The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

  If the harsh words hurt him, Zandakar didn’t show it. “Alasdair king has killed a man?”

  “What?” Alasdair shook his head. “No. I’ve never killed a man. How does that matter? I am her—”

  Zandakar’s eyes were so pale. So pure. “I talk to Rhian, Alasdair king.”

  Silence, as the two men stared unblinking at each other. Rhian turned her head, distracted by movement. Dexterity had joined them, though he was still far from well. She looked at him, her miracle man. The toymaker who’d given her dolls and puppets, who’d mended her rocking horse and let her weep on his breast. He nodded, so slightly. His face was shocked, his eyes bleak.

  “Alasdair,” she said. “Please. Take everyone inside. I think I must talk with him out here. Alone.”

  Her words went through him like the blade of a knife. She saw them slice him. She saw him bleed. “Fine,” he said curtly. “Your Graces? With me!”

  “Your Majesty,” said Helfred. “I beg you. Ven’Martin cannot lie here like a butchered hog. He must be laid out properly and prayed over. He—”

  She rested her hand on his arm. “He will be. Have the innkeeper show you to his coldest cellar. Make what preparations you think are fit. Ven’Martin will be brought to you there.”

  “Majesty—”

  “Go, Helfred! Before I—” She bit off the unwise words and swallowed them, though her throat was so tight. “Go.”

  The inn’s yard emptied, Ursa scolding as she saw Dexterity on his feet. Too soon it was only herself and Zandakar … and dead Ven’Martin. Zandakar dropped to one knee beside the man she’d killed and bared his death wound to the brilliant night sky.

  “Good stroke,” he said, nodding. “Quick. Clean.”

  She shrugged, trying to pretend she didn’t feel deathly ill. “Didn’t I say you’ve been a good teacher?”

  He stood. “Rhian good student.”

  “Papa always said so. He was proud of my accomplishments. I wonder if he’s proud of me now …”

  Twenty-seven years a king, Papa, and you never killed anyone. I’m not even crowned yet and there’s blood on my hands. Blood because I wouldn’t capitulate. Because I wouldn’t accept the future you decreed for me. And now will a kingdom be punished for that?

  Zandakar reached out, touched the base of her throat. His fingertips woke pain there. Ven’Martin’s choking fingers had bruised her. “Man hurt you. Wei knife?”

  “I don’t think so. He didn’t try to stab me. He wanted to strangle me.” She shivered, remembering. “His eyes, Zandakar. And when I stabbed him—when I stabbed him—”

  “Wei yatzhay man dead, Rhian,” said Zandakar, sternly. “Rhian yatzhay, Rhian stupid.”

  “All right then,” she said, flinching. “I’m stupid. Because I am yatzhay . I’m yatzhay he’s dead. I’m yatzhay I killed him.” She felt her stomach heave. “I’m yatzhay I knew what to do when he attacked me.”

  Zandakar’s eyes narrowed. “You ask me train you.”

  “I know I did!”

  “I wei train, you die. Zho? ”

  “Zho! But does that mean I should be glad I killed him? Should I be happy I’m like you, a blooded, bloody warrior? I mean, you’ve got what you wanted. Rhian the killing queen. Are you happy?”

  He said nothing.

  “Answer me, Zandakar! Are you happy now?”

  He stood in the moonlight and the light from the torches, his hair shimmering the most unnatural blue. He was dressed like an Ethrean but he still looked foreign. Exotic. His eyes were unshadowed. She saw his heart clearly.

  He smiled. “Happy you wei dead. Happy I save you.”

  Oh, Alasdair … “How many men have you killed, Zandakar?”

  He stopped smiling.

  “I want to know,” she persisted. “How many? A handful? Tens? Hundreds?” Still he said nothing. “More?”

  “I am warrior, Rhian. Warriors kill.”

  “How old were you the first time you took a life? Do you remember?”

  Thoughts flickered across his untranquil face. Then he nodded, as though answering a question only he could hear. “I kill first man when I am twelve intza . I think you say years.”

  She swallowed. “God’s mercy. You were a child . What were you doing, killing at that age?”

  “Training to be warrior.”

  By killing someone? Dear God. What kind of people does he come from? “This man you killed. Who was he?”

  “Criminal.”

  “You remember that?”

  “Zho . I remember.”

  Surely it must be hard to forget, executing a criminal at the age of twelve … but she suspected he remembered a great deal more. How long has he been hiding himself, I wonder?

  “And how did you feel after you killed him?”

  He pulled a face. “Not good, kill that man.”

  Her own belly was still roiling. All the red wine she’d drunk earlier, sloshing around. It was a miracle she hadn’t lost it in a great heaving. “And yet you killed again. Many times. More times than you want to tell me about.” A shudder ran through her. “I never want to kill again, Zandakar. I didn’t want to kill this time. I didn’t say to Ven’Martin: Fiend! You must die! He attacked me and I stabbed him. I didn’t think. I didn’t question. I had my knife—this knife—” She held up the blade and watched the dried blood drink the moonlight. “I thrust it deep into his belly. I twisted it, to cut him inside. And then I knelt beside him and watched him die.” Some sound broke from her throat, then, horrible and harsh. Her fingers opened. The knife clattered on the cobbled ground. “Dear God, it was disgusting . I butchered this man!”

  Zandakar shook his head. “Wei, Rhian. You die or man die.”

  “No! I could’ve shouted for help. I could’ve run. But Zandakar, I didn’t . I killed him. It was instinct, like—like breathing. Dear God, after everything I’ve said and done to avoid violence between Linfoi and here. And yet I’m the one who’s spilled the first blood. I’m the one who’s tarnished the crown.” There were hot tears on her skin. Inside she was freezing. “I wish I’d never learned a single hotas . I wish Dexterity had left you on that ship.”

  “Rhian …” Zandakar put one hand on her shoulder, standing so close she could feel his body heat. Her heartbeat quickened. “You not learn hotas you dead now,” he said. “You not kill bad man? Bad man kill you.”

  And here they were again. Kill or be killed . His song without ending ever since he’d found the words.

  With the softest of touches he wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Rhian die, what happen Ethrea?”

  And that was the hideous question, wasn’t it … If she died what would happen to the small precious kingdom she’d inherited against every expectation?

  “Zandakar …” She hunched her shoulders against the cool night air. “I need to ask you something else. Something important. And don’t tell me you can’t remember because I think you can.”

  His eyes flickered with shadows again, with thoughts he would not share. “Ask.”

  “Have you ever killed a man who wasn’t a criminal or trying to kill you in battle?”

  He flinched, as though she hadn’t dropped her knife but pricked it to his ribcage.

  “Dear God …” She stepped back. “You have .” Oh Alasdair, Alasdair . “Zandakar, who are you? Should I be afraid?”

  His ice-blue eyes were liquid. “Wei . Zandakar wei hurt you. I teach you hotas so you keep safe.”

  If she picked up her knife and pointed it towards him, something would change between them that could never change back. Her fingers hummed to pick up the blade. She gripped them behind her until her knuckles cracked.

  “Are you yatzhay for that, Zandakar? Are you yatzhay for killing an innocent man?”

  Please God, please God … don’t let him say no …

  Zandakar nodded. “Zho. Yatzhay yatzhay.”

  A deluge of relief, swamping the fear. He’s not lying. He’s sorry. He’s not a monster, he’s just a man .

>   “Do all the boys where you come from learn to kill when they’re twelve?”

  “Wei . Only warriors.”

  “What of the girls?”

  “Zho . Girls warriors.”

  Of course they were. It had never occurred to him she could not fight … or kill.

  Bending, she picked up the knife. It was heavy in her hand. Heavy with blood. Heavy with memory. If she closed her eyes she’d feel the give of flesh before steel, hear the soft exhalation of life fleeing the body.

  I thought I was done with being reborn. I was mistaken. Tonight sees yet another new Rhian.

  “Rhian …” Zandakar sighed. “You want be queen? This is queen. To kill bad men and be wei yatzhay .”

  Slowly, so slowly, she raised the knife before her eyes. Made herself look at the dried blood, the edge on the blade. “It may be queen where you come from, Zandakar. Since the time of Rollin it has not been our way. And if I change that … if I turn back the clock… something will wear my face but it won’t be me .” She shifted her gaze to Ven’Martin’s stiffening corpse. “He was wrong to attempt my life. I was wrong to take his instead.” She dropped to her knees and let one hand rest palm-down on the man’s unmoving chest. “I forgive you, Ven’Martin. I hope you can forgive me.” She looked up. “Dance your hotas if you must dance them, Zandakar. They are part of you, I understand that. But from this moment you’ll dance them alone.”

  “Alone?” Zandakar frowned. “Rhian wei dance hotas ?”

  “No. Not any more.”

  “Tcha! Rhian dance hotas, ” he said, his voice sharp with irritation. “Rhian good dance hotas .”

  “That’s the problem,” she whispered. “That’s why I must stop.”

  Because I’m more than good. I’m very good. And because a part of me likes them. A part of me exults in my skill with a blade. A part of me—God have mercy—is not sorry Ven’Martin’s dead.

  Across the inn’s courtyard, the sound of a door opening. “Rhian. Aren’t you done yet?”

  Alasdair.

  “Yes. I’m done,” she said, and stood. “Yatzhay, Zandakar,” she told him, softly. “Yatzhay and thank you. For the second time you’ve saved my life.”

  “Rhian, please,” said Alasdair. “Helfred’s waiting in the cellar. Let Zandakar take Ven’Martin to him. You must get some sleep before we ride in the morning.”

  He was right. Dawn was close. “Will you clean this?” she said, and held the knife out to Zandakar. “Keep it after, if you like. Or if you don’t, throw it away. I have no more use for knives.”

  The request distressed him. “Rhian …”

  “Fine,” she said, and tossed the blade aside. The sound it made hitting the ground a second time was loud and final. “Take Ven’Martin’s body to Helfred. Zho? ”

  His ice-blue eyes were touched with anger now. “Zho.”

  She turned towards Alasdair then turned back. “Please. See to the knife.”

  “Wei,” he said. “Your killing. Your knife. You clean. You throw away.”

  His arrogant refusal roused her own anger. She opened her mouth to chastise him … then closed it.

  Damn him, anyway. He’s right. Papa would say the same thing and not so politely.

  She retrieved the knife that had killed Ven’Martin. Washed it clean in the yard tub. Dried it on her shirt then laid it neatly on the dead man’s breast.

  Here is the first and the last of my killing. Whatever I am, whatever I may be, I will not be Queen Rhian with a blade.

  “Are you all right?” said Alasdair, his voice tightly controlled, as they returned to their guest chamber. They were alone, though light shone beneath every door they passed.

  She nodded. “I’m fine.”

  He ushered her into their room and closed the door behind them. “Rhian—”

  “Alasdair, please,” she said, her back to the window. “I needed to talk to him. Zandakar understands.”

  “And I don’t?”

  All the warm pleasure between them was drowned in blood. The soft kisses, the tender touchings, cut to pieces in the silver moonlight. “I know you want to.”

  “But you’re saying I can’t.”

  In his eyes she could see his heart breaking. Could he see hers, broken already? “Alasdair … you’ve never killed. How can you possibly know what I’m feeling?”

  “I’d know if you’d tell me! But you’d rather tell him !”

  “Do you know what I’d rather ?” she shouted, her brittle self-control shattering. “I’d rather Ven’Martin wasn’t dead. But he is dead, Alasdair. He’s dead because I killed him . And nothing can undo that. No words can bring him back. So can we go to bed, please? One way or another it’s been a busy evening and, as you say, I really need some rest.”

  “My God, Rhian,” Alasdair whispered. “You’re a stranger. I don’t know you any more.”

  He opened the door, then shut it quietly behind him. The latch’s soft catching was more terrible than the loudest bang.

  She closed her eyes against a fresh welling of tears.

  That’s all right, Alasdair. I don’t know me either.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Helfred found the letter from Marlan in the pocket of Ven’Martin’s unlikely old coat.

  After stripping the corpse and washing it free of blood and the voided wastes of violent death, he methodically inspected the discarded bloodstained clothing to see if he might find an explanation for this horrible event.

  There had to be one. His uncle would never send a man of God to do murder. Ven’Martin had acted of his own wicked volition. Or perhaps he’d lost his mind. Or been a dupe. Yes. Someone else, Damwin or Kyrin most likely, had convinced Ven’Martin to attempt this heinous act. But it wasn’t his uncle. It couldn’t be.

  And then his fumbling fingers touched the folded parchment.

  Venerable Martin, my beloved servant in God , read the note. It was his uncle’s exquisite handwriting. The hope of trickery was dashed. I pray this finds you strong in faith and unblunted in purpose. Know that I trust you above all men. Indeed, you are as my own right hand, indispensable to the wellbeing of my body. Ven’Martin, Rhian’s evil overwhelms God’s light. Her corruption corrupts us. The Church of Rollin is in the shadows and, fought to a standstill, I am on my knees. Only you can save my soul. Only you can save God’s Church and our sweet Ethrea from the scourge of this self-proclaimed queen. Rollin admonishes: it is sin to take a life. But I tell you as God’s prolate: he who takes life in his service is blessed. Ven’Martin, I beg you. Save God’s Church from this wicked woman. Save Ethrea. Save me.

  After some span of time, some uncounted passing minutes, Helfred refolded the letter and pushed it into the pocket of his chaplain’s robe. Surrounding him in the chilly cellar, wrapped hams and cheeses and other perishable things.

  If I touched them now they’d turn to stone.

  Was he a fool, to feel so utterly betrayed? Ever since the clerica he’d known his uncle was … flawed. Why then was he bludgeoned with grief to learn how deeply those flaws had scarred him?

  Because ambition is one thing. It can be tempered. Channelled correctly it can even work for good. But a man of God who’d suborn murder to serve his own ends …

  Odd, but if Marlan had attempted Rhian’s life himself he doubted the pain would burn so fierce.

  It’s the corruption of Ven’Martin that makes me want to weep. The twisting of his faith and the curdling of his soul.

  He pressed cold lips to Ven’Martin’s colder brow. “God forgive you, brother,” he murmured. “You were sorely led astray.”

  He’d never dressed a corpse in a winding-sheet before. That was the work of Ethrea’s devouts. Chaplains came after, to bless and sanctify the body with the right words and incense. He didn’t even have a proper winding-sheet to hand, only clean bedlinens from the inn’s housekeeper. Plain cotton, wearing thin here and there.

  A small sin, not to give the best sheets to the dead.

  It wa
s a clumsy business, tearing them into long strips and binding Ven’Martin’s lax, soul-fled body. The knife-slit in his belly was so obscure. An inch wide, no wider. One little incision and his life had leaked away.

  Why did I think this death would have a greater fanfare?

  It felt like a mercy to cover Ven’Martin’s face with clean cotton. Faceless assassins were less frightening. Less … real.

  Is not God omnipotent? Is he not a force against evil? How then did evil come to touch us so close? How have two sworn men of God smirched their souls so completely and brought such disrepute down on his Church? Is God powerless to prevent such infamy? If he is, what does that mean? Have I devoted my life to a phantom? An empty shell?

  Aching with misery, steeped in despair and harsh questions without answers, Helfred knelt on the chilly flagstoned cellar floor and tried to console himself with prayer. His muscles stiffened. His fingers numbed. The tip of his nose felt like a chip of ice. But prayer had deserted him. All he had left was bitter disappointment.

  When men of God turn to evil what hope is there for the world?

  Then a warm breeze stirred the hanging hams and cheeses. A faint voice whispered … Helfred. Don’t lose heart .

  He was so startled he fell over.

  “Who said that?” he demanded, flailing like an infant, or a turtle on its back. “Who’s there?”

  Helfred, have courage. Follow your convictions and keep the faith.

  His fingers found the edge of the trestle table set up for Ven’Martin. He pulled himself to his feet and stared round the cavernous cellar. “Who is that? Is it—are you— Hettie ?”

  Helfred, you mustn’t abandon this cause. If good men turn from a righteous fight how then can good hope to triumph?

  “Hettie or not, I demand you show yourself! Immediately!”

  You’ve a purpose, Helfred. You’ve great work to do. A great sacrifice to make so God might not be defeated.

  The voice was much fainter now. He could hardly hear it. “What do you mean, a great sacrifice?” He spun around, trying to see every corner of the cellar at once. “And who could possibly defeat God? God is God, there is no greater power—is there? Is there?”