by Karen Miller
With the last of the light drained out of the sky and the unfamiliar stars piercing the dark, Dexterity picked up his knife and half-carved wood and they went into the house.
There were lamps already lit, and dinner cooking. The house smelled good. Closing the door behind them, Dexterity pointed with his blunt knife. “What is that, Zandakar?”
“Chair, Dexterity,” he said obediently, because this was their nightly ritual. Repeating the words he’d already learned. Learning new words. Struggling to understand how they all fit together, to understand this kind man’s godless world.
If I were still the hammer I would smite this place to ruin. Dexterity has been kind to me. It is good I am not the hammer.
He looked around the room. The kitchen . Did the pointing for himself. “Window. Curtain. Wall. Door. Floor. Table. Sink. Hob. Tap.”
Dexterity nodded, smiling, as he put away his knife and carving. His teeth were very white in the middle of all that face hair. “Very good. Now. You set the table.”
Aieee! Yes. He knew those words. Set the table . That meant collecting two plates, two knives, two forks, two spoons, two cups . He set the table and Dexterity served the meal.
Dinner was stew tonight, chunks of meat and vegetable in a thick gravy. It was bland compared to what he was used to, but far better than the maggot-ridden muck he’d eaten on the slave ship. And the drink, the ale . Nothing like sadsa but it was bearable. On the slave ship, and before, there’d been little but tainted, brackish water.
He ate because his belly grumbled. He ate because it was something to do.
Soon Dexterity pushed his empty plate aside. He ate quickly, but never belched. “Hello,” he said. “My name is Dexterity Jones.”
Aieee, back to words again. A greeting. A way of making yourself known to a stranger. It was very odd. All his life he had been known by others. First because he rode with his mother and the warlord, then because he rode as himself. The idea of living without being known, still it took some getting used to. He sighed. Ate the last mouthfuls of stew and sat back in his chair . “Hello. My name is Zandakar.”
“Good!” said Dexterity. “Very good. Zandakar, where are we?”
A question. He must answer. “We are in kitchen.”
“ The kitchen,” said Dexterity. “Yes. And?”
And meant Dexterity wanted more words. What words? He was tired. He wanted to sleep. His body ached with the effort of hotas . His head ached with the effort of words. “Ethrea.”
Dexterity shook his head. “ Wei . No. Say it properly.”
Aieee, he knew what that meant. His answer was wrong. He thought for a moment, then tried again. “We are in the Ethrea.”
“No,” said Dexterity. “Almost. We are in Ethrea. No the .”
Aieee, tcha. First it was the, then it was no the. This was a stupid, stupid language. He growled.
“We are in Ethrea.”
“Yes! Zho ! Good!”
The praise warmed him. Dexterity’s smile warmed him.
So long since I have been warmed by words.
Dexterity sat back and considered him carefully. “Zandakar. Outside.” He pointed at the closed door . “In the garden.”
Yes. He knew that word. The garden . A rambling place full of untidy trees and flowers, bounded by a sagging fence made of wood, not stone. No garden in the palace would ever be so unkempt.
“Zandakar, in the garden,” said Dexterity. And then some other words.
He recognised what, and you, but that was all. Dexterity was asking a question, he had no idea what it might be. He shrugged, a gesture common to both their peoples. “ Wei understand.”
Dexterity made an impatient sound, pushed back his chair and stood, then lifted one knee and hopped up and down. “You, Zandakar. In the garden. What?” He pointed to himself as he continued to hop. “What?”
Now he understood. “Hotas.”
Puffing a little, Dexterity stopped his stupid hopping. “ Hotas? What are hotas ?”
How could he make the man understand? He could not. There were no Ethrean words he knew that could explain. He shrugged again. “Hotas.”
Defeated, Dexterity sat down. “ Zho, Zandakar. Hotas .” Then he said something else, it sounded like complaining. On his hairy face, an expression of complaining. It looked as though he spoke to someone who wasn’t there. It wasn’t the first time. And he said a word that was now familiar, Hettie, in a way that suggested it could be a name.
“Dexterity,” he said, when the man stopped complaining. “Hettie?” He thought hard, wanting to make sure the words were right. “What is Hettie?”
Dexterity stared. “ Who is Hettie,” he said, after a moment. Now he looked shocked. “Say who, Zandakar. Not what .”
There was a difference? He wished he knew why. “ Zho, Dexterity. Who is Hettie?”
Dexterity got up and left the kitchen . When he returned he was carrying something. He held it up. “This is Hettie. My wife.”
A painting of a woman. Young. White skin. Yellow hair. Brown eyes. Green tunic. Smiling. Happy. She was not beautiful, not to him, but this woman was Ethrean. Wife . What was that? A godpromised woman, like Lilit had been?
Dexterity turned the painting to look at it. No more smiling, his face was sad. His fingertips touched the painted woman’s cheek, her lips, his eyes were bright in the warm lamplight.
The woman was named Hettie and Dexterity loved her. It was in his sad face, how much he loved her. But she did not live here and she was much younger than him. The painting looked old. Did that mean she was dead?
“Dexterity,” he said. “Where Hettie?”
“Where is Hettie,” said Dexterity, still staring at the painting. He shook his head. “Gone. Hettie is gone.”
Gone . Was that the Ethrean word for dead? He felt a tightness in his chest, Dexterity’s face was so full of hurt. He knew that look. He knew the feeling that made it. This Hettie was dead, he knew it in his bones.
“ Yatzhay, Dexterity. Yatzhay Hettie is gone.” He took a deep breath. Let it out slowly, through the pain in his throat. “Lilit is gone. Zho? You understand?”
Dexterity nodded. “ Zho, Zandakar. I understand. Yatzhay Lilit is gone.”
They had both loved a woman, they both grieved for their loss. It was hard to believe that he and this strange man could have anything in common. Hard to believe he was here in this strange land, so far from his home.
How did this Dexterity know my name on the slave ship? Why did he buy a half-dead slave? Why does he hide me here, in his house and garden? Why are his eyes afraid when he thinks I do not see him looking? What am I doing here? What is my purpose?
Dexterity frowned. “Zandakar? What is it? Are you in pain?” He made a face, to show hurting.
He knew those words. “ Wei, Dexterity. Wei pain.” Not the kind of pain he meant, at least.
“Good. That’s good. But you look tired. You should go to bed.”
No. If he went to bed he would sleep, if he slept he would dream. He was tired of dreams. He was tired of weeping.
“Wei.” He pointed to the chest in the corner, where Dexterity had put his blunt knife and carved wood.
Dexterity stared. “What? You want to try your hand at whittling?”
“Whittling?”
“Yes!” Dexterity mimed carving wood. “Whittling.”
Whittling. It was a stupid word. “Aieee! Zho . Whittling.”
“Well—yes. All right. Why not?” said Dexterity. “I suppose it is too early for bed. We’ll clear the table and do the dishes, and then we’ll whittle. And while we’re whittling we’ll talk. I’ve something to tell you, about a little trip we’ll soon be taking.”
Zandakar nodded, understanding enough to understand he had his way. Not that he cared very much about whittling . But, like eating, it was something to do.
On her knees in the clerica’s small privy chapel, hands clasped before the Living Flame, Rhian struggled to empty her tired mind of thought. She
failed. Snatches of conversations whirled like autumn leaves in a windstorm, flashing and twisting and scraping her nerves.
Duke Kyrin’s brother-in-law has the admiration of many fine ladies, Your Highness.
And yet not one of them had married him. Perhaps she should take the hint.
“My lord the Duke of Arbat bids me tell you how deeply he holds you in affection, Your Highness. His son Adric is a fine, upstanding man—”
With bow legs. Though that wasn’t his fault.
“Highness, there is no handsomer man in Meercheq than my duke’s cousin Lord Rutger. True, he is a trifle older than Your Highness—”
A trifle? Try fifteen years. Almost as ancient as Marlan’s Lord Rulf.
“The proud lineage of my duke of Morvell is beyond dispute, Princess Rhian. Can you even consider these other pretenders when my duke’s youthful nephew Shimon—”
Youthful? At eight years her junior he was practically an infant.
“I must be truthful, Highness, in Ethrea you will find wittier men than Lord Rulf. But how much wit is needed to support a crown? Indeed, too much wit can be counted a fault, for—”
And as for Helfred … If the dukes and their representatives knew he dared to speak on behalf of the prolate. If only she dared to make a complaint … but that would only incur Marlan’s gross displeasure and jeopardise her chance of escaping this place.
“Why yes, Highness, it is true that Shimon is not quite bearded yet, but what is a beard? It is no true badge of manhood. I would not be indelicate but—”
Oh, why stumble over scruples now?
“As far as I’m concerned my duke’s cousin is a man without fault, but if you insist upon a shortcoming let me say Lord Rutger lacks height and tends toward corpulence, which I hasten to point out is no impediment to—”
Not for Porpont, perhaps, but it surely was for her.
Round and round in her head their voices scurried, deafening her to everything but the scream she held inside.
Of all the voices Helfred’s was the worst. She couldn’t escape it. She couldn’t escape him . She’d protested against him being sent to Todding with her but she might as well have saved her breath. He was her personal chaplain. Of course he would go with her. In truth he was her shadow. Marlan’s today. Marlan’s spy.
“You bear a grave responsibility, Highness. In your hands rest many thousands of souls. These dukes and their candidates, they think only of worldly advantage. They think of their own greatness. You must think of God. You must open your heart to hear God’s desires. Lord Rulf is not a man of frivolity, he does not waste good coin on vain show. He is a serious man, a Godly man, in all things he is obedient to God. He knows how far the people of Ethrea have strayed. He knows that a king’s first duty is to God. He knows—”
“Oh shut up, Helfred! Shut up all of you!” cried Rhian, and clapped her hands across her ears. “In Rollin’s name would you give me some peace !”
The voices fell silent, but she could still feel them gibbering at the edges of her mind. Still hear their echoes, teasing, tormenting.
I never want to see the councillors’ greedy faces again. Their eyes devour me. They don’t see me, they see their own advancement. I hate their dukes’ candidates for no better reason than these eager men praise them. And I hate Lord Rulf because he’d give me to Marlan. He’d give Ethrea to Marlan. I can’t let that happen. Papa, Papa. Help me not let that happen.
She sighed, easing herself on the thin kneeling-cushion beneath her. The only duke’s man she hadn’t seen, the only one she wanted to see, was Henrik Linfoi. But he had no reason to visit except to comfort her and perhaps give her advice. He’d never do it. No matter that duchy Linfoi was out of the running, it would be seen as interference by the other dukes. They’d not tolerate his opinion being given to Ethrea’s queen-in-waiting, and she wasn’t about to insist. It would only cause trouble for Alasdair and she didn’t want that.
I’ll be bringing him enough trouble as it is.
Eleven days in the clerica and she still hadn’t heard from Mr Jones. Her short time of grace was almost ended. If only she knew what he was planning. It was dreadful, to be so reliant on other people. To be so controlled by other people. By Marlan and by Helfred, his instrument. By the council, who cared little if anything for her happiness.
You never should have given me to them, Papa. Can I ever forgive you? You should’ve trusted me. I hate that you didn’t.
Such a risk she’d taken, trusting Dexterity Jones. Believing him. Thinking a mere toymaker might hold the key to her escape from this nightmare. But what other choice had there been? No-one else had rushed out of the shadows to save her.
Maybe he’s had second thoughts. Maybe he won’t come for me at all.
No . She mustn’t think like that. He’d come. He’d promised . He was a man of his word, and he never cheated a customer.
He won’t cheat me. I’m a prin—the Queen of Ethrea.
She was. She was . No matter what the council or Marlan said. She was.
Oh, God. I wish I was older. If you had to die, Papa, why couldn’t you have waited seven more months?
Soft footsteps sounded behind her. She opened her eyes, feeling every muscle seize with rage. Beyond the chapel’s stained-glass windows, with their pious little pictures of the martyred Rollin and earnest Kingseat venerables, night was freshly fallen. The devouts in residence were gathered in their meeting hall, exchanging news of the day’s doings in hushed, restrained voices. For this small time only she could be by herself, in a quiet place, with her thoughts and her fears and her prayers to a God she wasn’t sure was listening.
Wasn’t sure was there to listen.
“I told you, Helfred, I wish to be left alone !” she said without turning. “Must you plague me every minute of every hour? How many more times do I have to say it? I don’t want to marry Rulf and you can’t make me! I wouldn’t care if he was God’s former ward. Is that plain enough for you? Do you understand now ?”
“Perfectly, child,” said Dame Cecily’s cool voice. “But do you understand the penalty for blasphemy before the Flame?”
Rhian scrambled to her feet and turned, her face hot. “Dame Cecily! I thought—I’m sorry—I believed—”
“You spoke to your chaplain. I gathered that,” said the Dame. She was a tall, thin woman with hazel eyes and straight grey eyebrows. Her dark blue habit and intricate head-dress made her look even taller, even more lightly fleshed. There was about her the severity of winter, the purity of ice. She never smiled. At least, Rhian hadn’t seen it. She never raised her voice, either, but was seldom disobeyed.
She and the prolate were a match made in heaven.
“Dame Cecily …” It seemed prudent to kneel again, so she dropped once more to the inadequate cushion. “I didn’t mean to blaspheme. I—”
“Yes, you did,” said Dame Cecily and lowered her hand. “You wanted to shock Helfred, and discomfort him. You dislike your chaplain. You consider him an imposition and a nuisance. You very much wish to kick him down the stairs.”
Damn. The woman was a mind-reader. “Dame Cecily, I’m sorry. I—”
“Another lie,” said the dame. “Your second sin in a handful of minutes.”
Rhian gritted her teeth. “Forgive me. It’s been a trying day. That’s why I wanted time alone, Dame Cecily. I needed solitude, to order my thoughts and calm my heart.” Because otherwise I was going to do more than kick Helfred, I was going to kill him . “I really didn’t want to be disturbed.”
Dame Cecily considered her. “Yet here I am, disturbing you. Perhaps you’d like to kick me down the stairs instead?”
“Dame Cecily, I—”
“Peace, child. I’m teasing.” The dame indicated the nearest of the chapel’s plain wooden pews. “Be seated, Rhian. I would talk with you.”
Teasing? Since when did an icicle know how to tease ? But then, looking closer, Rhian thought she saw a hint of warmth in those cool hazel eyes. Perhaps ev
en a touch of sympathy in their frosty, measured gaze.
Oh, no. Don’t be nice to me. If you’re nice to me I might start crying. I can’t afford to cry. I have to stay strong.
She got off her knees and sat in the pew. Dame Cecily sat beside her. “Child,” she said, “did you come here this evening to ask for God’s guidance or to instruct him on how to act in this matter?”
She opened her mouth to answer, reconsidered, then closed it again. After a moment, with her fingers linked in her lap, she sighed. “I suppose that makes three sins, Dame Cecily.”
Dame Cecily nodded. “If you were one of my devouts it would go hard with you, child. But you are a guest here and the future Queen of Ethrea, so I will overlook it. To a point. I draw the line at chaplains rolling down the stairs.”
“Of course, Dame Cecily,” she murmured. Then added, encouraged by the unexpected humanity, “It’s just—Helfred—he’s so infuriating .”
“Men frequently are. But God made them that way for his purpose and it’s not for us to complain, but endure.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m at the end of my endurance,” she retorted. “Ever since I got here, Dame Cecily, I’ve been plagued by men pretending to care for me when all they care about is winning the prize. I’m not a prize ! I’m their queen, it’s not fair that—”
“You were expecting life to be fair? How exceedingly foolish of you, child.”
Rhian stared at her gilded slippers. “Yes. I’m a fool. But fool or not I won’t be forced to the altar. I won’t be bullied into making a choice.”
“Are you saying Helfred bullies you?” asked Dame Cecily softly, into the silence.
Rhian lifted her gaze to the Living Flame, burning serenely on the chapel’s altar. “You know who he is, Dame Cecily. You know who he answers to.”
“I know a man cannot choose his relations.”
“No, but he can choose what he does and what he says! And if Helfred had any backbone he’d choose to mind his own business. But a snail’s got more backbone than Chaplain Helfred. Prolate Marlan is determined that I marry Lord Rulf. Helfred, the obedient nephew, harps on about him every day. He’s even quoting scripture to support the suit. It’s wrong, Dame Cecily. Prolate Marlan said he wouldn’t use his position to influence my choice.”