The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

  Helfred felt the words well up inside him, their truth unstoppable. “He’s a messenger from God, Your Grace. If you’re displeased with God’s selection I suggest you task him directly.”

  “Helfred!” said Ven’Martin. Even Ven’Artemis looked shocked.

  Helfred pulled his prayer beads from his robe’s belt and wrapped them round his hand. Smooth from years of fingering, their comfort was immense.

  “How can you stand there denying God’s presence?” he asked Ven’Martin. “Can it only be a miracle if it’s performed through you ?”

  A shocked silence fell. Helfred avoided Rhian’s gaze. Around the hall the first panicked reaction was settling. Some of the dukes’ people were praying, others huddled in corners and whispered or stared, waiting for their masters and the venerables to tell them what to do. As for the dukes …

  Rudi exchanged glances with Edward. Then, with a last askance look at Mr Jones, he turned to Rhian. “Your Highness—Majesty— Rhian … you are asking us to accept a great deal on faith! Miracles, in your name? Not even your father claimed such favour from God!”

  “I don’t claim it either, Rudi,” she said, hushed, staring at serene Mr Jones. “I swear on my father’s soul I did not know this would happen. I can’t explain it. All I can tell you is I’ve been guided by this man and he’s never been wrong. I believe with all my heart he cares only for Ethrea.”

  “And so do we care for Ethrea!” said Edward. A riot of uncertainty was in his face and eyes. “You’re gravely unjust to say we do not. It’s because we care that we are so alarmed. You claim a ruling birthright but you are a woman . You’re practically a girl ! How can we trust you’ll not rule Ethrea to ruin? You’re not trained for kingship. You understand embroidery, not—not—international treaties and trade negotiations and foreign relations and taxation and law and currency and—”

  “Your Graces—” Rhian began, but she got no further. The flames dancing on Mr Jones’ upturned palms flared higher, joining over his head in a rainbow of fire. His skin grew incandescent so it was hard to look at him.

  Every man and woman in the Great Hall cried out. King Alasdair moved to Rhian’s side and put his arm around her shoulders, holding her close. Lord Ludo joined them. His face was resolute.

  Helfred kissed his thumb and pressed it to his heart, hand shaking. Dear God. Dear God. That I live to see such things!

  “On your feet!” cried Ven’Martin to those ducal retainers who had dropped to their knees. “How dare you pay homage to this trickster, this tool of evil!”

  None of them obeyed him. They hid their faces and sobbed.

  The fiery rainbow arcing from palm to palm over the toymaker’s head burned in eerie silence, no crackling, no smoke. But the air in the manor house’s Great Hall smelled suddenly sweet, tinged with freesias and roses and ladalia blossom.

  “Woe upon you, proud dukes of Ethrea!” he cried, his voice ringing to the rafters. “Heed not this warning and see your kingdom fall to ruin! See your children slain upon its streets! See your green fields blighted, see your churches pulled down, see your freedoms ground to bloody mud beneath your foolish feet! Kneel to Rhian, your rightful, blessed and Godgiven queen! Let her lead you in God’s name! For if you do not there will be no more Ethrea.”

  “No more Ethrea?” said Edward, incredulous. “How can that be? Ethrea is the safest kingdom in the world!”

  “It has been the safest,” said Rhian, her gaze not shifting from the toymaker’s face as he stood before them soundlessly burning.

  “But not any more?” said Rudi.

  She shrugged. “Perhaps. If we do not heed our new prophet’s warning. We—”

  “Are only in danger if you are on the throne!” said Damwin, nearly spitting in his rage. “No woman is capable of ruling a kingdom! Women bear children. That is their domain. This—this— nonsense is nothing but your desperate attempt to overthrow the natural order! This is trickery, this so-called prophet is your puppet, a fool and a knave. Throw a bucket of water over him and his miracle would soon be quenched!”

  “No,” said Helfred. “His words come from God. What consumes him is God’s Living Flame.”

  “What consumes him is evil !” shouted Ven’Martin. “What you smell in this hall is the stink of hell ! Whosoever heeds this blasphemy I declare him tainted, corrupted, the enemy of God !”

  “And I declare you a blind fool, Venerable Martin!” retorted Rhian. “In thrall to Marlan who is no friend to God or Ethrea or me, its queen. I’ve done nothing unlawful. I’m not tainted or corrupt. The corruption is yours, that you’d use God as a weapon to silence honest men. Tell Marlan this from me when you run to him with your tail between your legs, as I know full well you will. I won’t be silenced or intimidated by the Church. I am the rightful queen of Ethrea and to deny me fealty is to break the law. Tell the prolate to consider that, Venerable. Tell him to have a care for his soul, should he oppose me.”

  Ven’Martin shuddered with an anger so violent, Helfred thought the man would drop where he stood. “You wicked woman, God’s Flame will—”

  She turned her back on him, leaving Ven’Artemis to silence his ranting, and glared instead at her horrified dukes.

  “Your Graces, attend me. The people of my duchies look to you for leadership as much as they look to the Church for solace. I need you standing with me, your disappointments set aside. If you don’t want to see this kingdom destroyed you’ll—”

  “Ethrea will only be destroyed if we allow this nonsense to continue!” said Kyrin. “Are you mad, girl, to think we would side with you against the prolate? You’d have us take the word of a disgraced chaplain and this—this charlatan in a matter so vital to the kingdom’s interests?”

  “Kyrin’s right,” added Damwin. “And so is Ven’Martin. Aiding you is blasphemy, Your Highness. Clearly grief has unhinged your mind. For the kingdom’s safety you must be put away.”

  King Alasdair stepped forward. “Lay one hand on her and you’ll answer to me.”

  “And God, Your Grace,” said Helfred, frowning. “Do not imperil your soul.”

  Damwin sneered. “A blasphemer lectures me on the health of my soul. If I were not so close to vomiting, I tell you I would laugh. Men of Meercheq, to me!”

  As Duke Damwin’s hangers-on stepped forward uncertainly, Kyrin snapped his fingers. “Hartshorn, to me!” Then he glowered at Rhian. “Like the Duke of Meercheq I am no credulous fool. I will not risk myself or my duchy by supporting your lost, unlawful cause.”

  Side by side, ignoring the miracle of Mr Jones, Damwin and Kyrin made for the Great Hall’s doors, their hangers-on obedient at their heels.

  “This blasphemous treachery will not go unpunished,” said Ven’Martin, retreating with them. “The wrath of God and the prolate shall descend without mercy. Artemis! With me!”

  The Most Venerable hesitated, looking to the king.

  “Go, Artemis,” said King Alasdair softly. “Don’t cause trouble for you and yours.” He gestured at the ceaselessly burning Mr Jones. “We have nothing to fear from Ven’Martin or the prolate.”

  “Artemis!” shouted Ven’Martin, waiting at the doors.

  The Most Venerable departed with tears in his eyes.

  Rhian looked to the remaining dukes. “Well, Edward. Rudi. Does this mean you’re with me?”

  Before they could answer, Mr Jones released a sigh. The holy fire in him extinguished … and he slumped unconscious to the floor.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Dexterity stood in a charnel-house, surrounded by death. Everywhere he looked he saw burnt sundered bodies. Men. Women. Children. Infants. Dogs. Horses. He’d never seen so much death in his life. Never imagined it could look like this. Curdled with smoke, the air smeared his skin. The stench of charred flesh coated his tongue, his throat. His stomach heaved, gushing bile into his mouth. He spat it out, sickened by the taste. Underfoot, the rubble of this strange city. Something had destroyed it, smashed the brick and timber buildings
to pieces like a vengeful god’s angry hand. The sun was a sullen eye, red and glaring.

  His eyes burned. There were tears on his cheeks.

  “Hettie!” he shouted. “Hettie, where are you? Hettie, where am I? Hettie, please, answer !”

  And she was beside him, dress tattered, hair wild. So little colour to her that for the first time she looked truly a ghost. “Here I am, Dex.”

  He staggered back from her, nearly stumbling over a dead woman and her son. What looked like her son. The monstrously burned child was clasped in her spasmed arms. “Where are we, Hettie? What is this place? Why have you brought me here?”

  The sorrow in her face was as stark as a wound. “This city is … was … called Garabatsas.”

  “Garabatsas?” He shook his head. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It was a small place. Unimportant. There’s no reason you would.”

  “What country, Hettie? What country are we in?”

  She looked at him, sadly. “Sharvay.”

  “Sharvay?” He felt a nasty jolt under his ribs. “I’ve heard of Sharvay.”

  “I know you have, Dex. That’s why we’re here.”

  “Sharvian beadwork! It’s prized by the court ladies. You can spend a fortune on one little—”

  “Dexie, I know,” she said, and clasped her hands together. They were pale and trembling. “My love, let me speak.”

  But he couldn’t. Not yet. Memory was returning, sharp enough to blot out the dreadful sight of Garabatsas, destroyed. “Hettie—in the manor house. Something happened to me—something—” He shuddered. “I was glowing ! And walking and talking but somehow it wasn’t me ! Hettie, was it you ?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  Rolling through him, a terrible sense of betrayal. A feeling he’d never known her at all. “Without asking me? Without warning ? Hettie, how could you?”

  “Oh, Dex …” She tried to smile but her eyes were bleak with sorrow. “If I had asked … if I had warned … would you have helped me?”

  “I don’t know! Most likely! But—”

  “Then it’s all right, isn’t it? Dex, I’m sorry. I was in a hurry, I had no time. And you weren’t harmed, were you? You have to know I’d never harm you.”

  Such love in her face. How could he doubt her? “Yes—of course—I know you wouldn’t—but really, Hettie, that’s not the point! It was very frightening and—and—” He stopped. “Where am I, really? While I’m having this dream? Am I still in the Great—”

  “You’re tucked up in bed, my love, with Ursa counting every breath and eye-twitch.”

  Well, at least that was something. “But what happened? Has Rhian managed to convince the dukes? Have they—”

  “You’ll find out shortly,” said Hettie. “Right now I have to show you something else. Take my hand.”

  “Why?” he asked, ashamed of his suspicion. “I don’t want to see any more dead people, Hettie.” He looked around at the slaughtered Garabatsas and felt a fresh burning in his eyes. “I’ve seen enough. I’d like to go now, please. I’d like to wake up.”

  “You will soon. I promise.”

  He took her hand, reluctant, and looked again at the dead. “All these poor people …” he whispered. Dear God, her fingers were so cold. “Who could do such a terrible thing?”

  “You already know, Dex.”

  “No. Not Zandakar !”

  Hettie raised her other hand and waved it slowly across the face of the red, sullen sun. Garabatsas the charnel-house rippled and was remade around them. Now the air was free of smoke, sweet-smelling and fresh. The buildings stood intact, brick and timber painted yellow, orange and blue. Bright colours. Bright, cheerful faces of the people in Garabatsas, a short race with olive skin and light hair. This was a marketplace. Chickens squawked in wooden cages, luscious fruits piled high under canvas awnings. Horses hitched to spindly carts swished their tails at biting flies and dogs hunted among the market-goers for scraps and attention. Men and women bought and sold their wares. Squealing children chased the dogs and each other.

  Dexterity glanced at Hettie. “They can’t see us?”

  “No.”

  “Then why—”

  She squeezed his hand. “Hush, my love. Watch … and wait.”

  So he stood unseen in the marketplace of Garabatsas and smiled to see the people so unafraid.

  And then someone screamed, a shrill shriek of fear. Above the marketplace sounds, a dreadful deep chanting. Coming closer. Growing in strength.

  “Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

  The warriors came on horseback, their long curved knives unsheathed and shining in the sun. Thousands and thousands of them, too many to count, rank upon rank in a slow, steady jog. Their hair was tightly braided, sewn with amulets and silver bells. Their horses’ hides were blue and black and striped and spotted, not like any horse he’d ever seen.

  The warrior who led them had braids as red as blood.

  “Not Zandakar,” he whispered, and could have wept with the relief.

  “No,” said Hettie. “His brother.”

  “Dmitrak.” Dexterity felt sick again, fresh bile in his mouth. “Hettie, can’t you stop this?”

  “It’s the past, Dex. It’s already happened.”

  Dmitrak didn’t carry an unsheathed knife. On his right arm he wore some kind of gauntlet, made of red crystal and gold. He raised his arm above his head. Closed his eyes. Cried out to his god. To chalava . His fingers clenched tight … and the gauntlet caught fire. A bright scarlet stream of it, surging towards the sun.

  “Oh, Hettie!” he sobbed, as Dmitrak’s arm came down, fire streaming from his fist, and the people died and the buildings burned and Dmitrak’s warriors slaughtered whoever the killing flames didn’t touch. “No … no … no …”

  Hettie snapped her fingers and Garabatsas disappeared.

  Now they stood beside a tranquil pond in the heart of a forest. Deer grazed all around them, spotted fawns and liquid-eyed does and a magnificent stag with its many-pointed antlers. Pale pink butterflies floated over the grass. But its beauty wasn’t real to him. All he could see was the death of Garabatsas. All he could hear was the sound of agonised screaming … the terrible chanting as Mijak’s warriors rode through blood.

  “Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho!”

  He fell to his knees and wept without restraint.

  “Why did you show me that?” he demanded, when he could speak.

  “Because seeing is believing, Dex. I needed you to know.”

  “Zandakar told me. I knew already!”

  “It’s not the same.”

  No, it wasn’t the same. “Those people! Those poor people!”

  “I know, Dex,” said Hettie. She was kneeling beside him, her cold hand on his shoulder. “But it’s over. The people of Sharvay are beyond our help.”

  “Then why —”

  “Because there are others we can help. God needs us to help them.”

  He pulled away from her. “God? You show me that then talk to me of God ? There is no God, Hettie! Or if there is he’s not a God I can believe in! What is God for if not to stop things like that? How can God love us and allow such brutal slaughter?”

  She caught his face between her hands. Pressed her forehead against his. Her tears fell on his skin, warm and swift. “I know it seems like that. It’s complicated, Dexie. One day you’ll understand. For now, can you believe me when I say God does what he can? That’s why I’m here. And why you’re here with me.”

  He took her hands in his and gently tugged them from his cheeks. “Hettie, I have to know this. Is chalava God?”

  Her face twisted, the gentle Hettie he knew almost lost in revulsion. “No.”

  “Then what—”

  “They think it is,” she said, shivering even though the meadow was warm. “The people of Mijak. Their priests believe they commune with God. But what they touch is an ancient pool of dark power. It feeds and replenishes itself and them on endless offeri
ngs of blood and death. Drunk on that power the priests perform miracles. Abominations. The priests and their warriors live only that they might kill. And the more they kill the more powerful they become.”

  It sounded … appalling . “I have to tell Zandakar. He has to know the truth. If he—”

  “ No, Dex! He won’t understand. He’ll think you’re trying to destroy him. And we need Zandakar’s help. We won’t save Ethrea without him. Promise you won’t tell him, Dex.”

  Slowly, he nodded. “All right. I promise.” After all, what was one more secret? He closed his eyes and saw again the terrible streams of fire from the red-crystal gauntlet. “This blood power. That’s how Dmitrak was able to—”

  “Yes. And Zandakar too, before he … stopped.”

  “And their mother? This Hekat?”

  “She’s mad, Dexterity. Mad and convinced she does her god’s will.”

  “And you think I can stop them?” He stood and turned his back to her. The deer kept grazing, undismayed. “A toymaker from Kingseat? Hettie, you’re mad.”

  “Not by yourself, Dex,” she said. “That’s why you need Zandakar. That’s why you have to protect his secret. And why you have to make sure Rhian is not defeated by Marlan and his petty dukes. She’s so important, my love. She has the power to unite the untouched nations against the warhost of Mijak. Not just because Ethrea alone holds no allegiances, and can be trusted by all the rest, but because she is special . God’s grace is in her. She was born to do this … but she needs help.”

  The forest’s heart was safe and beautiful. Her words had left him cold and afraid. He turned. “Hettie … you’ve never told me this much before.”

  She was standing now, too. Her sad smile was translucent. “It wasn’t time, before. But the blood of slain innocents broke through the barrier that kept Hekat’s warhost at bay. She has crossed the great desert. Sharvay has fallen and more lands will fall after it. The world is in peril, Dex … I have no more time.”

  She was talking in riddles. “Hettie—”