by Karen Miller
“My father always said a man was more than the coins piled high in his coffers,” Rhian said eventually, lifting her head. “Yet he used your father’s lack of affluence as an excuse to deny us and refused to explain himself. I came close to hating him for it.” Her voice broke. “What kind of daughter hates her father on his deathbed?”
He rested his gaze on her profile, on the sweet curve of her cheek. “An angry one.”
“As if that’s an excuse.”
“Our fathers liked each other well enough, Rhian, before they both fell in love with the same woman.”
She looked at him, startled. “What?”
Oh. So even at the end, no-one had told her. “My father once had his eye on your mother. It was before she was Queen Ilda, of course. When she was still plain Lady Ilda of Morvell and your father was Prince of Kingseat. Mine had just become Duke of Linfoi.”
“I never knew that,” she said, scowling. “Probably the boys knew.” She jabbed him with her elbow. “Why did you never tell me?”
He stared at the coffin. “My father asked me not to. He thought it a sleeping dog best left to snore undisturbed.”
“Well, I want it woken. What happened, Alasdair?”
“Nothing good,” he said, pulling a face. “At first their rivalry was … playful. Then they realised they both were deadly serious and the games turned nasty. Things were said and couldn’t be unsaid. Their friendship was poisoned, and never recovered. Father withdrew his suit. He knew he couldn’t afford to offend the future king. He chose my mother soon after and they were happy enough.”
But then she died birthing his brother, and the baby died with her, and somehow his father had never re-married. I’ve got my heir , he’d always said. More than one leads to trouble. You’ll do as the next duke. I don’t need another wife .
Rhian shook her head. “Men.” Her breath hitched. “What a stupid reason to keep us apart. Why were we to pay for the foolishness of our fathers?”
“Some hurts don’t heal,” he said. “Anyway. It’s over now.”
“No, it’s not over! Don’t you see? I’m still paying. If Papa hadn’t been so petty none of this would be happening! We could have married before he died and I never would’ve been made Marlan’s prisoner. So much awfulness avoided, if only—if only—”
He put his arm around her shoulders. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry!” she said, shrugging free of him. “Be angry ! How can you be so calm ?”
“I don’t see the point of being anything else. Anger won’t change what happened. It’s the past. It’s done.”
She got to her feet and went to stand before the Living Flame flickering gently in its sconce. “How admirable. Clearly you’re a better man than I.”
With her hair cut short the nape of her neck was exposed. Slender. Vulnerable. Desire stirred. “Rhian, whether you’re here or in a clerica or even in your castle, until you turn twenty you’re still Marlan’s prisoner. I don’t see how we can marry when—”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Ursa doesn’t have an assistant, Alasdair. That man is my personal chaplain. His name is Helfred and he’s Marlan’s nephew. He was forced on me the day after you left court.”
Swearing and cursing in a chapel was a sin. He sinned anyway, scrambling to his feet. “Rollin’s wounds, Rhian! What were you thinking, bringing him here with you? Marlan’s nephew ? When the prolate finds out he’ll put the duchy under interdict . I’ll have the people in arms against me for imperilling their souls!”
“Marlan won’t find out,” she said, turning. “Not until it’s too late for him to do anything so foolish as to interdict Linfoi. Helfred has no intention of telling his uncle where he is. He’s broken with the prolate, Alasdair. He’s with me, not against me.”
He couldn’t stand still. Pacing round his father’s coffin, hands tucked into his armpits so he didn’t shake Rhian, he said, “And this Helfred’s how you plan to get around your Church wardship?”
She smiled, a thinly dangerous curve of her lips. “As a divine chaplain he has the power to release me from it and marry us.”
“Why would he do that? Marlan will destroy him when he finds out!”
“Why? Because it’s the right thing to do … and because he owes me a debt. Marlan is venal and Helfred knows it,” said Rhian. Her smile vanished. Her eyes were bleak. “When we are married and naked together, Alasdair, you’ll see the mementos from my sojourn in the clerica. Marlan claims to love me like a daughter but he has a poor way of showing it.”
He stopped pacing. “The prolate beat you?”
“Till I fainted. Twice.”
“Rhian …” No wonder she was different. No wonder she had run.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “He did me a good turn. Helfred never would’ve sided with me otherwise and without him I’d be lost and so would Ethrea.” Sighing, she turned back to the Flame. “It might still be lost. I don’t know. Too much is still uncertain.”
The thought of Marlan hurting her made him sick to vomiting. Quelling nausea, stifling rage, he joined her at the Flame. “What does that mean?”
“There’s more I have to tell you, Alasdair.” Her sideways glance was … complicated. “I doubt you’ll like it overmuch. Or even understand. I don’t understand it all myself. I’m travelling on blind faith. On the faith of a toymaker. On whispers and rumours and promises from the grave.”
What? “Rhian—”
“Not here,” she said tiredly. “Let’s go back to the manor. I’ll bathe. We’ll eat. Then we’ll sit down and talk.”
Dexterity perched on the edge of a beautiful tapestried library chair with his hands tucked between his knees and his heart lodged in his throat.
Oh dear. Oh Hettie. Please do what you can. For if the duke rejects us …
He wasn’t alone. Rhian, Duke Alasdair, Ursa, Helfred and Zandakar, they all sat in the library with him. Dinner was eaten, the servants largely gone to bed. The library door was closed tight and the time for spilling secrets had come. Again.
“I think, Alasdair,” said Rhian, breaking the silence, “it would be easier if Dexterity explained things. All I ask is that you hold your questions till he’s done.”
Alasdair Linfoi wasn’t a handsome man. He wasn’t ugly, but he was certainly … plain. His eyes were a pale brown, his hair a few shades darker. Straight and untidy. Unfashionably short. His face was bony. There were calluses on his hands. His body was well knit but his carriage lacked elegance. He looked more like a farmer than he looked like a duke.
He doesn’t look like a king at all. But Rhian loves him, and we must believe she has cause.
The duke nodded. “All right. I’ll hold my questions. Mr Jones, your explanation.”
Dexterity glanced at Ursa, who nodded once in support. Helfred was staring at the faded carpet. No help there. Zandakar stood in a corner, his hands clasped before him and his extraordinary eyes half closed. With them but not with them. As usual, apart.
“Go on, Dexterity,” said Rhian. Her expression was serious but her eyes were warm. “Just tell him. You’ll be fine.”
So he told his ridiculous, unbelievable story. True to his word Duke Alasdair stayed silent. When the tale was told he sat quietly behind the library’s desk, his brown eyes staring at his folded hands.
“You believe him, Rhian?” he asked at last, looking up.
“I do, Alasdair,” she said firmly.
He looked at Ursa. “And you, Madam? You believe this?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“And you, Chaplain Helfred? How does the prolate’s nephew feel about this?”
“I told His Grace the truth,” said Rhian. “It was needful. Say what you like, Helfred. Let conscience be your only constraint.”
Helfred released a cautious breath. “My feelings are divided, Your Grace. To all outward appearances Mr Jones is an honest upright man, though his carelessness of scripture must be a cause for concern. I do not doubt h
is care for Her Highness. I do not doubt he believes what he says. Nor can I deny that some of what he says has come to pass. I am less convinced, however, that we deal with benign forces.”
Duke Alasdair nodded. “And what do you make of Zandakar?”
“What can I make of him?” said Helfred, his face pinched. “He is mysterious and dangerous, Your Grace. An unsavoury combination. To be blunt, I have deplored Princess Rhian’s easy acceptance of the man. He is a brute, from what I suspect must be a brute race. If you had seen his killing of those unfortunate men …”
“Unfortunate?” said Rhian, temper kindling. “They were footpads set on violence, Helfred! Would you rather now be lying dead in a ditch?”
“I would rather not have witnessed such a casual slaughter!” Helfred retorted. “I do not say the men shouldn’t have been stopped. But there are ways of stopping men short of death, Highness! And if, God save us, there must be death, do you call it seemly to revel in it after? And Zandakar revelled in it! You were there! You saw him! You know he did!”
“I know nothing of the sort,” said Rhian, her voice tight in her throat. “You’re letting your dislike of him colour your opinion. Hardly scriptural, Chaplain. Doesn’t Rollin say in Eighth Admonitions that no man is perfect, therefore can render no perfect judgement? Or have you conveniently forgotten what transpired in the clerica?”
Helfred pushed to his feet. “You would throw the shame of Todding at me again ? When will that business be laid to rest between us, Highness?”
“I have no idea, Helfred!” said Rhian, leaping to face him. “I suggest you ask me this time next year!”
The duke sighed. “Rhian—”
“Zandakar can’t remember where he comes from!” she said, searing them all with her blazing stare. “He was sold like an animal, chained on board a stinking, filthy slave ship surrounded by disease and slow death, carried across countless leagues of ocean, and somehow, somehow, did not go mad or die. And we are told in no uncertain terms, by ways that are surely miraculous, that he is the key to Ethrea’s safety. And let us not forget he saved our lives . Would you have me throw Ethrea’s key away, would you have me question the miracle, all because he is strange to our eyes? Tell me! Would you? ”
Dexterity watched as Helfred slowly sat down. “I do not know,” the chaplain sighed. “I can only speak what is in my heart. Zandakar frightens me. I fear he is not safe.”
“Your shadow frightens you, Helfred,” said Rhian. “You must learn not to fear.”
The duke looked at Ursa. “Madam? What are your thoughts on this foreign man?”
“Contradictory,” said Ursa, after a moment. “For he’s a living contradiction. But the princess is right about one thing, at least. He surely saved our lives.”
“Do you believe him a miracle, sent to us by God?”
She frowned. “I believe God can send us miracles, Your Grace, often unawares. I don’t know if Zandakar is one. In my experience God is usually more … subtle.”
“And you, Mr Jones?” said the duke, shifting his regard. “It seems you and Zandakar are the most intricately linked. You rescued him. You nursed him to health. Who is right, here? Her Highness or the chaplain?”
“No disrespect intended, Your Grace,” he said, sitting straighter, “but I’m guided by Hettie. She says we need Zandakar. She says we’re doing God’s work.”
“I say so too,” said Rhian. “And if you oppose me …”
Dexterity held his breath. The princess and the duke were staring at each other, so many complications in their eyes. Zandakar said nothing. It seemed he was content to stand in his corner and let them argue without him.
If he even understands what we’re saying. He might not … but I think he does.
The duke drummed his fingers on the library desk, thinking, then nodded sharply. “Very well. We trust … for now. Chaplain Helfred …”
“Your Grace?” Helfred looked and sounded exhausted.
“Princess Rhian has asked me to be her king consort. I’ve accepted the honour. But without dispensation of her wardship she cannot wed. If she does not wed she cannot be queen. And if she is not queen, Ethrea falls into darkness … or so we are told. Chaplain, our fate is in your hands.”
Helfred stood. “Your Grace, I could wed you and still not save Ethrea from darkness. The prolate will not accept the marriage. He will never accept a woman as ruling queen.”
“I understand we would earn Prolate Marlan’s enmity,” said the duke. “But am I mistaken to think it would be a marriage sound in law?”
“No, Your Grace. You are not mistaken,” said Helfred heavily. “I have the power to make Princess Rhian our queen.”
“And will you do it, Helfred?” asked Rhian. “Though we share bitter memories. Though we anger each other almost beyond reason. Will you wed us for Ethrea’s sake?”
Dexterity held his breath. Oh Hettie, give him a nudge, would you? For if he says no we’re wrecked upon the rocks!
Helfred nodded. “Your Highness, I will.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The first dawn after they reached the home of Alasdair Linfoi, Zandakar danced his hotas alone.
After rising and dressing and going downstairs he’d waited a little time for Rhian to join him in the manor house garden. When she did not come he shrugged, and danced without her.
See me dancing with my knife for you, god. See me in your silent eye. Here am I in another strange place, surrounded by more strange people of Ethrea. Why am I here, god? What is my purpose?
The god did not answer. An empty man, he danced for no-one.
The sun climbed higher, cresting the tops of the distant trees. His hotas flowed like a river, deep and strong. He felt strong. He felt rested. Last night he’d eaten his fill of rich meat for the first time since being sent away from Mijak. He’d drunk wine with the rich meat, it was not as good as Et-Raklion wine. When the talking was over he’d been shown to a solitary room, no snoring Helfred. He’d smiled at that and slept the night through in a bed so soft it almost killed his memories of the slave ship. But only almost.
I think I will not forget that ship until I die.
After the cramped peddler’s van, his bones and muscles in the soft bed almost wept with relief. His eyes almost wept. It was good to be still. Good to be silent. Good to be apart from the others, away from tension and unhappiness and glowering Helfred.
He does not trust me. He is afraid. He should be afraid. He is a small soft man.
Hot blood pounded through his veins. He leapt, he spun, he watched the rising sun flash crimson on his knife. A straight blade, no sinuous curve, but it had killed wicked sinners just the same.
I have kept that much purpose. I slay wicked sinners.
Without Rhian to teach in the hotas he could dance much faster and harder, the way he used to dance when training with Dimmi and his warhost. When training with his mother when she could still dance. It felt good in his body to knifedance hard and fast. Sometimes he was afraid he would never be a true warrior again, after his time on the slave ship and his time in chains before that, and fever, and woundings, and so long spent in this soft green land.
Soft lands breed soft people. Mijak’s warriors will devour Ethrea. It will fall, their God will not save it.
The thought dismayed him. Was that a sin?
Tell me what you want, god. Do you want Ethrea thrown down? Am I here to help its falling? Dexterity does not think so. He thinks I am here to save his country, save his people. What do you want, god? Why am I here?
Silence. Silence. Nothing but silence.
I am tired, god. I am tired and alone. If I have no great purpose you must let me die.
Prickling skin told him someone was watching. He turned in his dancing but it was not the princess come late to her hotas . It was Alasdair duke, ruler of this land. This duchy . The duke stood in the archway leading into the gardens and watched in silence as the hotas flowed.
Dexterity had told him a duk
e was an important man. Below the king, the most important. So a duke was like a warlord in Mijak. But this Alasdair duke looked nothing like a warlord. He looked young and uncertain. Dexterity had told him the man had twenty-five seasons. If that was true he was the same age as Dimmi.
Aieee, the god see him. Dimmi will eat this Alasdair alive.
Dexterity had also told him Rhian loved this young, uncertain duke. He did not see that. Love was what he’d felt for Lilit, slender and beautiful in the sunshine, in his bed. Love was the light in her eyes for him, love was the painful pleasure of her touch. Love was her sweet smile, her soft laugh, her brave heart beating in time with his. That was love, he did not see it between Rhian and this duke.
A sharp pain pierced him. Aieee, Lilit. Lilit .
He stumbled, then, and missed his footing. If his mother had been here she would have shouted and slapped him. His warhost would have pointed and scoffed. Dimmi would have scoffed loudest of all.
Stupid, Zandakar. Do not be stupid. They are the dead past, do not think of them. Do not think.
His naked chest was running with sweat. His muscles ached, they begged for rest. He had danced enough. It was time to stop and bathe and eat.
And wait to be told what I can do, like a slave.
After dancing it was important to stretch, warriors must have limber muscles. So he breathed deeply and stretched and thrust the dead past behind him.
Seeing the hotas were finished, Alasdair duke stirred from the archway and came forward, slowly.
“Is it true you’ve lost your memory?”
Sweating, breathing, he pressed his forehead to his knees. “Zho.”
“And yet you recall these hotas of yours. Curious.”
He straightened. “Zho.”
The duke looked at him closely, arms folded. “A man of few words, I see. Because you don’t know them? Or because you prefer to remain unknown …”
Ah. Like Helfred, this Alasdair duke suspected him of hiding truths. Breathing lies. On the surface his voice was pleasant. Underneath, it had sharp teeth. So perhaps he was not quite as young and uncertain as he seemed.