The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

  “No,” said Ursa. She still sounded cross. “Must be from his own lands, wherever they are.”

  The crudely carved creature was some three inches long. It had eight legs, four on each side. The front two were large and fearsome, ending in wicked-looking pincers. It had a tail curved over its back. The carving was clumsy, hardly refined. Zandakar had talent but no practised skill. And yet … and yet … there was something powerful about the thing.

  Something menacing.

  He held it up. “Zandakar? What is this?”

  The strangest look crossed Zandakar’s thin, scarred face. In his eyes, a tangle of emotions. Fear. Respect. Longing. Despair.

  “Chalava,” he said. His voice was hushed. Tinged with awe.

  “I see,” he said, not seeing at all. “ Chalava . That’s … very nice.” He handed back the carved wooden creature. “But you need to put it away. There’s a lot to do before we leave at dawn to rescue the princess.”

  Zandakar handed the carved creature back again. “You.”

  “Me? You mean you want me to have this? Well, Zandakar, that’s kind of you but—”

  “You!” said Zandakar. His face was fierce, his eyes cold and uncompromising. “ Chalava . You.”

  “Keep it, Jones,” said Ursa. “Why upset him if you don’t have to?”

  Why indeed? Dexterity looked again at the crude pinewood carving. Definitely, it was menacing. It made his skin crawl. But it was important to Zandakar … and the giving of it might mean they were, at last, forging a bond.

  He slipped the carved creature into his pocket. “Thank you, Zandakar. Thank you very much.”

  Zandakar nodded. “ Chalava . You.”

  He smiled, bemused. “Yes. Chalava . Me. Now, what say we get started on the packing?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Ibeseech you, O God, send wise men to teach me; stern men to love me; wrathful men to chastise me when I err.”

  On her knees before the Living Flame, Rhian watched her fingers tighten into fists. She couldn’t not say the words, she was in the chapel with Helfred, but while her tongue was obedient her heart was wicked. A riot of rebellion. It seethed with resentment as her beaten flesh burned and throbbed.

  I hate you, Helfred. I hate your uncle. And if God is on your side then I hate God too.

  Litany concluded, Helfred kissed his thumb, touched his breast and stood. After Marlan had departed the clerica yesterday, leaving inviolate instructions that she be confined to constant prayer until she saw the error of her ways, the chaplain had returned to her in the privy chapel. If he felt any shame or remorse for what he’d done to her, she hadn’t seen it. He’d shown no more emotion than a painting. Nearly a full day later that hadn’t changed. Looking at his stiff back, at the rigid set of his shoulders, she knew she’d never hear a word of regret from him.

  “Helfred …” She cleared her throat. The thought of begging a favour from him hurt as much as her abused body but … What can I do? Marlan’s made him my guard dog. I have to go through him no matter how galling that is . “I need to see the infirmarian.”

  Still he didn’t turn from the altar. “You can’t. The prolate’s orders are clear. You must remain in the chapel praying until you bow to God’s will.”

  “You mean Marlan’s will.”

  “They are one and the same,” said Helfred, toneless. “Cease your sinful defiance of the prolate, Your Highness. You are a ward of the Church. You must bow to the inevitable sooner or later.”

  No. Never. Mr Jones will send word to me. He has to. He promised . The thought of that plain, kind man’s earnest support was the only thing keeping her from violent hysterics. She took a deep breath, feeling vilely ill.

  “Helfred, please. You don’t understand. I’m faint. Exhausted. I think I’m fevered. I’m not made of stone . How can I stay here forever, praying?”

  “If you bow to God’s will you won’t have to, Highness,” said Helfred. “Accept Lord Rulf as your husband and king and you will be free to seek remedy from the infirmarian.”

  She felt a heaving sickness roil through her. This is my own stupid fault. I never should’ve come here. I was mad to think I’d be safe from Marlan in a clerica .

  “Helfred. I’m begging you. I’m unwell. How is God served if—if—” She let her voice fade away. Played up her fragile condition … but not by very much.

  Helfred turned. His pallor suggested he felt no more robust than she. The broad welt marring his cheek was swollen, and looked painful. Good .

  “God is served by obeying Marlan! You unnatural, wretched girl. It’s your duty to obey him. Do as he tells you and we will both go home!”

  So. He showed emotion now, but of course it was self-serving. Helfred was a toad. A hateful, cowardly, spineless sycophant. A witless puppet dancing on the end of his uncle’s strings.

  To think I felt sorry for you. How stupid was that? You and Marlan deserve each other. I hope he makes you miserable for the rest of your life. I hope that welt on your cheek is the first of thousands.

  It hurt her so much she nearly shrieked with the pain, but she made herself stand and face Helfred on her feet. Waves of hot and cold washed over her skin.

  “I think you must have maggots in your brain. Do you think you can go on abusing and mistreating me without consequence? I am Eberg’s daughter . I am Ethrea’s queen .”

  “You’re a ward of the Church before you’re anything, Highness,” said Helfred. “If you don’t remember that you will continue to suffer.”

  I’ll never forget it. Nor forget my father.

  If she didn’t sit down again she’d sprawl at Helfred’s feet. Teeth gritted, she lowered herself into a pew. “Chaplain. Surely, as a man of God you must have compassion. I’ve had no respite since Marlan left. I haven’t even been permitted to change my dress!” The dried blood on it chafed her. What her back must look like she didn’t care to think. “I haven’t slept or eaten or drunk or even taken my privy ease. There are slaves on ships in Kingseat Harbour who are treated less harshly than you’re treating me. My God! Are you stone? I doubt you’d treat a dog like this! How can you be so cruel to me ? What have I ever done to you, Helfred, to deserve such misery at your hands?”

  Helfred’s eyes were wide, his cheeks chalky-white. “I am bound to obey the prolate,” he whispered.

  “And does he want his precious broodmare sick, or dying?” she retorted. “You hurt me, Helfred. Will you stand there and pretend you didn’t?”

  His head jerked, as though she’d struck him. “You hurt yourself,” he said, his voice low and hard. “Your disobedience hurt you. And Marlan. He beat you too. It wasn’t just me.”

  “Yes! You both hurt me! And you’ll both be responsible if I succumb to your beating. But if you think Marlan will take any responsibility you are as stupid as you look.”

  Again, Helfred flinched. “I am only a chaplain. These matters sit high above my head.”

  Oh, for God’s sake . “Then go to the dame! Ask Cecily if she wants my blood on her conscience, my suffering to blot out the light of her clerica.”

  Helfred dithered a moment, shifting to stare at the Flame as though it would tell him what to do. By his sides, his fingers clenched and unclenched.

  “You stay in this privy chapel,” he said at last, heated. “Step one foot beyond it and not even God will save you from Marlan. Do you understand me? Do you understand how precarious you are?”

  If she hadn’t before yesterday, she certainly did now. She nodded. “I’m not well enough to go anywhere, Helfred,” she said tiredly. There were tears inside her, desperate for release. “Please. Just see Dame Cecily. Bring her here to me if she has any doubts. I’ll pray while I’m waiting.”

  “Highness, the time for prayer is passed,” said Helfred. “What you must do is choose between your possible futures: life as Ethrea’s queen … or Marlan’s prisoner.”

  What? “Helfred, are you witless? Your uncle can’t hold me a prisoner .”

 
; The look on her unwanted chaplain’s face was a muddle of pity and contempt. “Highness, you have been spoiled beyond redemption. Your old world, where your kingly father made the rules, where you and he could choose how strictly was followed the creed of Rollin and most often chose an ill-advised path—it’s dead and buried just like Eberg. Can’t you grasp you’re in my world, now? Until your majority Marlan can beat you daily if he likes. He can lock you in a clerica cell and feed you stale bread and brackish water but three times a week. He can have you declared imbecile, unfit for the crown.”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous! The council would never —”

  “The council?” said Helfred. His face was red now, the welt on his cheek bright scarlet. “You think the dukes’ puppets can save you? God have mercy. If you think that you are too naïve to rule.”

  She’d never before seen Helfred so passionate. It was a bit like being savaged by one of Mr Jones’ stuffed toys. “Helfred—”

  “ Submit to the prolate . It’s your only hope.”

  He stamped out of the chapel, leaving her shaken and unsure.

  My only hope is Mr Jones. And if he fails me …

  The crowding tears in her breast and throat escaped in a sob. Sliding to her knees, she rested her arms on the back of the pew in front of her and let her forehead fall on them as she wept.

  Oh Papa, Papa. How could you do this to me? How could you leave me at the mercy of that terrible man? Marlan is a monster, how did you not see it?

  A tentative hand touched her shoulder. “Your Highness? Princess Rhian?”

  “Mr Jones!” She was so startled she lost her balance. The effort required not to slide between the pews made her cry out in pain.

  “Your Highness!” he said, alarmed, and helped her to sit on the hard wooden bench again. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  She found it difficult to meet his worried eyes. “Oh—well—”

  But he wasn’t looking at her now. He was staring at the back of her dress. “That’s dried blood,” he said, his voice harsh and cold. “Rhian, what happened?”

  He had no leave to use her untitled name but she didn’t care. “What do you think happened?”

  “I think—” He shook his head, as though struggling to believe. “I think it looks like you’ve been beaten. But how could—”

  As fever chills shook her, she heard herself laugh. “Prolate Marlan and I had a difference of opinion.”

  “And this is how he would win the argument?” said Mr Jones, incredulous. “He beat you bloody? The Queen of Ethrea?”

  “He and Helfred. My personal chaplain. He’s Marlan’s nephew. They’re determined I’ll marry the prolate’s man, Lord Rulf.” Tears were sliding down her cheeks again. “Mr Jones, what are you doing here? I was expecting to receive some kind of message …”

  He dropped to a crouch beside her, fished a blue kerchief from his coat pocket and handed it to her. “It’s a long story, Your Highness. I’ll explain later. First we have to find a way to get you out of here, tonight.”

  Tonight? Oh, yes, please, God . Grateful for the kerchief, she wiped her cheeks dry and handed it back. Then she frowned. “I’m sorry. Did you say we ? I don’t—”

  He pressed his fingers to her lips. “Either you trust me, Highness, or you don’t. If you don’t then I’d best leave now.”

  “Yes, I trust you,” she said, pulling away. “But—”

  “And you can trust my friends.” His smile was warm, and reassuring. “We’re here to help you.”

  Did she have a choice? Unless she freed herself from this place soon, freed herself from Marlan’s clutches, she was desperately afraid Helfred would be proven right.

  I’ve always believed that as a princess I was inviolate. But it seems I’ve lived my life sadly mistaken. Any power I had came from my father and brothers. Without their protection I’ve no more power than—than a slave.

  A sobering thought. Cold enough to freeze her, if she hadn’t been so hot …

  “Highness?” said Mr Jones. “Are you all right?”

  She shook her head. “Not really.”

  He took her hands in his, another serious breach of protocol. But it felt so good, a friend’s kind touch. His face was thunderous. “If Prolate Marlan’s a true man of God then I’m an Icthian.”

  She managed a watery smile. “You’re far too handsome to be an Icthian, Mr Jones. Tell me, how do you and your friends intend to—”

  “I don’t know yet. But never you fear, I’ll find a way. In the meantime—”

  “Hush!” she said, and turned towards the chapel’s open doors, wincing. “That’s Helfred’s voice. Mr Jones—”

  But he was already diving across the aisle to conceal himself on the floor between the most distant pews.

  God, don’t let Helfred see him. Do that much for me at least.

  Helfred re-entered the chapel with Dame Cecily by his side. She faced them on her unsteady feet, one hand holding the end of the pew to forestall any embarrassing collapse, and fought the insane desire to look where Mr Jones was hiding.

  Dame Cecily swept her head to toe with a single glance and said, “Chaplain, I can only think that you are blind. Princess Rhian is sick . Why did you wait before coming to me?”

  “I was under strict instruction from Prolate Marlan,” said Helfred, muted. “She—she is wilful and disobedient, she must be brought to an understanding of her duty to God.”

  “An understanding you wish her to demonstrate for him face to face?” said the Dame tartly. “This is my clerica, Chaplain. Nothing is done here without my authority.”

  Helfred flushed. “Prolate Marlan—”

  “Is not the one who will have to explain to the council how it is that Ethrea’s queen looks to follow her father and brothers into the grave!”

  “She’s not queen yet, Dame Cecily,” said Helfred.

  “Nor will she ever be if you have your way! I am not blind, I can see that much! Do you presume to dispute with me, Helfred? You, a chaplain, without even the authority to walk a mile unless you are granted leave and a direction?” She turned her back on him. “Your Highness—”

  Rhian, torn between satisfaction at seeing Helfred so chastised and feeling as though she might faint with her next heartbeat, perilously released her grip on the pew. “Yes, Dame Cecily?”

  “You will accompany me to the infirmary, where your discomforts shall be eased overnight.”

  She felt a surge of triumph. Yes, they will be … but not in the way you think . Bowing her head, she said, “Thank you, Dame Cecily.”

  The dame nodded. “But do not imagine it means you’ll be excused your penances for defying the prolate. Chaplain Helfred is right in one thing, at least: you must be brought to an understanding of your duty to God and Ethrea. Those born to high estate are not free to please themselves like common men are free. If that is something you have failed to learn, then shame on your father. But you will learn it now, child. God has sent you here that you may be taught.”

  I know. But what he wanted to teach me was the truth about Marlan … and I’ve learned that lesson well, I promise you.

  “Dame Cecily,” she murmured, outwardly obedient, inwardly seething, and followed her and Helfred out of the privy chapel. Walking was a torment. Every soft step jarred her shrieking flesh, made her vile headache worse, made her think she would retch her stomach onto the floor. She kept on walking, head low, hands demurely clasped before her.

  I’m the queen of Ethrea. I can do this. I must. And tonight will see me out of this prison, out of Marlan’s clutches, on the road to Alasdair and the future I make, for myself and for my kingdom.

  Dexterity waited a full quarter hour before daring to slip out of the small, beautiful chapel. He’d hardly taken ten steps along the corridor before he was accosted by a devout.

  “You there! Stop! What are you doing here?” the woman demanded.

  He turned. “Oh, forgive me, forgive me!” he whined, cringing. “I’m look
ing for my mistress, she’s here seeing Dame Cecily. She and the dame are dear friends, bosom companions from childhood.”

  The angry devout hesitated, some of her ire fading in the face of such a pedigree. “Indeed? Well, neither Dame Cecily nor your mistress is here, man. And you should not be here either, this is a privy place. Be off with you at once.”

  He knuckled his forehead. “Yes, devout. God forgive me for a sinner.”

  The devout sniffed, still suspicious, and watched him out of sight round a bend in the corridor. He ducked through the same door that he’d entered by, out into the afternoon sunshine and the clerica’s well-tended gardens.

  Breathing more easily, he made his way back to the extensive herb-beds where Zandakar still toiled. It was their excuse for being here, Ursa’s need for particular leaves and buds for her physicking for which the clerica at Todding was particularly famous.

  Of course she had pots and pots of the wretched things growing in her greenhouse at home, but Dame Cecily wasn’t to know that, was she?

  Zandakar turned at the sound of his name. His freshly shaved head gleamed in the warm light and his still-thin frame was disguised by a fresh set of clothes: roughspun wool trousers, a heavy cotton shirt, stout leather half-boots laced firmly round his ankles. He didn’t look quite so out of place dressed like that. Not quite so foreign, despite his brown skin.

  “Dexterity,” he said, dropping fuzzy red-leaf herbs into the woven reed basket at his feet. “All right?”

  Oh dear, oh dear! That betraying accent! “Hush!” he said, alarmed, and waved a finger under Zandakar’s nose. “No talking, Zandakar. Remember?” He pressed the finger to Zandakar’s lips. “Wei. Wei.”

  Zandakar rolled his eyes, and pushed aside the finger. “Tcha.”

  “ Wei tcha!” he snapped, and looked around to make sure they were still alone. They were, but for how much longer there was no way to know. He put the finger again to Zandakar’s lips. “Shhh! Shhh!”

  Something of his urgency at last made an impression. Zandakar nodded. His eyes were resigned.

  Poor chap. How hard this must be for him, living at the mercy of strangers, barely understanding a word we say, bullied and prodded into following us about.