaning well enough.”

  She had to blink away tears. “There’s no place in the world for me save by your side, Papa. I’ll be with you until the end.”

  As he stirred on his pillows she could see the pain in him. It hurt her so cruelly that for a moment she couldn’t breathe. He said, “That end is almost upon me, Rhian.”

  “I know,” she whispered, and let the tears fall.

  “Rhian,” her father said when she had composed herself, “we must speak of what will happen when I die.”

  I know what will happen, Papa. I’ll be alone . “Yes,” she said, and sat a little straighter. “I know we can’t put it off any longer. I’ve been thinking on the matter, I—”

  “No,” said her father. “Where the succession is concerned you will vouchsafe no opinion, Rhian. I speak not as your papa now, but as your king.”