The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

As his fingers touched the library door’s handle, Alasdair turned. “Ludo.”

  Ludo looked up. “Hmmm?”

  Alasdair’s vision blurred for a moment, an excess of emotion that for once he didn’t try to hide. “Thank you. I won’t forget this. Neither will Rhian.”

  “Just make sure my bride will be beautiful, Alasdair,” said Ludo. His eyes were tear-bright too but his smile was unrepentantly wicked. “All things considered, it’s the least you can do.”

  Most Venerable Artemis greeted Alasdair in the manor chapel, where a host of venerables and chaplains gathered ready for his father’s solemn farewell. Artemis was a gracious elderly man who’d never quite forgiven Alasdair’s father for refusing to remarry. A tempting of God, Artemis had called it, and professed permanent astonishment that God had found the strength to resist.

  “Your Grace,” he said, splendid in his elaborate vestments. “God give you mercy on this sad day.”

  He nodded. “Ven’Artemis. It eases my sorrow to know you’ll preside over the ceremony. And I know my father would be equally pleased.”

  “Indeed, Your Grace,” said Ven’Artemis. “And it would give me great pleasure to perform the office for him. However …” Turning, he crooked a finger at a venerable who was standing a small distance away. The man was of medium height, lithe and alert beneath his sober religious garb, and his light green eyes had an oddly wolfish look. Seeing the summons he joined them before the Living Flame.

  “Most Venerable?”

  His tone and manner were suitably deferential but Alasdair felt his spine stiffen. This man is not safe .

  Seemingly oblivious, Most Venerable Artemis was benignly smiling. “Your Grace, I present to you Venerable Martin of Kingseat. Ven’Martin, behold Alasdair, Duke of Linfoi. Strictly speaking not until his investiture, of course, but I think we need hardly stand upon ceremony.”

  Odd, that Artemis would so single out a venerable. “Welcome to duchy Linfoi, Ven’Martin,” Alasdair said, nodding slightly.

  Ven’Martin considered him with his odd, light green eyes. “Your Grace. My sympathy for your loss.”

  “Ven’Martin is the prolate’s personal assistant,” Artemis added. There was the slightest hint of strain beneath his temperate smile. “He has come north to visit duchy Linfoi’s venerable house and its parishes. I have asked him to conduct your late father’s obsequies and he has kindly accepted in Prolate Marlan’s name. Provided you do not object, of course.”

  Well … damn . “How could I object?” he said, punctiliously correct. “I am honoured that so important a divine as Ven’Martin would consent to this task.”

  “The loss of a duke is no small matter,” said Ven’Martin. “Only the loss of a king ranks more highly, Your Grace. We did not see you at Eberg’s funeral.”

  This man must not see his temper. “My father’s brother Henrik represented duchy Linfoi, Ven’Martin. I was at the time concerned with my late father’s declining health.”

  Ven’Martin nodded. “Of course.”

  Turning to Artemis, Alasdair dismissed Ven’Martin from his attention. The man was too much danced upon already. “Most Venerable, are your preparations completed?”

  “They are, Your Grace. We will be ready to proceed once your fellow dukes arrive.”

  “I doubt they’ll be much longer, Most Venerable. Can I have a simple repast prepared for you and your brethren, which you can partake of while you wait?”

  “Thank you, no,” said Artemis, after a glance at Ven’Martin. “Prayer will sustain us until the appropriate time for feasting.”

  “Very well, then. I will see you again in due course.”

  “God bless Your Grace,” said Artemis, kissing his thumb and touching it to his heart.

  “God bless,” murmured Ven’Martin.

  “And you, sirs,” he replied, and made sure to walk with unstudied confidence away from the Living Flame and their regard.

  Sardre met him as he entered the manor house’s main doors. “Your Majesty, the runner reports the dukes are approaching.”

  “All of them?” he said, surprised.

  Sardre never betrayed unbecoming hilarity, but there was a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “Yes, Your Majesty. It would seem they have met at some predetermined destination so they might arrive together with no loss of precedence.”

  “Of course they have,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Doubtless they’ve drawn straws to see who enters the gates first.” Sighing, he added, “Welcome them in my name when they arrive, Sardre. Show them into the Great Hall and see their retinues settled in the pavilion and their horses in the stables. When that’s done, come to fetch me. I’ll be upstairs with the queen.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “And it’s Your Grace, remember?”

  “Certainly, Your Grace.”

  “And don’t forget Ludo’s in the library. Send him in to the other dukes when they’re settled. But don’t call him Your Grace. He’s still Lord Ludo for the moment.”

  “As you say, Your Grace.”

  He let his hand rest briefly on Sardre’s immaculate velvet sleeve. “Thank you, Sardre.”

  “Not at all, Your Grace.”

  Leaving his impeccable servant to his duties, he took the stairs up to Rhian three at a time.

  “Alasdair!” she said, standing as he entered their private salon. “Is it nearly time? I’m going mad cooped up in here.”

  “It’s nearly time,” he said, and kissed her. “The dukes have been seen. They’ll reach us soon.”

  She was so beautiful. She wore another dress that had been his mother’s, a concoction of gold and green silk taffeta. The manor seamstress had altered it to fit as though it had been meant for her all along. She wore his mother’s pearl necklace and earbobs and her fat pearl ring.

  “Look at us,” she said, striving for gaiety. “Don’t we make a fine pair?”

  He was wearing his Kingseat court attire, which his father had paid for even though Linfoi’s coffers were nearly bare. Silk and velvet in varying autumn shades, russet and gold and tangerine.

  He kissed her again. This time she kissed back. His blood stirred, heating. Her eyes gleamed, colour high in her cheeks. “Perfect,” he said, smiling. Then he turned to the window. “Don’t you agree, Helfred?”

  Chaplain Helfred stood by the curtains, his gaze downcast before such displays of physical lust.

  A good thing he didn’t see us on our wedding night. He’d have burst into flames from embarrassment, I swear.

  “Your Majesty,” said Helfred. Agreement? Warning? Who could say?

  “Alasdair? What’s wrong?” said Rhian. She knew him too well.

  He cleared his throat. “It seems we have a slight … dilemma. Chaplain Helfred—”

  Helfred looked up. “Majesty?”

  “What do you know of a venerable named Martin?”

  “Ven’Martin?” said Helfred. It seemed he stopped breathing. “He is Marlan’s palace assistant … but I suspect more my uncle’s eyes and ears about the kingdom. Certainly trouble follows wherever he goes. He enjoys my uncle’s complete confidence. Why?”

  “Because he’s in the manor chapel, preparing to lead the funeral service.”

  “Ven’Martin’s here ?” Helfred kissed his thumb then clutched at the Rollin medallion round his neck. “God save us. Marlan’s sent him. He knows we’re in Linfoi.”

  Rhian’s hands were fisted by her sides. She looked like a doe cornered by the hounds, ready to fight for her life. “If he knows, he’d have sent Commander Idson and some men. Or at least he’d have tried.”

  Alasdair shook his head. “I don’t think so. He knows the other dukes would object, and he needs their support. That’s why he’s sent Ven’Martin. He guessed you’d run here—it’s the obvious place—and he’s been waiting for you to reveal yourself. Once you do that, Ven’Martin will send word to Kingseat. Then the battle will truly begin.”

  “It was going to begin today, regardless,”
said Rhian. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and brilliant. “We know it’s too much to hope that all the dukes will support me. Whoever refuses to accept me as queen will doubtless turn to Marlan for some kind of alliance. Whether that man tells Marlan or Ven’Martin does, the result is the same.”

  “Can we not delay?” said Helfred. He was pale too, and sweating. “I tell you, the later my uncle learns of what we’ve done, the better. We could travel clandestinely back to Kingseat and—”

  “No. We can’t delay,” said Rhian. “I need to know now which dukes support me. And I won’t hide myself again, Helfred, like a common criminal. When I start my royal progress back to Kingseat I’ll show my face to Ethrea unashamed. I’ll greet my people as their queen and then we’ll see how much hold Marlan has over them.”

  Alasdair felt his heart lift. My wife. She is my wife. My fierce, my glorious warrior queen . “I agree,” he said quietly. “What does skulking in shadows say but that we are not sure? Or that we are ashamed? We are sure and by God there is no shame. We have the right. Rhian is queen. She will not hide.”

  The smile she gave him was more radiant than the sun. “No. She will not.”

  He moved to the window so he could look down into the forecourt. “Ludo’s here,” he said, as Helfred stepped aside to pretend interest in a painting “He’s reading in the library.”

  “You’ve told him?”

  The forecourt remained empty of dukes, but they could not be far away by now. “Yes.” He flicked an amused glance over his shoulder. “He asks that you find him a beautiful wife.”

  “He’s pledged his loyalty?”

  She sounded … sharp. He turned, staring. “Without hesitation. Why? Did you think he wouldn’t?”

  Her steady gaze unsteadied, just for a heartbeat. “No. No, of course not.” She sat again, and arranged her skirts around her on the chamber’s straight-backed wooden chair. “Tell him I’ll do my best in the matter of his bride but I can’t make him a promise.”

  “I did already. He understands your position. He’s ours, Rhian. Or are you in doubt?”

  She folded her hands in her lap. “I hardly know him, Alasdair. He rarely came to court.”

  “He’s my cousin . I know him. Do you say that’s not enough?”

  “No, no—”

  “Rollin have mercy!” he swore, heedless of Helfred’s sharp indrawn breath. “The people you brought here, Rhian, not even related. The toymaker, that physick woman, and Zandakar. Zandakar . You expect me to trust them and then you look sideways at my cousin ?”

  “You’re right, Alasdair. You’re right. I’m sorry,” said Rhian. “Of course I trust Ludo. I’m feeling fractious. Forgive me.”

  “I’m feeling fractious too,” he muttered, after a moment. “I’ll be glad when this is over.” The funeral … the revelations … I’m burying my father today, yet somehow his death has been pushed aside. Made less important .

  Rhian joined him at the window. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, and laid her palm on his cheek. “This day should be about your father, and instead I’ve made it about me. I promise you’ll have time to mourn him, Alasdair. He won’t be forgotten.”

  He pulled her to him, not caring about the fine dress. Not caring about anything save the feel of her skin against his and the pounding of her heart against his chest. She could undo him with a glance.

  “We’ll survive this, Rhian,” he said, his lips pressed to her short curling hair. “We’ll survive Marlan and every obstacle he raises against us. You were born to be Ethrea’s queen.” A sound from beyond the window turned him. “Ah.”

  “The dukes,” she said. Her arm was tight around him, where it belonged. “They’ve arrived.”

  All four of them together, as Sardre had said, complete with an excess of soldier escorts for vanity and show, and mounted servants and expensive, gilt-chased carriages pulled by the glossiest plumed and caparisoned horses. Each duke’s extravagant retinue was badged with his duchy’s personal device: a leaping red lion for Morvell, a bugling silver swan for Meercheq, a stag for Hartshorn and a snarling deerhound for Arbat. Sardre moved among the jostling throng leaving calm and order in his wake.

  Look at them all, it’ll cost a fortune to feed them. Ah, the dubious honour of being a duke.

  “You’d best go down there,” said Rhian. “They’ll be expecting to see Linfoi’s new duke.”

  He turned his back to the window. Held her again. “Sardre will come for me once he’s sorted them out. I can wait until then. I’d like a moment with my wife …”

  He felt her soften within his embrace. Her arms tightened around him, making it hard to breathe. He didn’t care. If he died like this he would die content.

  “The storm’s come, Alasdair,” she whispered against him. “It’s breaking over our heads. Tell me one more time we’re strong enough to prevail.”

  His eyes met Helfred’s over the top of her head. The chaplain’s gaze was steady, and bleak. He looked away.

  “We’re strong enough, Rhian. We will prevail.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  It’s not fair. I should be at the funeral. Alasdair needs someone to stand with him as he buries his father.”

  Seated on a plain wooden stool, as befitted a chaplain, Helfred looked up from his well-worn Book of Admonitions, his sole source of comfort in these difficult times. The princess—the queen— Rhian —mindful of accidental notice, stood to one side of the salon window staring into the empty sky. She looked remote, and beautiful, and too young for strife.

  He marked his place with the tip of one finger. “The king is not alone, Majesty. He has Lord Ludo.”

  “It’s not the same. Ludo’s a man. I’m his wife. A good wife supports her husband in these things.”

  Wife. Husband . The words touched colour to her pale cheeks. She was indeed young. “And a good queen knows the value of discretion. He knows your thoughts are with him, Majesty.”

  She nodded. “He does.”

  He waited for her to speak again. When she didn’t, he returned his attention to Rollin’s advice. “… insomuch as any man can seek to know the heart of God, then in his own heart should he—”

  “You still think I’m misguided, Helfred. Don’t you.”

  With the smallest of sighs, he closed the book. “What I think is of no consequence, Majesty. You’ve chosen your course and now you must run it.”

  “ Our course, you mean. That we must run, because I have said so.”

  “As you say, Majesty. But now that it’s chosen there’s no turning back. Therefore I see little advantage in having second thoughts.”

  She rounded on him, her eyes bright with temper. “A good ruler always reconsiders decisions to make doubly certain the right choice was made. My father taught me that, Helfred. Are you saying he was wrong?”

  “No, Your Majesty. Are you saying you were?”

  “No, I am not .”

  She was nervous. How could he fault her? He was nervous too. Beneath his chaplain robe his skin was moist with sweat. Not even the soothing familiarity of Rollin’s Admonitions had succeeded in calming his erratic heart.

  Moving from the window, Rhian sat once more on the straight-backed chair that best accommodated her elaborate dress. Her gaze upon him was fixed and uncompromising.

  “Are you afraid of meeting Ven’Martin, if he’s still here? Are you afraid of what will happen when your uncle hears what you’ve done?”

  “Yes,” he said baldly. “You’ve no idea what he’s like when his anger is riled.”

  “No idea?” she echoed. Her face twisted, scornful. “You’ve a short memory, Helfred.”

  The crack of the whip thongs on her welted, bleeding back. His uncle’s grunts of satisfaction as she cried out in pain . His memory was not short. Those sounds would sear him till the day he died. “Tcha,” he said. “The clerica was nothing. He was irritated then, Your Majesty. Just irritated. Nothing more.”

  “Then why did you help me, if his wrath is s
o much to be feared?”

  He smoothed his fingers over the cracked leather cover of his Admonitions. “It was the right thing to do.”

  “Does that mean we’ll be victorious, Helfred?”

  He shrugged. “The future is in God’s hands, Your Majesty. All we can do is pray.”

  Her lips quirked in a tiny smile. “Is that a hint, Chaplain?”

  “Well …” He resisted the temptation to smile back. “It cannot hurt.”

  She slid from the chair onto her knees before him. Clasped her hands and bowed her head, demurely. “Then by all means, Chaplain, let us take a moment to pray. I don’t mind confessing it—I need all the help I can get.”

  “Majesty …” He sighed. “You must abandon this unfortunate tendency towards levity. These men who’ve gathered here, these dukes who you must sway to your cause … you require them to take you seriously. They must see you as queen. How will they do either if you cannot?”

  She looked at him, sharply. “Don’t be stupid, Helfred. I take this so seriously I’ve risked everything to achieve it. My life. My liberty. Perhaps even my soul. I have risked Mr Jones and his friend Ursa. I’ve risked Zandakar. You. And I’ve risked Alasdair.” Her voice broke on the duke’s name. It was a moment before she spoke again. “Helfred, I’ve risked Ethrea . My father’s greatest legacy. The brightest jewel in the world, a beacon of peace and hope and prosperity to countless thousands in lands I’ll never see. No matter what strife there may be in their lives they know we are here. A safe port in any storm, one nation in all the world that will never succumb to violence. And yet here am I pushing us to the brink of bloodshed because I believe it’s the only way. Because I believe I am meant to be Ethrea’s sovereign. Because I have listened to a dead woman’s voice.” She brushed tears from her cheeks. “And you say I don’t take this matter seriously ? Oh, Helfred …”

  He felt his own eyes prickle. She so easily, so swiftly, drove him to distraction, offended him and frustrated him and made him question his actions and sanity both. But how could he doubt the truth of her beliefs when she laid them before him with such conviction? Such passion?

  “I do not doubt your heart, Majesty,” he said, resting his hand upon her bent head. “If I doubted, if I did not believe in your claim to the Crown, I would never have allowed you to escape the clerica at Todding. I would never have run with you or married you to Alasdair.”