by Karen Miller
“Actually, she is,” said Helfred. “In a manner of speaking. She’s a ward of the Church and I’m the only Church representative here.”
You pompous prat. Life was so much easier when it was just dolls and puppets … “A Church representative on the run from his prolate. No better than the rest of us, Chaplain. We’re all in the same small peddler’s van and you know it.”
Helfred seemed to deflate. The self-righteous zeal leached out of his face, leaving only misery behind. “Yes. I do.”
“But that doesn’t matter,” Dexterity added. “Because we’re doing the right thing.”
The prayer beads appeared again. Helfred fingered them, then heaved a tremulous sigh. “Yes.”
Dexterity swallowed a groan. He didn’t like Helfred. Who could like Helfred? Even Ursa had doubts and she was predisposed to liking the clergy. Still, he had to feel sorry for him. It couldn’t be easy with Marlan as his uncle. And it had taken courage to defy the prolate like this. Perhaps it was a damp, self-righteous courage … but Helfred had taken a stand, even if it was wobbly.
“Rhian is our queen, Chaplain. Remember that and I’m sure everything will be fine.” He glanced at the sky, where pale clouds flirted coyly with the sun. “The rain’s passed. We’ve a few hours more before we’ll need to stop for the night. Why don’t you walk and talk with Zandakar for a while? You’re looking peaky. Definitely out of sorts. If you don’t remedy the situation Ursa will dose you with one of her concoctions—and I wouldn’t wish that on the worst of my enemies.”
Helfred shifted in the van’s doorway, uncomfortable as a man with a pebble in his shoe. “About Zandakar, Mr Jones …”
Oh dear. Why did I embroil myself in conversation with this man? “Yes?”
The prayer beads clicked again, a nervous habit. “I’m feeling … concerned.”
“Why? Zandakar seems fine to me. Ursa says he’s made a complete recovery.”
“It’s not his health that worries me,” said Helfred. He came down one step, his expression earnestly fretful. “How well do you know him?”
With a heart-thumping effort, Dexterity kept his face and voice calm. I can’t tell him the truth. Anything I say will be twisted to the sinister. Lying in a good cause means it’s not really a lie . “Well enough to know that I’m not worried, Chaplain.”
Helfred chewed his lip. “Would that I could share your confidence. Alas, I cannot. I believe your friend studies us, Mr Jones. To what purpose …” He shrugged. “I fear it can be nothing good.”
Oh, the wretched, wretched man. “Now why would you say that? He’s done nothing to harm us.”
“Is your memory so short?” said Helfred, offended. “He’s twice threatened me !”
“Because he thought you were threatening the princess. I’d say that’s reassuring.”
Helfred reddened. “Hardly! He’s a stranger, a foreigner, from a land none of us know. And given how cosmopolitan Kingseat is, well … I find that frightening, if you want the truth.”
Dexterity fixed his gaze on the van’s steps. The chaplain wasn’t the only one unnerved by Zandakar. “He’s too quiet, Jones,” Ursa kept on saying in private. “I don’t like it.”
Loathe as he was to agree with her, he had to admit there was something to what she said. There was about Zandakar the skin-crawling impression of a lidded cauldron on the fire, and beneath his placid surface the water was simmering.
But being quiet isn’t a crime. Being a man of complexity isn’t against the law. He shook his head and looked up. “You’re imagining things, Chaplain.”
Click click click went Helfred’s prayer beads, sliding through his fingers. His face was troubled. “Am I, Mr Jones? Only time will tell. But I pray when we learn the truth, it’s nothing to our detriment.”
And if I prayed, I’d pray for the same thing. Hettie, my love, solve this puzzle for me soon.
Dexterity left Marlan’s nephew to the finding of his sandals and returned to the front of the van where he stood with the placid horses and watched as Ursa, oblivious to scratches, feverishly continued to fill her basket with liverberries assisted by a more cautious Zandakar and Rhian.
Their Hettie-inspired decision to travel by road to Linfoi had meant a serious rethink of how they’d best conduct themselves. He’d brought money with him, certainly, but nowhere near enough to feed five adult bellies on the long road north.
So it seemed only commonsensical that they should make use of what skills they had between them to eke out his purse of coins. They were pretending to be peddlers, after all.
He’d brought his whittling tools and a trunkful of half-finished dolls and puppets with him, worried he’d be bored witless on the barge ride up the river. A fortunate bit of foresight, that. He’d finished six stringed puppets and three dolls already and sold them for decent prices, considering. As for Ursa, she was like a lamb in clover with all the wild herbs and roots she was collecting. Some she sold, some she kept, though there wasn’t much room in the back of the van. She’d done a little paid physicking too, on outlying farms and in a handful of villages.
They were the only ones who could earn any money. It was far too risky for Rhian to be seen odd-jobbing … although she did help paint the toys’ faces and fashion their fancy little clothes. She was a neat artist and handy with a needle and scissors. For some reason he’d not expected that. Helfred had nothing to recommend him but a strong grasp of scripture and anyway, they didn’t want any passing chaplain or venerable to recognise him. And Zandakar …
Yes. Well. Zandakar.
I won’t believe he could harm us. Just because he’s a mystery doesn’t mean he’s evil. And why should he trust us? Yes, Ursa and I nursed him, but for all he knows we could have done it to sell him again later.
There was nothing to do but wait and watch and in the meantime keep forging onward to duchy Linfoi, doing what he could to supplement their meagre money supply and keep them out of trouble.
With a creaking groan Ursa straightened amongst the tangled liverberry vines, pressing her scratched and juice-stained hands into the small of her back.
“All right!” she announced. “That’s enough. We’d best be rolling on again, before Jones drops to the ground in a frothing conniption.”
“I never said a word!” he protested as the berry-pickers picked their way out of the undergrowth. Rhian’s woollen leggings got caught on a bramble. Before she could free herself Zandakar was there, kneeling, tenderly loosing her from confinement.
Oh dear.
Ursa, joining him, pretended not to notice. “Jones, you sighed . You’ve got the most eloquent sigh in all of Ethrea.”
“Well, if I did sigh I think I’ve got cause. Every second meadow or copse or bush has something you say we can’t do without!”
She poked her elbow into his side. “And so we can’t. Liverberries are rare, Jones. They fruit once a year only, for a handful of days. It’s a miracle to have found them. Once they’ve dried they’ll sell for a fortune.” She looked at Rhian, freed now from the bramble. “Come along, Your Highness. Your bones are decades younger than mine. Pretend you’re a monkey and climb up on the van’s roof, will you? That’s the best place for drying berries.”
Rhian nodded, good-naturedly resigned to being ordered about. “All right.”
Helfred appeared from around the back of the van. “And Zandakar can walk with me as we revise what I taught him before lunch. Zandakar?”
Zandakar nodded. So agreeable, so unprotesting. And under the surface, the water seethes … “Zho, Helfred.”
“It’s yes . Not zho . How many times do I have to tell you?”
“Come along then, Highness,” said Ursa, watching Rhian watch Zandakar stroke the horses as he passed. “Didn’t you hear Mr Jones? Time’s a-wasting!”
Rhian rolled her eyes as Ursa bustled away. “She’s very … organised … isn’t she?”
Dexterity grinned. “That’s one word for it. But she’s a good woman. And we owe her
a lot.”
“I know,” sighed Rhian. “But you’re right about one thing. We need to hurry. Marlan can’t keep my flight secret forever. By the time a general alarm is raised I must be in duchy Linfoi.” Her wry smile faded. “I must have one ducal supporter … or I don’t see how I’ll triumph against him.”
More than anything their greatest enemy was despair. “Of course you’ll triumph!” he told her robustly. “Aren’t you Ethrea’s rightful queen? When the truth comes out about what the prolate was up to you’ll have more ducal supporters than you’ll know what to do with!”
“I pray you’re right,” she whispered. “For if we’ve misjudged this …”
“We haven’t!” he said, and gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Now onto the roof, quickly, or Ursa will scold.”
Rhian smiled and did as she was bade.
Such a good lass. She’d make a fine queen … provided the prolate didn’t win.
Are you listening, Hettie? Don’t you dare let him win.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
A finger before lowsun, Dexterity guided the van off the rutted grassy track they followed and into an open space ringed by tall, lushly leafed trees. A stream ran close by. So many trees and streams in this far-away place Ethrea . It was as green as Harjha. Damp, and growing, and full of sweet rain.
Unharnessing the horses, Zandakar felt the random thought pierce him, sharp as a snakeblade.
Stupid Zandakar, do not think of Harjha. Do not think of Lilit. You will dream again.
Since his strength had returned his nights were not haunted. Not by Lilit or his mother or memories of the slave ship and what had come before. Not by Dmitrak, little Dimmi, his murderous brother. Or, if he did still dream of them, the memories no longer woke him to pain and screaming.
I think that is a good thing. Remembering is too hard.
Now that his body was mended, recovered from its wounds and fever, now he was strong again dancing the hotas, he at last could think beyond the mere physical. He was more than a dying husk now. More than suppurating flesh bound tenuously to life. He could look further beyond survival. He could start to ask questions.
Is this wet green Ethrea to be my home? Do I have a purpose here or am I nothing in the world? The god does not speak to me, I do not live in its eye. Am I dead to the god now, as I am dead to my people?
The plain brown horses fluttered their nostrils as he exchanged their bridles for halters. He petted them, aware of a waiting darkness, a yawning chasm of doubt when his whole life till now had been stone-hard certain.
I was angry, god. I closed my heart to you. It is open now, I have opened my heart so I will hear you. Tell me my purpose. Show me my path.
His heart stayed silent, the god did not answer.
I am alone.
Even as despair rose, threatening to destroy him, the voice of his saner self spoke in his mind. Was it his failing that the god did not answer? Or could the god only exist where its godspeakers were? Did the godspeakers summon it with their rituals and blood?
If that is so I will not hear it again until Dimmi and the warhost and the godspeakers come. They will come and burn green Ethrea to ash, they will drown the land scarlet and I will hear the god.
Leaving the harness for later, he led the horses to the stream so they could drink. The water was shallow, they pawed at it playfully. “Tchut, tchut,” he told them. They flicked their ears and obeyed.
See me, god. I am a warlord of horses.
“Zandakar!”
He looked up, turning. It was the girl, Rhian. Her hair and eyes reminded him of Lilit. She was beautiful, as beautiful in her way as he remembered his mother, when he was a boy and she was still young. Before Dimmi’s hard birth had made her old and bitter. Before constant pain and disappointment had sunk their claws in her godspark, left scars in her flesh and wrung her heart dry of joy.
“Zandakar,” said Rhian a second time, and beckoned him to join her under the trees.
Rhian was beautiful and she was in trouble. He did not understand everything but he understood that. The man Helfred, who every day gave him more and more words, that man had hurt her.
I know these people are wicked sinners, god, Ethrea does not live in your eye. But I am who I am. I am who you made me. I did not protect Lilit, I must protect Rhian. I will kill Helfred for her if she asks. I will kill him if she does not ask and he hurts her again.
He was a strange man, Helfred. Not a man he would have tolerated in his warhost. But Helfred was giving him words, and that did count for something.
If he gives me words and he does not hurt Rhian I will have no reason to kill.
The horses had drunk enough. He led them to Rhian, and she held them as he fetched their hobbles. “Helfred’s insisting on holding Litany,” she said. “I’ll have to let him. Ursa’s very keen.”
Keen. Litany . So many words, new ones every highsun. If the Ethreans spoke slowly he could make some sense of their speech. Of course, not often with Ursa. Ursa’s tongue ran like a lizard across hot desert sand. But with Rhian, yes. And with Dexterity. Helfred did not talk to him unless it was in a lesson.
I miss Vortka’s teaching. I miss Vortka.
Another thought he must push away. It was likely he would never see the high godspeaker again. Vortka had saved his life three times. He wondered if his mother was angry for that, his mother who had wanted him dead.
Aieee, the god see me, do not think of that either!
Rhian touched his arm, briefly. “Zandakar?”
He made himself breathe like a shadow, and wrenched his thoughts from the bloodsoaked past. “Litany?”
She sighed. “I can’t begin to think how I’d explain it. Just come. Do what we do. I promise, it’s painless. More or less.”
Leaving the horses to graze, he walked with Rhian to Dexterity and Ursa who waited beside the van. Dexterity’s face said he did not want to do this. A moment later Helfred came down the wooden steps, no longer wearing his plain shirt and baggy Ethrean leggings. Now he wore his blue robe that covered him from neck to ankle.
He stood before them, his face said he was important. He raised his hands and Rhian knelt on the ground. So did Ursa and Dexterity. Helfred frowned at him, so he knelt too. Helfred kissed his thumb and pressed it to his heart then held his arms wide, his palms cupped towards the sky, and started talking. On and on Helfred droned, so many strange words. It was like listening to Dexterity’s donkey. He kept on looking at the sky. What was he looking at? Who was he looking for?
Then the cadence of Helfred’s voice changed and the others spoke with him. Rhian and Ursa recited the words easily, but Dexterity’s face said he was having trouble remembering. His tongue stumbled often. Helfred’s face was transformed, fierce and fearless, he looked older and stronger, all petulance wiped away.
Zandakar frowned. In Helfred’s changed face was something familiar, a teasing remembrance from his lost Mijak life. In a startling moment memory showed him Nagarak, showed him Vortka, showed him godspeaker faces as they communed with the god.
Aieee, the god see him! Helfred was a godspeaker .
So there is a god in Ethrea and godspeakers to serve it. But it demands no blood, no sacrifice, no suffering. There are no scorpions here to punish wicked men. Ethrea’s god is a god like Harjha’s, a soft thing, a weak thing. A thing of sighing breezes and pretty flowers, it does not show its face. It will never stand against the god of Mijak. When my mother the Empress brings the god here, Ethrea will drown in blood. Rhian will drown. And Dexterity. And Ursa. Helfred will drown, his unseen god will not save him.
A terrible thought, all that drowning blood. If he closed his eyes now he would see the ruined cities … hear the screams of the dying thousands as he sent them to hell …
I do not want that to happen here. I am tired of slaughter, it sickens my bones. The god told me to stop slaughtering, I know I heard that in my heart. I need Vortka to help me hear it again. I need to swim in the godpool and ask the god’s g
uidance in the sacred blood!
“Zandakar?” said Rhian. Helfred had stopped praying, so had Dexterity and Ursa. He had spoken aloud, the echoes of his anguish hummed in the air.
“Zandakar,” said Dexterity, staring. “Are you all right?”
Helfred’s face was red and shiny with temper. He said something loudly, his eyes were narrow and hard. He waved a clenched fist at the sky then kissed his thumb and pressed it to his breast.
Rhian turned on him. “No, Helfred! He didn’t mean anything! He doesn’t understand what the Litany is!”
Helfred said something else, too many unknown words spoken too quickly, in anger. Zandakar did not care that the man was angry with him. After Nagarak other men’s anger was nothing. Helfred wore no scorpion pectoral, he had no power of smiting to death. He was weak, like his god of flowers and sunshine.
There is no sacred blood here. I must find blood, I must make it sacred. Only with blood will I hear the god speak.
Helfred had no doves, no lambs, no goatkids. There were the horses but they were needed to pull the wagon. Then he remembered. In Mijak the godspeakers gave their own blood sometimes.
But I have no knife. I am a warlord without a weapon.
There were stones in the stream. A sharp stone would cut him. He would have blood and the god would speak in his heart. He turned from the Ethreans and ran to the trickling stream, plunged into it on his hands and knees and began searching desperately for a sharp enough stone.
The Ethreans were shouting, they followed him to the water.
“Zandakar, stop!” Dexterity cried. “What are you doing?”
“I told you, Jones!” said Ursa. “I said he was too quiet!”
“Mr Jones, get him out! Before he hurts himself!”
That was Rhian. He looked up. Her beautiful blue eyes were worried for him. He had never seen worry like that in his mother’s blue eyes. Lilit had looked like that the last time he saw her, before she was murdered, before their son died butchered at her feet. She had looked at him like that with such tender concern. And then she had died, her belly slashed open, their son cut to pieces, his mother’s rage unstoppable—