The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

  And so would end the House of Havrell. Not one of those duke’s men would let her rule in her own right. She really would become a royal broodmare, good for nothing but birthing sons and keeping silent.

  I can’t let that happen. Not without a fight, anyway. I wouldn’t be my father’s daughter if I didn’t fight for what was mine. If I must be a queen, and not a duke’s duchess, then I’ll be a queen on my own terms … if I can …

  Though so much of her life was uncertain at the moment, there was one thing about which she had no doubt. Under no circumstances would she marry Marlan’s hope, Lord Rulf. She’d glimpsed the man at her father’s funeral. She’d seen most of her potential husbands there, but mercifully hadn’t been forced to meet with them. Henrik Linfoi, bless him, had seen to that.

  Rulf is an idiot. Nothing more than Marlan’s puppet. Put a crown on his head and it’s Marlan who’ll be king.

  The thought churned her belly. A kingdom strong in faith was one thing; a kingdom where the Church poked its nose in everyone’s business and its hand in every pocket was another matter entirely. Her father had strenuously resisted it, wherever possible altering the law to ease its grip on Ethrea’s people.

  “The Church has enough income from its estates, Marlan, and the tithing practices already in existence. It can do without new tithes and unregulated levies and rents not overseen by government clerks. Surely your concern is with spiritual treasures.”

  Marlan had railed against her father’s reforms. Railed without remedy, for the king had prevailed.

  I can’t let him use me to defeat Papa now. Let Marlan take control of Ethrea through me and Mr Jones’ dire prediction will certainly come true.

  Her face brooded back at her from the dressing-room mirror. Thinner than it had been a month ago. Older, too, in some indefinable way. Childhood was firmly thrust behind her. Now she stood on the threshold of adult decisions, bearing with them adult consequences.

  If I’m wrong to trust the toymaker … if running away proves to be a mistake … well, Marlan will have the pleasure of saying “I told you so”. But I’m not wrong. I’m not. Crowned or uncrowned I’m the queen of Ethrea. The throne is my birthright, the care of its people my sacred duty. I won’t abandon them to the machinations of these men.

  In the warm lamplight her gold and scarlet dress shimmered with promise. Clothes, her mother had often said, were as much a suit of armour as any collection of antique breastplates, greaves and gauntlets gathering dust in the kingdom’s cellars and museums. While such archaic male battle-wear was now dragged out only for ceremonial parades, women went to war in subtle and unsubtle fashion every day of their lives and it would be a good thing for Rhian never to forget it.

  “Don’t worry, Mama,” she said, in the hope that somewhere her mother may still be listening. “I haven’t forgotten.”

  “Haven’t forgotten what, Highness?” said her privy maid Dinsy, bustling back into the dressing-room, her arms laden with jewellery cases.

  “Nothing,” she said, and turned away from her gold-and-scarlet self to consider the jewellery Dinsy was preparing to show her. “Not the opals,” she decided. “Not the emeralds. The pearls? Perhaps …”

  She took the creamy rope of pearls. It had been her mother’s. A gift from the king upon Simon’s birth.

  “Oooh, Highness, they’re ever so pretty,” breathed Dinsy. “I love pearls, I do.”

  A dab of a thing three years her junior, was Dinsy. Traditionally a princess took as her privy maid the loftiest of her noble ladies-in-waiting. But she cared for none of them, stupid creatures forever dangling after the courtiers in hopes of a husband. Choosing Dinsy over them had ruffled a henhouse of feathers, but she didn’t care. Princesses were supposed to make friends of nobility’s daughters, but since they were children all they’d ever done was laugh at her behind their pampered hands because she’d loved riding and hunting and fencing and learning. Because she’d so often dressed like a boy.

  Anyway, it had turned out to be positively providential, with three of them related to her would-be husbands. Dinsy lacked court polish, it was true. She was a plain country lass. But her heart was good and she could be trusted, absolutely. That was more valuable than the noblest of pedigrees.

  Rhian smiled at the girl. “So do I love pearls, Dinsy,” she said and, turning back to the mirror, held them against her woefully flat chest. “But not this time.”

  “No,” Dinsy agreed. “Them pearls have nothing to say to that dress and that’s a fact. Highness, I think it’s got to be the rubies, honest I do.”

  Mama’s rubies, a gift from the king upon Ranald’s birth. Great carved things fashioned into glowing dragon’s eyes, and set in a chain of molten gold. Earrings to match; she could still see her mother taking them out of her ears with a huff of relief after court masquerades and thirty-course dinners for visiting foreign dignitaries.

  Marlan wore a ruby ring. He liked to finger it when he thought no-one was watching.

  “As usual, Dinsy, you’re perfectly right,” she said, and tossed the pearls into her privy maid’s waiting hands. “The rubies it is.” Putting them on, feeling their weight settle in her ears and around her neck, she felt like a knight of old girding for war.

  “Oh, Highness,” sighed Dinsy, standing back to make sure every last hair on her royal charge’s head was settled into place. “You do look like that painting of your blessed mother. The one in the Grand Hall, when she was your age.”

  Rhian blinked away a prickle of tears. “Really?”

  “Oh yes, Highness. The spitting image. If the dear king was here he’d say so, I’m sure.” Dinsy’s hand flew to her mouth. “Your Highness. I’m sorry. My tongue runs away with me, I—”

  “Hush,” said Rhian. “It’s all right. It doesn’t matter.”

  A month since the funeral and the wound was still so raw. She hurt as much this morning as she had the day her father died. More, in fact, because it was impossible to pretend any longer that she could wake, as though from a dream. Her father, her brothers … Too much death in too short a time, and she was still angry. No matter what Helfred said it wasn’t in her to meekly accept her loss, or the need for the battle she was about to wage because of it.

  Dinsy gathered up the rejected jewellery. “Is there anything else you need from me, Highness?”

  “Actually … yes,” she said, feeling her heart thud. “After my meeting with the council I’ll have another errand for you to run.”

  Dinsy nodded. “To Mr Jones, Highness?”

  “Yes. You’re willing?”

  “Always, Highness.”

  “God bless you, Dinsy,” she said, her voice not quite steady. “I’d be in sore straits if it wasn’t for you.”

  “You’re the king’s true daughter, Highness,” said Dinsy, softly. “And a beautiful lady. I’d do anything for you.”

  Again, she had to blink back tears. “I’ll leave the note for you in the usual place. Make sure the ladies don’t see you fetch it and be certain not to draw attention to yourself as you leave the castle. Slip out quietly and don’t stay away longer than you need.”

  It was the same warning she gave every time there was a message for Mr Jones. Dinsy, to her credit, didn’t sigh or roll her eyes even though she’d heard it five times before.

  Instead she nodded, all eager earnestness. “Yes, Your Highness. Must I wait for an answer?”

  “Not this time. Just hurry straight back.”

  Dinsy bobbed a curtsy. “I’ll do that, never worry.”

  Of course she’d worry. The consequences of discovery were too terrible to dwell on. How I hate you, Marlan, for making me risk this child . “You’ve never asked what this is about.”

  Her privy maid shrugged. “You’d tell me if I needed to know.”

  Impulsively, she clasped Dinsy’s hand. “I wish I could tell you, but I daren’t. I can promise you this, though. It’s important. It’s for the kingdom. For Ethrea. You believe me?”

&nb
sp; “I believe you, Highness,” said Dinsy. “And I trust you, too. I know you’d never do anything to hurt this land or its people.”

  The girl’s simple declaration of faith was humbling. “I must go. The council is waiting.”

  “Yes, Highness.”

  She pulled a face. “Wish me luck.” God knows I need it .

  “Oh yes, Highness. All the luck in the world,” said Dinsy, fierce as a tabby cat with one lone kitten. “And mind you don’t let them fine lords browbeat you, Princess Rhian. You’re King Eberg’s daughter and they shouldn’t forget it.”

  “They won’t, if I have anything to say about it. Thank you, Dinsy.”

  With a last glance in the mirror—gracious, she did look like her mother—Rhian swept from her apartments and made her way to the council chamber, head high and chin tilted, with the heavy ruby dragon’s eyes swaying regally in her ears.

  Marlan sighed, steepling his fingers before him on the council table. “My lords, I was under the impression we had settled the question of Lord Rulf’s candidacy.”

  “Settled? We’ve barely scratched its surface,” said Lord Harley, the intransigent. “Eberg died before we could properly consider your … interesting suggestion. Now that the official mourning period is ended and this council is meeting again, we need to address the issue before matters progress.”

  One swift glance around the table showed Marlan that the cursed Lord Harley was not alone in his sentiment. He nodded. “Very well. Though I should remind you that the princess herself accepted Rulf as a potential husband.”

  “Her father was dying,” said Harley. “Grief does strange things to the mind. Anyway, she’s a child. She’s not equipped to make that kind of decision. That’s what we’re for.”

  If he allowed his temper to show, Harley would have a victory. Shuttering his eyes, smoothing his expression, he nodded again. “Very well. Let us settle this once and for all. Am I to understand you dispute my right to nominate any candidate?”

  “You’re not a duke, Prolate,” said Harley, his wide smile wolfish. “You don’t belong to one of this kingdom’s founding families. You—”

  “I am a Duke of the Church. My duchy is Ethrea. My concern is for—”

  “Yourself,” said Harley.

  “Do not insult me by suggesting the dukes are not eager to see their fortunes raised with a crown!”

  Harley leaned forward. “I don’t. But at least the dukes’ candidates have breeding to recommend them. This former ward of yours, lord or not he’s a nobody . An orphaned sprig of an insignificant House fallen into obscurity. How can you think he is worthy to be king?”

  “True, Harley,” he agreed, nodding. “Unlike you, Rulf cannot claim a duke for his brother. But my former ward is hardly bereft of noble qualities. Enough to satisfy King Eberg of his suit, before his passing.”

  Harley sat back. “We only have your word for that.”

  Silence, as the other councillors stared at the man, their mouths hanging open. Doubtless it was what they all were thinking … but only Harley was rash enough to say it.

  Marlan let his fingertips rest quietly, one against the other. “Perhaps I misheard you, my lord. Or do you indeed imply that I—”

  “This is the king’s council chamber,” said Harley, shoving to his feet. “ We are the King’s Council. You’re its titular head, Marlan, but you’re not the king. Outside this room, you are God’s prolate, with the authority to speak in his name, to chastise your Church subordinates, to lay down his law to them and the people of this kingdom. Inside this room we are all the same. God’s law is not Ethrea’s law, and was never designed to be so. Eberg, God bless him, made sure that would remain the case.”

  Marlan smiled. “Then if we are equal, my lord, you cannot protest if, as a king’s councillor, I nominate a candidate for Rhian’s hand.”

  Henrik Linfoi, the old fool, cleared his throat. “Harley, sit down. Remember who we are and the duty laid upon us.”

  Glowering, Harley sat.

  “You’re right, Marlan,” Linfoi continued, with every civility. “As a councillor you are free to nominate. But let us not forget that Rhian is a ward of the Church and you’re the Church’s most senior official.”

  He spread his hands wide. “You’re suggesting I would place undue pressure on the girl?”

  Lord Niall snorted. “It’s not inconceivable.”

  “It is to me,” he said. “Are you saying I have tried to influence her?”

  “Not yet,” said Harley. His face burned a dull red. “Eberg died and threw a caltrop in your path. You’ve been too busy pulling its points out of your foot to pressure the girl and anyway, she’s been shut up in the castle. But she steps back into the world today. A world full of foreign ambassadors eager to know who’ll be the next king. I tell you I’m sick to death of falling over them, they want to know who it’ll be worse than I do! But until we can trust that you aren’t—”

  “All we want, Marlan,” said Lord Porpont quickly, with a spiked glare at Harley, “is your assurance that as prolate you won’t influence the princess’s choice of a king.”

  “It’s not an unreasonable request, Marlan,” added Lord Volant. “We’d demand the same of each other, should any of us have a similar advantage.”

  Marlan stared. “Request? Demand? Which is it, my lords?”

  Another silence, punctuated by more spiky glares and sneaking glances.

  “Stop playing games, Marlan,” said Porpont. “Will you agree or won’t you?”

  “Before I answer that there is still the matter of Lord Harley’s outrageous accusation. Am I to let that pass unchallenged?”

  Henrik Linfoi raised his hand. “Lord Harley misspoke himself. If you say King Eberg approved in principle of Lord Rulf’s inclusion then we of course accept your word on that. Just as we accept your word you’ll not pressure Rhian to accept his suit.” He looked around the table. “Is that not so, my lords?”

  A grudging chorus of murmurs, signifying assent.

  “And you, Marlan. You’re agreeable to that? And you further agree to abide by Princess Rhian’s decision, even if it does not favour your former ward?”

  She’ll make no decisions I do not approve of . “Yes, my lord. I gladly agree.”

  “Then the matter’s settled,” said Linfoi. “Secretary Lord Dester has recorded our deliberations, and they are entered in the official council journal. I think we should move on now. Her Highness will be joining us soon.”

  Niall said, scowling, “What about his nephew?”

  Another chorus of murmurs, this time complaining.

  “If you’re referring to Chaplain Helfred you have nothing to fear,” said Marlan, smiling blandly. “He is bound by his oath before the Living Flame to abjure all worldly desires and ambitions. He has no interest in politics. All he cares for is Rhian’s spiritual health.”

  “And it’s no secret the girl barely tolerates him,” added Lord Porpont. “You’re mad, Niall, if you think she’ll pay the least attention to anything that fribble says. Helfred’s harmless. He couldn’t coerce a dog to scratch fleas.”

  In silence Marlan watched his fellow councillors smile and nod, as though sneering at the prolate’s flesh and blood were nothing to fear.

  When Rulf is king in name, and I in fact, we’ll see who laughs then … and who is chastened.

  The chamber doors swung open, admitting a courtier. He bowed. “My lords, Her Highness the Princess Rhian, as requested.”

  Rhian entered the council room. She looked magnificent. As one man, the other councillors rose to their feet.

  Marlan remained seated. She was only a girl. Soon enough she would wear a crown, true. A thing of tin, without any power. In the grand scheme of things she would kneel to him.

  “My lords,” she said, and swept them an elaborate obeisance. “You desired my presence, so I have come.”

  Marlan frowned. She was suspiciously meek. He would never trust her, this ill-advisedly educated girl. “H
ave a seat, Your Highness,” he invited, indicating the table’s one empty chair. “I think we can discuss state matters in comfort.”

  She curtsied a second time. “Prolate Marlan,” she said, and took her place among the councillors, sitting so straight they could have hung a sail upon her and weighed anchor.

  Marlan felt his skin prickle. He deeply mistrusted the glint in her eyes.

  “Princess Rhian, in deference to your grief and the protocols of mourning this council has not pressed you in the matter of your marriage,” he said. “And were you any ordinary girl still no pressure would be brought to bear. But you are extraordinary, therefore we must put aside delicate considerations and address the needs of the kingdom, which this council holds in trust for God.”

  She nodded. “Of course, Prolate Marlan.” She looked at each face around the table, her eyes wide and guileless, a portrait of sincerity. “A royal princess belongs to herself last … and the kingdom first. My father, God bless him, taught me that from the cradle.”

  “So you accept it’s time to choose a husband?” said Lord Linfoi.

  “Perfectly,” she said, the portrait of compliance. “Indeed, I’m eager to do so. I can think of no better way to honour my father’s memory. During my seclusion I have been considering each name on your list. Unfortunately …”

  Marlan straightened, as the lords exchanged sharp glances. “Unfortunately what, Highness?”

  Rhian sighed, her blue eyes cast demurely down. “My lords, I regret to inform you I’m having trouble reaching a decision.”

  Lord Porpont rapped his knuckles on the table. “And why is that? I’m told you pride yourself as a young lady of acumen. If that is not vainglorious boasting you must know your choice can be delayed no longer. Do you think to play coy with us? Hold us to ransom for a name more to your liking, though it bring Ethrea into disrepute?”

  Marlan watched Henrik Linfoi fold down his mouth in restrained displeasure. Watched Rhian’s heavy ruby earrings flash fire as a muscle tightened along her jaw. Watched the heavy ruby necklace prism light blood-red as she brought her breathing under control.

  “King Eberg taught me many things, Lord Porpont,” she said. “But being coy wasn’t one of them. My lords, I ask you to consider my position. Five men—well, four men and a boy—are given me as candidates for my hand. I’m a little familiar with all save Lord Rulf, whom I’d not met before the king’s funeral. Indeed, I don’t believe I ever knew he existed.”