The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

  He saw his beautiful son gasp once, and die.

  Lilit shrieked, then dropped to the blood-slicked stone dais beside their child, Dimmi’s snakeblade plunged into her throat.

  Zandakar woke, screaming and weeping, on fire with grief and guilt now as he’d burned with fever before.

  “Lilit! Lilit! Aieee, Lilit!”

  Strong hands seized his shoulders, held him down as he howled. The dream was familiar, he’d endured it so many times, but the face thrust close to his was not. White skin. Reddish hair. Brown eyes. Cheeks and chin hidden beneath a wiry beard. A light voice, speaking gibberish, except for his name.

  “Zandakar. Zandakar.”

  Slowly, so slowly, the horror of the dream faded. Then he realised he had seen the man before. Memory returned in snatches. The slave ship. A wheeled cart. A stern woman with grey hair. She cut off his godbraids: for that alone, he could weep anew. Lilit had loved them. She had loved his hair.

  The white man’s lips were still moving, more sounds came out. He could not understand a word being said. But the man’s tone was not angry and there were tears in his eyes. In some strange way he could not understand, something about the man reminded him of Vortka.

  So. Not an enemy. At least, not yet.

  Abruptly, he became aware of pain and crushing weakness. His wasted body was a mass of sores, he knew that already. He tried to look at himself, glimpsed ointment and bandages. Like the godless lands, did this place have no healers, then? Healers who could summon the god’s power and knit flesh with a thought? Clearly not.

  Aieee, Lilit. Where am I? And why am I brought here? Why am I not allowed to die?

  The bearded man stopped talking. Now his face was anxious. He held up one finger, smiled, then withdrew from the room. A few moments later he was back, with water.

  His body’s demands would not be ignored. He drank the water, thirsty as a camel. Smiling again, the bearded man put aside the emptied cup and said something else.

  He shook his head. “You waste your breath. I have more hope of understanding a monkey.”

  The bearded man blew out air between his lips, frustrated. Then he held one hand under his chin, as though it were a bowl, and with the other mimicked eating with a spoon. Finished with that, he patted his belly. The question was plain. Are you hungry ?

  “No,” Zandakar said, and closed his eyes. “I desire no food. I desire nothing from you. Leave me alone. I wish to die.”

  The last thing he felt as darkness claimed him was the bearded man’s warm hand on his shoulder, as though there was caring. As though they were friends.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Majesty,” said Marlan, bending low. The man in the high bed scarcely stirred. “ Eberg … attend me. Your time is short. If you would go to God with a clear conscience you must leave behind no unfinished business.”

  Eberg dragged open his eyes. “Rhian,” he muttered. His voice was thin. Depleted. Death approached swiftly, defeating that final rallying of the flesh.

  “Yes, Eberg. You must make provision for Rhian, so Ethrea might have its new king.”

  It was that cold, dark hour between midnight and dawn. Marlan had been roused from his deep sleep by an urgent summons: the king was failing, he must come at once. One look at Eberg’s pinched, fallen face told him this was no exaggeration. They were alone in the stifling chamber. Beyond its closed door waited the physick and the chosen witnesses, ready to enter and sign their names to the future.

  The future I will bring them. The future they require.

  “List,” whispered Eberg. “Names. Husband … for Rhian.”

  Marlan shook his head. “Not yet completed.”

  “Marlan …” A meagre tear trickled from the king’s right eye. “I was to decide … with her.”

  As if the girl were qualified to have an opinion. “I am sorry, Majesty,” he said, not sorry at all. “I fear there’ll be no time for that. But I will guide her wisely, you have my word.”

  Another tear, trickling. “Rhian’s decision.”

  The man was a fool. A soft, indulgent, short-sighted fool. “Of course. Eberg, attend. While you are able you must sign the writ of abdication. Failure to formally create a regency council will lead to unfortunate consequences.”

  Eberg nodded. “Yes.”

  “Majesty …” He leaned closer, resting his hand on the dying man’s shoulder. “By law the princess must become a ward of the Church. But I would suggest to you an alternative arrangement. Still legal, as I am the Church’s prolate, but less … institutional. Make your daughter my personal ward. I can never replace you as her father, nor would I try. But I have known her since she was born. Indeed, I can tell you in this moment of extremity that in my heart she is the daughter I never had. Grant me that closer bond with your dear child, Eberg. Let the Church be her bulwark, but let me stand a little closer. I would look upon it as a great favour from you.”

  Eberg’s half-lidded eyes glinted. “No.”

  “No?” Marlan felt his face tighten. “Majesty—”

  “You and Rhian … do not deal well … together,” said Eberg, breathing painfully. “She needs … light hand. Find … wise devout, Marlan. Woman’s touch. Misses her … mother.”

  With an effort Marlan relaxed his clenched jaw. It makes no difference. The man is dying. When he is gone Rhian will still be mine. I will still use her as I see fit. He cannot prevent that. His time of thwarting me is done . “Yes, Your Majesty. As Your Majesty desires.”

  “Marlan …” Eberg had enough strength left to raise one hand and take feeble hold of his prolate’s wrist. “Marriage. Rhian … must be … happy. Right man for Ethrea … but Rhian … happy.” The hand fell away laxly. “Help my child … be happy.”

  The dregs of Eberg’s strength were rapidly dwindling. “I will do my best, Majesty,” said Marlan.

  “Want … to see her.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.” Over my own dead body …

  Eberg nodded. “Good. Sign writ now.”

  Marlan went to the door. Opening it, he nodded to the men waiting tensely beyond. “It is time, gentlemen,” he said softly. “Let us finish our sad business, then pray for the king.”

  Dexterity stood in his kitchen, peeling carrots for his planned dinner of mutton stew and keeping one ear cocked for any commotion from the spare room where Ursa was checking on their unlikely patient. The sun was well up, promising a fine, clear day. A pity he’d not be out in it. He’d never liked being cooped up inside.

  “He’ll do,” said Ursa, rejoining him after some ten minutes with Zandakar. She looked less weary this morning, most of her acerbic energy returned. “I’ve dosed him with a good strong draught of shuteye. It should see him sleep till this time tomorrow.”

  Dexterity looked up from his peeling. “Sleep without dreaming?”

  “That’s the idea, Jones.”

  He set aside the paring knife, reached for his cutting knife and started dicing the carrots. “Good. Because if you’d seen his face, Ursa. If you’d heard him screaming …”

  Ursa sighed, stowed her physick bag beside the back door and dropped herself into one of the kitchen chairs. “He was a slave, Jones. That’s hardly a picnic. I’m sure he’s seen any number of horrible sights.”

  “No,” he said, and shook his head. “It was more than that. I’m almost certain it was something personal. Something to do with someone called Lilit . And someone else called Yuma . He kept saying Wei, Yuma. Wei, Yuma . Since we’re reasonably sure wei means no, I think he was telling this Yuma person not to do something. Something dreadful. I think to this Lilit, whoever he or she is. Or was.”

  “Jones …” Ursa sighed again. “Don’t get involved.”

  He stared. “What are you talking about? I’m already involved. He’s asleep in my spare room. I paid for him with my gold.”

  “You know what I mean,” she said, glowering. “You’re a soft touch, Jones. You always have been. Every time I turn around you’ve rescued a ba
by bird that’s fallen from its nest or a stray cat with an infected claw or found a sack of abandoned mongrel puppies that didn’t drown like they were meant to. And when you’re not rescuing the waifs and strays and bringing them to me for healing after, you’re giving away toys to children whose folk can’t afford them. And don’t try to deny it, because you know it’s true!”

  Yes. It was true. Hadn’t Hettie scolded him for his too-tender heart, oh, so many times? But what did they expect him to do, turn a blind eye to suffering when it was right under his nose? “Ursa—”

  “Don’t you ‘Ursa’ me!” she said, and rapped her knuckles on the kitchen table. “When I say ‘don’t get involved’ I mean don’t go making this man’s troubles your own. Don’t go breaking your heart over his sad story, whatever it is, because for one thing you can’t undo what’s been done and for another he might well have brought it on himself!”

  Frowning, Dexterity dropped the chopped carrots into the stew pot then swept up the peelings ready for the compost heap. “That’s the second time you’ve suggested Zandakar could be some kind of—of criminal.”

  “Jones, he could be anything . All you know about him is his name!”

  No. After last night he knew more than that. Zandakar was a soul in torment. Is that why I rescued him, Hettie? Have you become a soft touch, too? He shook his head. “If you’re worried I’m in some kind of danger, having him here, you mustn’t be. I’m perfectly safe.”

  Ursa was frowning. “Yes. For now. While he’s weak as a kitten and I’m keeping him drugged. But once he’s got a bit more meat on his bones, once he’s on his feet again and his strength returns, that could be another story. Have you looked at him, Jones? Really looked at him, I mean, beyond the superficial wounds and emaciation? He’s formidable. Or he will be once he’s himself again. And the only formidable thing about you is your appetite.”

  Dear Ursa. For some odd reason she was convinced he was helpless. “I don’t believe I’m in any danger, Ursa. Once we’re a little closer to understanding each other, Zandakar and I will rub along quite well.”

  She snorted. “Because Hettie said you would?”

  Hettie hadn’t said that exactly, but he wasn’t going to admit it to Ursa. “That’s right.”

  “Then I hope for your sake she’s whispered in his ear too, Jones! Because if that heathen takes it into his head to swat you like a mosquito how are you going to stop him? Wave a puppet in his face and hope he laughs himself to death?”

  “Oh, Ursa, I’ll be fine . Stop fussing . And anyway, as you say, he’s too weak at the moment to do anything but sleep. There’s plenty of time, isn’t there, before he’s formidable?”

  “Yes,” said Ursa, after a reluctant pause. “Several weeks.”

  “Then I won’t worry just yet. When he wakes should I offer him more gruel? Or maybe a little mouthful of stew?”

  She got up. “No, not stew. Not unless you want to kill him. You say he refused to eat anything last night?”

  Troubled, Dexterity stirred the carrots into the pot with a wooden spoon. “Yes.”

  “And what else?” said Ursa. She sounded suspicious. “What haven’t you told me? I know you, Jones. I know that look.”

  He glanced up, then busied himself with pinching salt into the pot. “If I tell you, you’ll only scold me for getting involved .”

  “Maybe I will, and maybe I won’t. But whatever else he is or isn’t, this Zandakar is my patient,” said Ursa, hands braced firmly on her narrow hips. “It’s my business to know everything about him.”

  Now he added a pinch of pepper to the leeks and carrots and barley and meat. “I don’t think he refused because he wasn’t hungry. He was thirsty enough. He drank the water I offered him like a drain.”

  “Why, then?”

  He sprinkled some dry herbs into the pot then settled its lid firmly in place. “You’ll think I’m imagining things.”

  “Jones!”

  Defiant, he stared at her. “All right then. I thought, when I was looking at him, perhaps he doesn’t want to live.”

  “You think he wants to starve himself to death?”

  “Yes. Maybe.” He shook his head again. “You didn’t see him, waking from that dream. Whatever he’s lost— whoever he’s lost—I tell you plain, there is agony in him. The kind of pain that …”

  “Jones,” said Ursa. Not scolding, but kind. “I have no doubt this Zandakar has suffered. I’m sure he has memories that are difficult to bear. But you must realise—”

  “No!” he said fiercely. “Ursa, please. I’m not imagining what I saw. The look in his eyes was the look in my own for a long time after I lost Hettie. Believe me. I understand him.”

  Now Ursa looked disconcerted. “Are you telling me—”

  “No. Even on the worst days I never considered doing away with myself. But I confess, there were times I went to bed hoping I wouldn’t wake up.”

  Ursa cleared her throat. “You never told me.”

  “You never guessed?”

  “No. Jones …”

  “Ursa, it’s all right,” he said quickly, sorry that he’d told her. “It’s not your fault. I didn’t want you to know. Besides, what could you have done? No-one could help me recover from Hettie’s death. I had to find a reason to live for myself.”

  “And you did,” said Ursa, with an uncertain smile.

  “Yes. I did. Hopefully Zandakar will find a reason too. And if there’s the smallest chance I can help him do that, then I must. I’m sorry if you don’t approve, but I don’t recall asking for your permission.”

  “No. Just my time and physicking skills,” she retorted.

  He winced. “True. And I’m grateful.”

  “So you should be!”

  “Ursa …” He sighed. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to worry you. But you have to know I’ve no choice but to do this.”

  She let out her own gusty sigh. “I do. Just as I’ve got no choice but to try and save you from yourself. A fool’s errand, I admit. So best call me a fool.”

  He went to her and kissed her cheek. “Never. I call you my dear friend.”

  Displays of affection never failed to embarrass her. She swatted his shoulder and retrieved her bag. “I’m off. I’ll stop by again this evening to see how Zandakar’s getting on.”

  “Stop by for supper. Mutton stew’s still your favourite, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” she said, smiling. “So perhaps I’ll see you—if I don’t get a better offer in the meantime.”

  He opened the kitchen door for her. “While you’re out and about, would you mind stopping by the shop and letting Tamas know he’s on his own today? Tell him I’ve a belly gripe. And tell him he’s to finish painting that farm set by closing or I’ll not give him his ’prentice due this week.”

  She nodded. “All right, Master Jones.”

  “And mind you keep an ear open for news from the castle. I’m still worried about the princess, and the king. I know in my bones he’s much worse than they’re saying.”

  “In your bones?” said Ursa, scoffing. “In your water, more like. Now let me on my way, I’ve patients to see… and your errands to run!”

  He stood back from the door. “Till this evening, then. Mind you bring a sharp appetite to match your sharp tongue.”

  She rolled scornful eyes at him and marched away.

  Actuely aware of all the courtiers eavesdropping in plain sight, Rhian took a moment to ensure her voice was calm and composed. “Forgive me, Physick Ardell. Perhaps I’m being stupid but I’m not entirely certain what it is you’re saying.”

  Ardell stroked a thin finger across his moustache, an irritating habit. More a mannerism, really, designed to give the impression of profound, wise thought. It didn’t.

  “Stupid, Your Highness? Dear me. Not at all.” As always, the physick spoke in a ripe, portentous baritone. It was even more irritating than his incessant moustache-grooming. “I’m sure you’re a very clever young lady. But this is a diffi
cult time for you. Grief often clouds the intellect. It is nothing to be shamed by.”

  They stood in the antechamber to her father’s privy room. They’d arrived here together, she and Ardell, but when she’d attempted to accompany him to see her father he’d made her wait outside with the courtiers for company while he went in alone. All right. That wasn’t unreasonable, a physick consulting with his patient in private.

  But the consultation was over now. And still he insisted she couldn’t go in.

  “Thank you, but my intellect is clear as crystal,” she snapped. “I fully comprehend the fragile state of His Majesty’s health. What I don’t comprehend, since it’s been fragile for some time, is why I’m suddenly unable to sit with him.”

  “Physick Ardell is acting under my instructions,” said Lord Dester, sweeping through the open doorway. The attending courtiers hurriedly bowed; unlike herself, the council secretary positively thrived on ostentatious displays of obsequious recognition.

  The bow he gave her was distinctly … reserved.

  “ Your instructions, my Lord Secretary?” she said, and let her voice bite. “Since when do you presume to—”

  “Since His Majesty formally relinquished his sovereignty to the council,” said Dester. He was positively gloating. His eyes were obscene.

  “Relinquished his sovereignty?” No. This had to be a mistake. Or a bluff. “I don’t believe you, my lord. Papa would never —”

  “He did,” said Dester. “Before the required five witnesses.” His teeth bared in a deprecating smile. “Of which I was one and Prolate Marlan another. The matter is settled, I assure you, quite properly.”

  Her father’s spacious antechamber was suddenly crowded and overwarm. Tilting her chin, because it was fatal to reveal any kind of weakness before men like Dester, Rhian poured every ounce of royalty she had into her voice. “This is unacceptable. I am His Majesty’s sole living heir. Why wasn’t I sent for? Why wasn’t I informed? Consulted? I—”

  Exquisitely supercilious, Dester’s right eyebrow lifted. “Because, Rhian, such matters are not your concern.”