The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

  Lord Harley snorted. “You know what you need to know. We have selected them, they are therefore suitable.”

  “But one must be more suitable than the rest,” said the princess. “If the king …” Without warning her voice hitched, and her eyes were brighter in the filtering light. Was she play-acting? It was hard to tell … “If Papa and I had been granted the time to consider your list together I wouldn’t feel so uncertain now. Papa would’ve helped me make the right choice. With him gone …”

  Marlan stirred. “God will help you make the right decision. You must pray, Your Highness, until God makes his wishes known.” With Helfred’s guidance, of course. Prompted by himself.

  Rhian clasped her hands. “Oh, Prolate Marlan, God bless you for saying so. You’re an answer to my prayers.”

  It wasn’t the response he’d been expecting. He steepled his fingers again and considered her closely. “How so?”

  Instead of replying, she turned again to the council. “My lords, I want to do what’s right for Ethrea. I want to allay the qualms of the foreign ambassadors so they might tell their own kings and queens and emperors and chieftains that Ethrea continues as safe and untroubled as it ever did. I want to give Ethrea a boy-child to be king. But to do that, I must make the right choice of husband.”

  “How can we help you, Rhian?” said Linfoi.

  “Give me leave to withdraw from Kingseat, my lords. I wish to sequester myself in the clerica at Todding. Such holy surroundings must surely help me hear God clearly. And while I’m there, I can meet with those of you who’ve presented me with a candidate for king and we can talk of them discreetly, with God as our witness.” She smiled. “For while I’m sure your candidates are admirable in their particular ways, no man is perfect. I’d like to know a little of their … imperfections, too. And doubtless you’d feel more comfortable disclosing their shortfalls in private.”

  The princess sat back, hands neatly folded in her lap. Everything about her was meek and mild, sweet as milk, the very essence of gentility. Marlan felt the blood pound in his veins.

  I have never known her to be so docile. She is up to something. She seeks to circumvent me.

  Of course it was Linfoi who first added his support for the notion. “If it was a short retreat I can’t think of a reason to forbid it. As you say, the holy cloisters are conducive to clear thought and receiving guidance from God.”

  “But hardly helpful in the removal of ambassadors from my doorstep,” complained Lord Harley. “A further delay will see them frothing at the mouth.”

  “They can froth like mad dogs and harm no-one but themselves,” said Linfoi. “This is our business. It is none of theirs. I see no harm done if the princess takes a little longer to choose her king. The harm will come, surely, from a hasty decision. Perhaps, Lord Harley, this has more to do with your candidate’s… imperfections? Perhaps under closer scrutiny your duke’s nephew won’t look so appealing. Perhaps he’s still in nappies instead of short pants.”

  Smothered snorts of laughter around the table. Harley was not the most popular of men.

  Niall shrugged. “I can’t speak for Harley, but my duke’s son has nothing to hide. I’d gladly parade him naked before Princess Rhian.”

  “That will hardly be necessary,” Marlan snapped. “Such crudity does you no good service, my lord. As for the question of the princess retreating to a clerica, that’s a Church matter. The decision is mine.”

  The princess allowed herself to look crestfallen. “Prolate Marlan, if I’m not welcome at the clerica …”

  The little bitch. She sought to manipulate him. What did she hope to achieve by this unlikely display of pious devotion? If she thinks to hide the reason she is sorely mistaken . He smothered his fury in bland surprise.

  “Did I say so? Any God-fearing subject is welcome in God’s sight. There is a long tradition of royal women retiring to a clerica when their days in the public eye are drawn to a close. Yours are just beginning but they could have a worse start. Princess Rhian, you are welcome to a short respite in the clerica at Todding. I will inform Dame Cecily to expect a guest.” He looked round the table. “And to expect certain other visitors, with leave to address you in a private place.”

  “Oh, Prolate! Thank you!” said the princess, her eyes shining. “I know with God’s help I’ll reach the right decision. May I have a month there? I have a list of five men to consider, after all.”

  It’s a list of one, you silly girl. You’ll realise that soon enough with Helfred to teach you.

  “I fear a month is overlong,” he said. “Let us say instead a fortnight. And not a day longer. Assuming the entire council is in agreement?”

  The council was. Already he could see the lords flicking speculative glances at each other from the corners of their eyes. Each man thought this would give him some advantage. Each thought the chance to extol his man’s virtues, leaven the bright gilt with the merest hint of plausible tarnish, would leave his duke’s son or nephew or cousin or whoever primed to place a crown on his head.

  If it keeps them occupied I have no objection. Once she’s in the clerica I can at my leisure discover her plan. Whatever it is, she has no hope of succeeding.

  King Rulf the First. It has a pleasant ring …

  “Then it’s settled,” he said, and rose graciously to his feet. “I will make the arrangements, Highness. Expect to depart for Todding tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Smothering temper, Dexterity plastered a bright, encouraging smile on his face. Right now, more than almost anything, what he wanted to do was smack his recalcitrant pupil … but aside from making himself feel better, he suspected it wouldn’t achieve much.

  He’s a grown man. I’m a grown man. I don’t believe finding common ground is impossible.

  Still smiling, he leaned forward and held up his hand. “Cup. Cup. Zandakar, are you listening? Can you say ‘cup’? Can you at least try that much?”

  Apparently not.

  He leaned back again, dismayed. “Oh, please, do at least try . It’s a very small word, you know. It won’t break your teeth to say it!”

  Listless and unresponsive, Zandakar sat propped against his pillows, hands lax in his blanketed lap, eyes staring at something only he could see.

  “You know, this isn’t helpful,” said Dexterity, dropping the cup on the bed and considering his guest, disgruntled. “I don’t see how we’re going to get very far if you won’t even try to learn a little Ethrean.”

  Still no reaction. He’d get more animation from one of his puppets. Much more of this stubborn unhelpfulness and he was going to get cross with Zandakar. He poked the man in his knee.

  “You could at least look at me. It’s very rude, you know, pretending I’m not even here.”

  Zandakar stirred and slowly, reluctantly, looked.

  “There,” he said, and nodded encouragingly. “That’s better. See? I’m only trying to help you, Zandakar. You do need help, whether you like it or not.”

  Zandakar said nothing.

  “Who’s Lilit? Who’s Yuma? If you don’t learn to speak Ethrean you’ll never be able to tell me who they are.” And I’ll never find out what happened to them .

  Zandakar flinched and turned away.

  “Lilit,” he said again, leaning forward. “Come on, Zandakar. After all I’ve done for you, the least you can do is make an effort. Lilit, Lilit, Lilit.”

  Without any warning, swift as a lightning strike, Zandakar snatched up the dropped cup and flung it in his face.

  Dexterity touched his lip. Looked at the blood on his finger. Looked at Zandakar, no longer listless. His heart thudded riotously against his ribs.

  “Well,” he said, breathless. “I suppose that’s progress of a sort.”

  The grief-stricken rage died out of Zandakar’s face. He slid down the pillows and pressed one arm across his eyes.

  “Right,” said Dexterity. “Yes. It might be an idea to leave it there for today. Why don’t you res
t, Zandakar? I’ll bring you some luncheon presently.” He stood, stooped to pick up the cup and withdrew from the spare room.

  His legs weren’t quite steady.

  “Hettie darling,” he said to the empty kitchen, as he damped a cloth to mop up the blood, “I was right. There’s more to Zandakar than meets the eye. I think I’m lucky the only thing he had to throw was a cup.”

  Hettie didn’t answer. Since their last conversation in the garden he’d not heard a peep from her. He had no choice but to believe that no news was good news, that the tentative steps he’d taken towards helping the princess meant he was on the right track and that Hettie approved of what he’d been doing.

  “If you don’t approve, Hettie, you’ll just have to say so. I’m not a mind-reader, you know, my love.”

  Vegetable soup was simmering on the hob. He stirred it with a wooden spoon, feeling his sore, swelling lip with the tip of his tongue.

  I wonder if it’s safe, letting Zandakar anywhere near Rhian.

  It must be. Hettie wouldn’t say they had to run away together if the man wasn’t safe.

  Of course, she said that before he tried to stove my face in with a cup.

  “Still,” he added, trying to find the bright side while his battered lip hummed with pain. “At least I got through to him. At least I got a reaction.”

  He’d been starting to think he never would. Thanks to Ursa the man’s body was almost recovered from its brutal ordeals. His wounds were nearly healed, the lingering echoes of fever silenced, the hovering fear of death laid to rest. Yes. Physically, Zandakar was as good as mended. But his mind? His mind was another matter entirely.

  Every night still, Zandakar dreamed.

  Sometimes those dreams woke him screaming and distressed. At other times he didn’t wake, but wept and called out for Lilit, for Yuma . And there were other names, too. At least he thought they were names. Vortka. Dimmi .

  Every cry was laced with pain.

  It was wearing, and a cause for concern. When he wasn’t sleeping and dreaming his terrible dreams Zandakar sat silent and motionless under his blankets. The only reason he got out of bed was to use the chamber pot. He showed no desire to leave the small spare room, no interest in the world outside his window. Ursa called it a severe case of melancholy . The only reason the man ate was because Ursa had once pinched his nose until his mouth opened then poured soup down his throat. He didn’t like that much … but at least he fed himself now. Only enough to keep body and soul tethered, though. No more.

  So far Ursa had refused to panic. “He may have been through hell, Jones, but it hasn’t killed him. If he truly wanted to die he’d be dead. He’ll find his smile again, by and by.”

  If Ursa said so, he was bound to believe it. He just hoped “by and by” meant “very soon” because he was starting to fray around the edges himself. He hadn’t slept the night through for a month. When he wasn’t rushing into the spare room to make sure Zandakar was all right he tossed and turned in his own bed, worrying about the princess. Worrying about his business, ground almost to a halt these last long weeks. Tamas was doing his best to keep things afloat, but he was still only an apprentice.

  And when I’m not worrying about that I’m fretting on how I’ll tell Ursa I’m running away with a royal princess and a man with blue hair. Worrying what I’ll say and do when Hettie comes again.

  Worrying even harder that she wouldn’t.

  The hearty soup was cooked. Inhaling its robust fragrance, he gave it a final stir, replaced the saucepan’s lid and half slid it from the hob. His stomach growled, eager for filling. Well, and why not? An early luncheon was hardly a crime …

  He turned to fetch himself a bowl from the cupboard, and saw the letter shoved under the back door. Princess Rhian’s little privy maid had been and gone, unnoticed.

  He cracked the wax seal on the note and read it quickly.

  Mr Jones, we come to it at last. Tomorrow I leave for the clerica at Todding, for a two-week retreat so I might finally choose a husband. I’ll have some hope of running from there so you must be ready to come and get me at the end of the second week. I can’t take Dinsy with me. I’ll be alone and relying on you to tell me precisely when and how my escape will be contrived. Godspeed.

  “Oh dear,” he said, and groped for a chair. “How in God’s name do I get you out of a clerica, Rhian?” He looked around his empty kitchen. “I hope you’re paying attention, Hettie. You got me into this so you’d best have an idea for getting me safely out of it!”

  Hettie didn’t answer.

  But that made no difference. He’d promised to help the princess. How could he change his mind when she was relying on him? When Hettie was relying on him? When the unaware kingdom of Ethrea was relying on him?

  Oh dear. So many people, relying on me …

  Feeling put upon and hard done by, his appetite routed, he hoisted himself out of the chair and found a bowl for Zandakar’s soup. After filling it, he put it on a tray with a spoon, a mug of water and a thickly buttered slice of bread and carried the light meal out to the spare room.

  Standing in the doorway, he said, severely, “I’ve brought you lunch, Zandakar. But I warn you: throw a bowl of hot soup at me and you and I will have words .”

  Zandakar turned his face from the wall and held out his hand; in it was the cup he’d thrown with such frightening force. “Cup,” he said. “Dexterity. Cup.”

  Oh. Surprised to silence, and strangely moved, Dexterity crossed to the bedside table and put down the tray. Then he took the cup from Zandakar’s fingers and held it, as though it were precious. Made of gold and jewels.

  “Yes, that’s right,” he said at last. “This is a cup, Zandakar. Very good.”

  Zandakar touched his own lip, healed of its sores now thanks to Ursa’s ointments. “ Yatzhay, Dexterity.”

  He stared at his strange guest. He could be imagining things, but he thought Zandakar looked … shamefaced. “ Yatzhay . I don’t know that word. Does it mean sorry ? You’re sorry, Zandakar?”

  Zandakar shrugged.

  “No, I don’t know either. But I expect we’ll work it out.” He put down the cup, picked up the tray again and settled it onto Zandakar’s lap. Zandakar looked at his meal.

  “Zoop,” he said, pointing. “Watta. Brayd.”

  It was the first time Zandakar had ever started this kind of conversation. Dexterity hid excitement behind his beard. “More or less,” he said. “Soup. Water. Bread.”

  Zandakar frowned. “ Zho . Zoop. Watta. Brayd.”

  This was no time for criticism or complaint. “If you say so. Now eat, my friend.”

  Slowly, still with little appetite even though he’d spent so long starving, Zandakar ate his simple lunch. When he was finished, Dexterity took the tray back again.

  “I have work to do now,” he said. “And you should rest.” He closed his eyes and pretended to snore. “Rest, yes?” He nodded at the handbell on the bedside table. After some silly miming, Zandakar knew how to use it. “Ring if you need me.”

  Zandakar nodded.

  As he reached the door, Zandakar said, “Dexterity.”

  He turned. “Yes?”

  No more apology in those startling eyes. They were serious. Sorrowful. “ Wei Lilit, Dexterity. Wei Yuma.” He spread one hand across his chest, above his heart. Then his fingers clenched tight, as though he suffered a sudden unbearable pain. “ Wei .”

  The message was clear. Dexterity nodded. “ Yatzhay, Zandakar. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, either.”

  He left the man alone with his terrible memories.

  When Ursa came by a few hours later she found him in the kitchen making lists for the journey to Todding, and then Linfoi. Closing the door behind her, she looked at his battered lip and tutted under her breath.

  “No need to tell me who gave you that . Jones, it’s time you—”

  “Don’t fuss at me, Ursa,” he said tersely. His stomach churned with nerves. “I’m fine. It�
��s nothing.”

  He didn’t often snap at her. Her eyes narrowed slightly but she didn’t snap back. After a moment she slid her physicking bag off her shoulder then rummaged in it. “Really? Well, don’t look now, Jones, but your ‘nothing’ is bleeding.” She held out a small jar. “Put this on it.”

  He took the jar, pulled out its stopper and dabbed a little brown ointment on his lip. It stung. “Ow.”

  “That’ll teach you to lie to your physick,” she said, and took back the jar.

  “It really is nothing,” he said by way of apology. “Zandakar and I had a little … misunderstanding. It’s sorted out now. In fact, I’m starting to think there might be hope yet.”

  “Hope for what?” she demanded. “Getting him out of here? Good. The sooner the better. He’s a dangerous man, Jones. Even you have to see that.”

  Oh, he saw it all right. More clearly now, with his stinging lip, than he ever had before. “Hope that we’ll be able to make ourselves known to each other. As for the rest, Ursa …”

  She held up her hand. “The rest can wait till I’ve looked in on him. You can make yourself useful and brew me some tea.”

  When she returned from inspecting Zandakar, her tea was cooling in a mug. A plate of oaten biscuits sat on the table and the incriminating lists were tidied into a pile. He sipped his own tea, kicked a chair out for her and waited until she’d half eaten a biscuit before speaking.

  “How is he?”

  “A testament to miracles,” she said. “And the efficacy of my potions. He’ll do, Jones. He needs to get back on his feet, build his stamina again. Stop his brooding inside four walls. He needs fresh air and sunshine. But he’ll do.”

  “So … he’s strong enough to travel?”

  Ursa sat back and considered him, frowning. “I’d say so. In easy stages at first. Why? Are you sending him on his way?”