The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

  God forbid? I don’t think so. I can think of nothing more useful . “Then his faithful council will act in his stead. Good morning, my lord. We will meet again in council chambers in due course.”

  This time, an unambiguous dismissal. Like the ambassadors Dester had no choice but to bow and withdraw. Marlan returned to the audience chamber’s leadlight window and rested his satisfied gaze once more on the harbour, and the ships, and the crowded docks and piers.

  So matters progress as I would have them progress. Were I in truth a superstitious fool, a man of faith, I might think God and I shared the same ambitions.

  But there is no God. There is only me. In the end, it’s all one and the same.

  According to Helfred, God heard all prayers, all petitions, all whispers in the heart. According to Helfred, God looked with great favour upon a man—yes, yes, all right, and a woman, too—who knelt before him in humble piety and solemn worship, his wonders to proclaim. According to Helfred, it was sinful pride to take up God’s time in asking for anything of a personal or worldly nature. Prayer should be reserved for unworldly matters. Or praise. Preferably praise. And abject apology. In large amounts.

  Anyone who knew Helfred, Rhian decided, might well believe he followed that last stricture to the letter. Only Helfred, with presumably a better chance than most of being heeded, would resist the temptation to request at the very least a bit of backbone and a face that didn’t break out in pimples twice a week.

  I could care less about the scripture according to Helfred. If I had a horse to take me there I’d ride right up to God’s front door and present my demands to him in person.

  And make no mistake about it. They were demands, all right. Not prayers, not petitions, not Please God, if you’d just take the time to notice such a lowly and worthless woodlouse like myself … God, she decided, hadn’t been doing a very good job of late. And if the prolate and the venerables and the chaplains and the devouts were too scared to mention the fact, well … she wasn’t.

  So there.

  Beyond the stained-glass panels behind the royal family’s private chapel altar, the sun was halfway risen to noon. Rhian shifted a little and winced. Even with a pillow, a day and night vigil before the Living Flame was murder on the knees. But she would suffer a lot more than sore joints, joyfully, to make her father well again.

  The long vigil had been Helfred’s idea, of course. “Three days without setting foot here, Highness,” he’d said, disapproving. “We talked about examples, did we not?” So she’d given in, because she was simply too tired to argue.

  And who knew? They hadn’t saved her mother, or Ranald, or Simon, but perhaps this time her prayers would make a difference.

  Fierce as a hawk she stared up at the enamelled and jewelled gold sconce that held the Living Flame, a symbol of God’s presence in the world.

  Will they, God? Will my prayers make a difference? I can’t say I’m confident. It seems you’re determined to take my whole family. I’m a little confused. Was it something I said?

  Helfred would be appalled, could he hear her thoughts. Yesterday, once the Litany was thrice repeated, and sensing her unquiet spirit and seething resentment of, oh, so many things, he had presumed—again—to lecture her. God’s will was to be accepted with love and humility. It was never to be questioned. Furthermore, to actually imply any criticism of God, well, that kind of arrogance was a whipping matter.

  “Fine,” she’d shouted at him, at long last losing control of her temper. “So whip me, Helfred! See if I care! It can’t possibly hurt more than watching His Majesty creep closer to death every day, every hour, and being powerless to save him! God has no right to do this. My father has never done anything bad in his life. He’s been a good man and a great king. This is wrong, I tell you, wrong, wrong, wrong !”

  And if arrogance wasn’t enough to earn an ecclesiastical beating then blasphemy surely qualified her. Marlan would punish her himself if he knew of her impious outburst. But he couldn’t know because she’d not even been summoned to his presence, let alone censured or beaten. That could only mean Helfred hadn’t reported her wicked behaviour.

  Which, for an ecclesiastical spy, was a very odd way for him to behave.

  In the chapel’s serene and incense-perfumed silence, her stomach gave a monstrous growl. “Petitions to God,” Helfred had told her before he left to pray in solitude, “are oft heeded better when delivered on an empty stomach. You’ve eaten once today, Your Highness. Now it’s time to fast.”

  She hated fasting. But so be it, she’d decided. She was desperate. If starvation was what it took to save her father’s life she’d reduce herself to skin and bone. Not another morsel would pass her lips until King Eberg was pronounced hale and hearty again.

  You have my solemn promise, God. I’ll do anything. I’ll even forget about Alasdair and marry a man I don’t know or love. Just don’t let Papa die, I beg you. It’s such a small thing I’m asking for. I don’t want untold riches. I don’t want power beyond the dreams of mortal man. I won’t even ask for a handsome husband, although if you could manage to keep him less than twenty years my senior I confess I’d be grateful. Just please, please … don’t let Papa die.

  The Living Flame burned, still as gold.

  Perhaps God disapproved of flippancy. She couldn’t help it. It was her only armour against the gibbering fear that her prayers would indeed go unanswered, that God was deaf to her or didn’t exist. And that when her father died and she was alone she’d be powerless to save herself from—

  “Good morning, Your Highness,” said a calm, strong voice from the door of the chapel. “Ven’Joscel said I would find you here.”

  Prolate Marlan, the voice of God in the Kingdom of Ethrea, spiritual father of every soul, Guardian of the Living Flame. The man she would answer to once her father was dead. As a ward of the Church she’d have no other choice.

  With a small whimper, for the pain in her muscles and bones was abominable—it had nothing to do with being afraid or intimidated—she inched around on her pillow to face him.

  Marlan was sixty-nine but looked twenty years younger. Nothing about him indicated age or hinted at infirmity. He radiated vitality. He exuded energy and good health. He was immaculate: his bald head was polished, his black and gold vestments spotless and uncreased, his black velvet slippers unmarred by dust. He never shouted: he had no need, for the whisper of God was heard by even the dead. He never apologised: for how could the tongue of God be wrong? In the privacy of his ecclesiastical palace, and with the merest lifting of his little finger, Marlan had sentenced sinning chaplains to death and would have blighted whole villages for disobeying their appointed venerables—if her father had not intervened. It had been the running battle throughout their joint care of the kingdom: how much power should the Church have? Who was answerable to the king?

  Her father had always emerged victorious from their encounters … and year by year Marlan had grown yet more sour.

  And unless there’s a miracle he’ll own me till I’m twenty. Oh God, God, help me.

  She bowed her head. “Your Eminence. You grace me with your presence.”

  The heavy silk skirts of Marlan’s vestments swished against the chapel’s mosaiced floor as he approached. When he reached the altar he stopped, pressed his thumb to his heart, his lips, and murmured beneath his breath. Then he looked down on her. “What do you do here, my child?”

  She wanted to say, I’m not your child . She wanted to say, What does it look like I’m doing? She wanted to throw herself in his face and scratch his eyes out for his endless preaching on the holiness of obedient daughters. She said, “I hold vigil for my father the king, Your Eminence.”

  His long, cool fingers brushed the tangle of her hair. Barely, she repressed a shudder. His touch made her skin crawl. “Dear child. God smiles upon such filial piety. But what of Helfred? Does he not pray with you in your time of trial?”

  Damn. Of course he’d notice Helfred’s absence.
She looked up. “Your Eminence, my chaplain did want to remain with me but I sent him away after some hours. I felt I needed time alone … and he suffers from occasional bouts of—that is to say, he was indisposed. I felt it unkind to ask him to kneel with me all night.”

  “Before God,” said Marlan, “what matters the frailty of our flesh? Worship of the divine presence transcends all mortality.” The mellow tone of his voice did not alter, but she felt her heart skip. If the glow in the prolate’s eyes were any indication, poor Helfred would soon be indisposed in another way altogether.

  Poor Helfred? She must be more tired than she realised.

  Marlan said, “Have you recited your Litany today, my child?”

  “No, Your Eminence.” I’ve been too busy scolding God .

  “Then let us recite it together.” With the oiled ease of an acrobat he sank to the floor beside her. One sideways, disdainful glance took in her pillow, even as his unpadded knees came to rest on the chapel’s marble floor. She flushed, waiting for censure, but he did not comment, saying only, “Are you prepared, my child?”

  “Yes, Your Eminence,” she whispered, and obediently bowed her head.

  He raised his arms to the altar and lifted his eyes to the Flame. “O God, who burns unceasing within our hearts, hear now our raised voices, with which we honour you and praise you and give thanks for all thy glory,” he intoned, his voice filling the chapel without effort. “Hear us, O God, that do beseech your goodness and mercy, now and unto the very end of days whence cometh the final Flame.”

  “Hear me, O God,” she said, in formal response. Her own voice sounded pale and childish, lacking any kind of strength at all. It’s because I’m tired and grieving. It’s not because this man hollows my bones .

  Together, they recited the Litany.

  “O God, that did hold back your love from the land and from the people as they did fester and swarm upon the pleasant fields in the fleshly pursuit of power, hear my prayer. O God, that did stop your ears ’gainst the cries of the wicked as they did slay one another in evil war, hear my prayer. O God, who did at last send us Rollin, who opened our hearts to Unification, wherein we dwell in peace, without war, hear my prayer. I beseech you, O God, send wise men to teach me; stern men to love me; wrathful men to chastise me when I err.”

  Echoing Marlan, Rhian touched her thumb to breast and lips. Why does the Litany always sound frightening when he says it? It’s supposed to bring us closer to God, not make us feel like hiding in a corner .

  Beside her, Marlan inhaled deeply, and then breathed out. His translucent eyelids lifted, revealing his dark and lightless eyes. “God, I must ask of you one more thing. God, see this child beside me, soon to be orphaned in the world. Bestow upon her the wisdom to recognise her feminine shortcomings and the humility to know that she must yield. God, this child is young and headstrong. Give me the strength to mould her to your will.”

  Heart beating like a kettle drum, she stared at him. My feminine shortcomings? “Your Eminence—”

  “There is no need to thank me, Rhian,” he said, gently austere. “I have as much care for you as if you were my own. Indeed, when you are made a ward of the Church to all intents and purposes you will be mine.”

  It was a threat. A promise. A cool reminder of what was to come. “Your Eminence,” she said, and lowered her gaze so he wouldn’t see the fury in her eyes.

  He rose to his feet. “It pleases me to see you so observant in prayer. Continue your devotions. I will send Helfred to you.”

  “But the king—”

  “Is, alas, distressed by your presence. The short time remaining to His Majesty should be spent in spiritual preparation for death, not …” Marlan’s voice trailed away, suggestively.

  Not arguing with me . “Yes, Your Eminence,” she whispered, and felt hot tears on her face. “I understand.”

  Again, Marlan’s fingers brushed her hair. “I knew you would. Do not fear, my child. You will see him again, before the end.” With a final acknowledgement of the Living Flame, he left the chapel.

  Only then, freed from his overwhelming presence, did she realise she was shivering and her teeth chattered and the tears on her cheeks had turned to chips of ice. She lifted her burning eyes to the Flame above her.

  “Give me strength God. Show me the way. Save me from that terrible man who’d treat me like a bartered milch cow.”

  She was exhausted. Hungry. Pain racked her bones. Most likely it was her tired mind playing tricks. But as she closed her eyes and lowered her head, surrendering to her endless vigil, she thought she saw the Living Flame flicker.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  With dusk falling fast it was safe to pull back the spare room’s faded curtains and let in some fresh air. Dexterity tugged the drapery aside, lifted one window sash a careful four inches then turned to look at Ursa, still sitting beside the occupant of the spare room’s bed.

  “Well?” he said, feeling his muscles hum with exhaustion. “What do you think? Will Zandakar live?”

  Ursa’s lips twitched in a brief, fierce smile. “There are no guarantees in this world, Jones … but I’ll say this. I’m hopeful.”

  He felt himself sag against the wall. For Ursa, that cautious declaration was almost the same as a wild victory dance. The relief was overwhelming, enough to prick his eyes with tears. The thought of losing Zandakar, when Hettie had given the stranger into his care, was horrifying.

  Their restless patient’s fever had spiked without warning just before noon. Spiked so high he’d gone into convulsions, long arms and legs thrashing, his ice-blue eyes rolling back, bloodied froth flecking his lips. For nearly five hours he and Ursa had fought to save him, forcing tea and decoctions of feverkill into his ulcerated mouth, sponging him as best they could in cold well-water from the back garden. Grimly they pinned him against the sheets and mattress so he didn’t convulse himself out of bed altogether and maybe split his head open again, to make matters worse.

  Just as Dexterity was convinced Zandakar would die, must die, a noxious sweat broke out all over the man’s thin, abused body. Slimy, stinking, full of poisons, it had stained the bedclothes a belly-churning yellow. Gradually, Zandakar stopped convulsing. His taut muscles relaxed. His eyes unrolled.

  “We’re doing it, Jones!” Ursa had shouted. “With God’s help and the bloody-mindedness of a brindled cow we’re doing it. Quick! Fetch me more feverkill. I don’t care if we drown the wretch in it, bring me a panful! Hurry! Run! ”

  He’d never seen his astringent friend so agitated. When he brought back the fresh feverkill, a thick green brew that stank almost as badly as Zandakar’s sweat, she looked up at him with eyes so implacable he flinched.

  “I swear to you, Jones, on my oath as a healer and my faith in God, I will die before this man does,” she said, then spooned more of the potion between Zandakar’s teeth, stroking his taut throat to make him swallow. Swore at him loud and long that he wouldn’t give up, he would not, did he hear her? Was he listening? He had no permission to leave and she’d thank him to obey her or it was over her knee he’d go, grown man or not. It would have been funny if it hadn’t been so terrible.

  Half an hour later, the sweating stopped.

  “Find some fresh sheets and blankets,” Ursa whispered, then. “He doesn’t need to be catching cold now.”

  After laying Zandakar carefully on the floor, they’d stripped the bed, turned the mattress damp-side down and remade it with clean linen. In his extremity of distress he’d burst some of his stitches and sweated off his bandages and ointments. Before they put him back into bed Ursa re-sewed his wounds, slathered him with more salves and again bound the worst of his hurts with strips of clean boiled cloth.

  “There,” she’d said as she tied the last one in place. “That should hold him.”

  Drawing the blanket up to Zandakar’s shoulders, Dexterity had thought he heard him speak. Leaning close he’d caught a few whispered words. Unintelligible still … but one repeated, sounding
like a name. Lilit . The ragged voice had broken, saying it, and he’d felt a stirring of pity.

  Now, staring at the silent man in the bed, he pushed away from the window. “I wish I knew who he was,” he said, collapsing into the spare room’s armchair. His body protested. At the height of the fever Zandakar had punched and kicked. He’d have some spectacular bruises, he was sure. “I wish I could ask him.”

  Ursa was tidying her bottles and salves into her battered bag. “It’s not asking him that’s the problem, Jones. It’s understanding his answer. I doubt there’s a soul in Kingseat who’d be able to translate his gibberish.”

  Unfortunately, it was more than likely she was right. “I know,” he said, brooding.

  She glanced at him slyly. “You could always ask Hettie.”

  Very funny. “How long before you’re certain Zandakar’s out of danger?”

  “A little while yet. We’ll have to sit, and see.”

  So they sat, in silence, and waited for Zandakar’s fever to rise again or his convulsions to return. They waited in vain. Zandakar slept. Not easily, he was still restless, he still muttered his gibberish language under his breath. But his skin remained cool, his temperature low, and that was the main thing.

  Dexterity sighed. “You should go home, Ursa. Bamfield will be wondering what’s happened to you.”

  “Bamfield’s my apprentice, not my keeper. Are you hungry?”

  He was starving, but lacked the energy to stir. “I’m fine.”

  She snorted. “You’re pale as whitewash is what you are. I’ll boil you an egg.”

  “No, no, I can—”

  “I’ve got to make our patient some gruel anyway,” she said, pushing to her feet. “I don’t trust you to make it, Jones. Sit there quietly and keep an eye on him for me. I shouldn’t be too long.” With her hand on the doorknob, she paused and added over her shoulder: “You do have the fixings for gruel, Jones, don’t you?”

  He nodded. “In the pantry.”