by Karen Miller
“Are you deranged ?” said Marlan, his hand raised for a second blow.
God, I asked for wisdom … “She is Eberg’s heir, Prolate.” Rollin’s love, his face hurt . “Released from her wardship and married legitimately, by me. I was not pronounced anathema then so you have no grounds to deny her estate. You cannot supplant her, Marlan. She is beyond your—”
With a wordless snarl Marlan lunged towards him, a killing rage in his face. Helfred leapt back, one arm raised in fruitless self-defence.
“Ven’Martin’s dead, Uncle!” he cried. “Your plot to murder Rhian has failed!”
Marlan halted. “Dead?” The furious colour drained from his cheeks. “What do you mean? How is he dead?”
God give me courage … “Her Majesty killed him as he tried to kill her … on your orders.”
“She killed him?” For a moment it seemed as though Marlan might stagger, might lose his balance and have to seek support. Then he rallied, his spine stiffening. “I gave no such orders,” he said, turning away. “Helfred, you cannot save yourself with wild accusations. You—”
“I’ve read the letter, Uncle,” he said, his voice perilously close to breaking. He never once saw the face of God. All he saw was his own ambition . “I have it in a safe place. If you refuse Rhian’s offer to stand down as prolate I will be forced to make it public. I do not want to do that. I give you my word it will never see the light of day, provided you do as Rhian desires. You can retire to the family estate. I’ll come with you. We can pray together for as long as you require. Months. Years. I don’t care. You’ve lost your way but I can help you find the light again. The light of God’s love and his merciful grace. All you must do is accept the truth: Rhian is your queen, the rightful queen of Ethrea.”
“She is no queen of mine!” spat his uncle and turned. “Sergeant! To me!”
The library’s closed door flew open and a Kingseat garrison sergeant came in, flanked by four soldiers. Their swords were unsheathed, the blades bright and sharp.
Caught between them, Helfred backed up to the nearest bookcase. “Please, Uncle, don’t—”
“I am Your Eminence to you, cur!” Marlan snarled. “Sergeant!”
Helfred swallowed a moan. Duke Edward was right. I was salt-brained to come here . “Your Eminence, in Rollin’s name, consider what you do next! Rhian is the lawful queen, all Ethrea knows it! And she is surrounded by signs and miracles. She—”
“Signs and miracles?” Marlan grabbed him, fingers clutching worn fabric, dragging his disowned nephew close. “I say these are sorceries . I say the bitch dabbles in foul unclean heresies. She is a polluted drab, Helfred. And you are polluted by your own mouth, supporting her. You are rotten refuse in the muck!”
God, God, give me strength … “There are no sorceries in Rhian’s court. For you to claim so, Eminence, and deny innocent Ethreans the comfort of God because they would acknowledge the kingdom’s true queen, that is a grievous sin. Do not stain your soul so. Recant this untruth. Would you imperil yourself further in the name of thwarted ambition?”
“You lecture me?” said his uncle, choked with disbelief. “You pustuled pimpled vomitous excrescence, you dare?”
“I must, Marlan! I’ve come here to save you, to stop you from—”
With a shout of rage his uncle hurled him to the floor and began beating him about the face and head, open slaps and fisted blows. The cut on his face opened wider, spewing fresh blood.
“Prolate, have a care!” shouted the sergeant. “Dead men are a poor source of information.”
Close to mewling with fury Marlan staggered back. Half sprawled across his desk, his habitual urbanity abandoned, he breathed like a winded bull as he struggled to regain control.
Helfred, his body bright with pain, sat up slowly and lowered his sheltering arms. God. Dear God. I thought you wanted me to come here. I thought you would help me help him see the light …
Marlan straightened. Now his face was chalk-white. The tic beside his eye spasmed out of control. His eyes, so sunken, blazed with unholy zeal.
“I know the bitch is in Old Scooton, Helfred. When does she plan to ride into Kingseat?”
He made himself meet Marlan’s frightening glare. God, God. Have you abandoned me ? “That is the queen’s business.”
Marlan growled. “There is no queen in Ethrea.”
Shakily, Helfred pushed to his feet. “There is. And you will meet her. But you don’t need me to tell you when Rhian will come. The people will tell you. Their cheers will bring this palace roof down upon your head.”
“Really?” said Marlan. His smile was unnerving.
He couldn’t help himself, then. He is venal and hateful, but how can I call myself a chaplain and not try to save him? “It’s not too late, Marlan. End this. I will help you.”
“It’s already ended, you fool,” said Marlan, and laughed. “Damwin and Kyrin’s soldiers stand ten deep on the borders. If your precious Rhian should change her mind and try to turn back, she’ll find herself cut off from the north and the treacherous duchies who’ve unwisely taken her side. She can only run forward now … into my embrace.”
Memory assaulted him. Rhian on her knees in the clerica at Todding, her blue dress turning red with blood. His uncle’s face, eyes gluttonous for her pain.
I have failed her. I have failed.
He turned, despairing. “Sergeant … uphold the law!”
“I am,” the man said. “Prolate Marlan was appointed the kingdom’s caretaker by the King’s Council. The King’s Council has not reversed that decision.”
“There is no King’s Council! He’s thrown half of it in prison!”
“I threw traitors in prison, Helfred,” Marlan said. “It’s where traitors belong. Take him to the castle cells, Sergeant. Cast him with Linfoi and those other damned men. Let them tell him how he will be pulled apart and every sinew examined for evidence of his crimes. Let him wait in trepidation for my judgement to fall.”
“Prolate,” said the sergeant.
Two of the soldiers took Helfred by the arms. Almost weeping he tried to step forward but they restrained him. “Marlan, don’t do this. In the name of all holy things, in the presence of the Living Flame, Rhian trucks with no sorcery. She is God’s chosen queen. Turn your feet from this path of destruction that you tread. Open your heart to the message God sends you. It is not too late to admit you are wrong .”
Marlan smiled. “Get him out of here, sergeant. Before I forget I am a peaceful man of God.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The kingseat soldiers dragged Helfred from the palace like a cat-killed rat. Heedless of his protests they tossed him into an enclosed wagon and drove him to the castle. As they hustled him inside through the imposing front doors he tried to tell them about Ven’Martin’s abandoned body.
One of the soldiers cuffed him on the side of the head. “Shut your yap.”
The casual violence was frightening. Before Eberg’s death no soldier in Ethrea would have dreamed of striking a chaplain. They’d have thrown into prison any man who dared.
And now here they are throwing me into prison. The world is turned topsy-turvy. Dear God, put it to rights.
The castle echoed with an absence of people. The soldiers marched him through empty corridors, down empty staircases, past empty rooms. When he demanded to know what had happened to the royal staff he was cuffed so hard he saw a rainbow of lights. He didn’t try to speak again.
The castle cells, disused for so many years, had been dug centuries before below the castle’s ground level. No windows. No fresh air. Just darkness and despair.
His surly escort shoved him into a small cell lit by two smoking lamps hung high on hooks. It was already occupied. Two scarecrow men huddled each in a corner. A third lay on his side, his back to the world.
As the key turned in the door’s lock behind him, such a dreadful, final sound, Helfred pressed his sleeve to his nose and mouth. The cell’s floor was patchily cover
ed in ancient, slimy straw. The stench was unspeakable.
“I know you,” said one of the scarecrows. “You’re Marlan’s kin. Princess Rhian’s personal chaplain. Helfred.” His voice was a think croak, rusty with disuse … or screaming.
Helfred winced.
Do not think of screaming. Rhian is coming, she will get you out of here. Or Zandakar will, if she gives him the order. I’d like to see those guards slapping Zandakar on the head.
He peered at the speaker through the miserly gloom. He knew that voice … thought he knew that voice. “Lord— Volant, is it? The Duke of Arbat’s man?”
The lord, gaunt and unshaven, nodded. “Volant. Yes.”
Appalled, Helfred stared at him, afraid to take another step. Afraid of what he’d set foot in, this place was so grossly rank. Eberg’s councillor looked terrible. His fine clothes, the satins and velvets of his rank, were stained and stinking. Rotting in places. His filthy hands were scabbed. Dried blood matted his beard and hair.
“Oh, my lord,” he said. “It offends me mightily to see you brought so low. But you must take heart. All of you, take heart. Her Majesty is coming and as God is my witness, she will see you safely out of this place.”
With a pained exhalation, Volant sat a little straighter. “Man, you’re raving. Harley, d’you hear this? Marlan’s sent us a madman to take the food from our mouths.”
The man in the other corner stirred and looked up. Helfred nearly cried aloud, recognising him. Bluff and boisterous Lord Harley, stubbled and manhandled and sunk to extremity.
“My brother will hear of this,” said Harley, the palest echo of his loud, rude self. “When Edward’s told how I’m mistreated there will be rough words.” A sob escaped him, and he covered his face with broken fingers. “Edward will send for me. You’d best be gone, knave.”
Volant’s gaze was contemptuously pitying. “You must excuse my lord Harley. He’s not quite himself.”
Perilously close to weeping, Helfred looked at the cell’s third occupant. It must be Henrik Linfoi, the king’s uncle. He was so still. Shadows covered him, and a threadbare blanket. Was the man living or dead?
If he’s dead, God have mercy on the marriage . Helfred moved gingerly to him, and dropped to a crouch. “My Lord Henrik? I have word for you from the king.”
Henrik Linfoi’s eyes opened. “Eberg?” His voice was a mumble, the word slushing through split, swollen lips.
“No. Eberg is dead, my lord. Don’t you remember? Your nephew Alasdair is king now. He’s married to Queen Rhian.”
“You won’t get sense from him,” said Volant, with another wheezing laugh. “Lift that lice-infested rag they call a blanket and see what your precious uncle does to innocent men.”
Helfred looked. His belly rolled, protesting. When the king sees this he will lose all reason .
“You’re not lying, are you, or brain-fevered?” said Volant. “Eberg’s stubborn brat is queen? She’s made the Linfoi cub her king? Marlan said it but who’d believe that bastard? He’d say anything to put himself in power.”
Helfred frowned and dropped the bloodstained blanket over Henrik Linfoi’s maltreated body. “I’m a man of God, my lord. I do not lie.”
“Ha. Your uncle calls himself a man of God. Here is his handiwork.” Volant sneered. “Scriptural, is it?”
With a cracking of his joints, Helfred pushed to his feet. “I have no words for what this is, My Lord.”
“So. Rhian is queen,” said Volant, brooding. “And my duke supports her?”
“Yours and Lord Harley’s. And of course Lord Henrik’s son, Ludo. He’s been made Duke of Linfoi.”
“While Damwin and Kyrin have sided with Marlan. I wish to God Rudi had done the same.”
“You should not say so, my lord. The dukes of Meercheq and Hartshorn are in grave error.” And they’re poised with their soldiers at duchy Kingseat’s back. At Rhian’s back. If Marlan should tell them to cross over their borders … if he should order them to raise arms against her …
“Hold on to the contents of your stomach, Chaplain,” said Volant. “If you hadn’t noticed, it stinks enough in here.”
“Indeed,” said Helfred. “You should speak to the staff.”
Lord Volant stared at him, then broke once more into that harsh, wheezing laughter. Then he started coughing. “A man of wit! Well, that won’t last long.” He waved a hand. “Might as well make yourself comfortable, Chaplain. Barring a miracle, I doubt you’ll see the sun again.”
Mouth pursed, skin crawling, Helfred picked his way across the unspeakable floor and lowered himself, wincing, to the wall opposite Lord Harley. The councillor from duchy Morvell muttered something incomprehensible; it seemed almost certain his mind was overturned.
Poor soul. Perhaps when he gets here Dexterity can heal him.
The cell was chilly, and there was no fourth blanket. He hunched himself inside his robe and let his chin sink onto his chest. His cut, beaten face was hurting abominably.
“We must not lose hope, my lords,” he said, as though they’d asked his opinion. “When Queen Rhian comes to Kingseat she will put all to rights. We will be released from this dreadful place and you’ll receive restitution for your sufferings.”
“Who do you think to convince, Chaplain? Us or yourself?” said Volant. Then he grimaced. “Well, if she is coming it had better be soon or she’ll come too late for Linfoi and Harley. Maybe too late for me. I’ve an ague in my chest. I’m coughing up blood.” He hawked and spat into his hand, then showed the red-tinged sputum as though to prove the point.
God give me strength. I shall leave this place diseased …
“My lord, with God all things are possible,” said Helfred. “You have not seen what I’ve seen, you have not been blessed with the sight of wonders performed in Rhian’s name.”
By a lowly toymaker, but I shan’t be mentioning that.
A fervid light shone in Volant’s muck-encrusted eyes. “You believe it, Chaplain? That Eberg’s brat is the true queen of Ethrea? That she’ll put right what’s gone wrong?” His voice cracked. “That she has the support of God himself?”
Helfred let himself smile even though it hurt his face. “My lord, would I be here if I did not?”
Marlan stood in the palace stableyard, staring at Ven’Martin’s cold unwrapped body. He’d dismissed the boy guarding the cart and no other servant was so rash as to approach. This was a private moment. He was privately enraged.
You let me down, Martin. You let the bitch kill you.
The slit in Martin’s belly was small. Innocuous. A single knife-thrust. Clean. Restrained. No other signs of struggle. No bruises. Just one wound. There must be a great deal of damage within.
And Rhian inflicted it. Eberg’s brat, adept with a knife? I did not expect it. I am … displeased.
His fingers clenched and unclenched. He longed for someone to strike.
So, Rhian. It is war between us. I was prepared to be magnanimous. I was prepared to let you live. But you have pricked me. You have drawn blood. So you shall have blood, girl. Blood until it chokes you. Blood until you drown.
He looked at nearby Idson and beckoned him closer with a raised eyebrow. Idson came. So well trained.
“Your men stand ready?”
“Prolate, they do.”
“The runners on the road between here and Old Scooton. They stand ready?”
“Prolate, we will know when she makes her move towards us.”
He turned his back on failed Ven’Martin. “She will avoid facing me for as long as she can. Instead she’ll lead her misguided followers down into the city in the hopes of whipping up further support.”
Idson scowled. “She’ll not get that far. We’ll cut off her access before she even—”
“No,” said Marlan. “Let her come. I will be waiting for her with the Court Ecclesiastica. Her defiance has been public, Idson. Let her defeat be public also.” He smiled. “Keep your men well out of sight. Once she and her rabble have
set foot on Kingsway, close the army of Kingseat behind her. She’ll not escape my judgement twice.”
“Yes, Your Eminence,” said Idson. “And if she should offer any resistance?”
That would be too much to hope for … “What do you think, Commander?”
Idson was pale, but he seemed resolute. “Princess Rhian is in defiance of the King’s Council. She has not been crowned, she cannot call herself queen. If she offers my men violence they will draw their swords.”
Marlan nodded. “Precisely. Without hesitation or regret. One last thing, Commander. The ambassadors’ residences?”
“Secured, Eminence,” said Idson. “I have men at their gates and in the streets of the ambassadorial district. Every ambassador is reported in his home. Not one will set foot past his door until your permission is given.”
“Well done, Idson. You may go.”
Alone with Ven’Martin, that bitter disappointment, Marlan considered his final move, his containment of the trading nations’ ambassadors.
They would protest, vehemently. There would be angry words. Lofty letters. Threats of hot air. It would all come to nothing. They needed Ethrea to live.
They think they have power here. Tzhung-tzhungchai thinks it has power. Tzhung-tzhungchai is mistaken, as are they all. Rhian is mistaken. I am the power in the kingdom of Ethrea. The sooner they accept that, the happier they’ll be.
Marlan swept from the stableyard, leaving Ven’Martin to rot.
Slowly, carefully, Rhian smoothed the creases from the note she and her council had just received, telling them of the soldiers massed along the duchy Kingseat borders with Hartshorn and Meercheq. More soldiers were stationed at the river-stations, halting every barge. All travellers attempting to cross out of Kingseat were being turned away. Travellers trying to get from Hartshorn and Meercheq into Kingseat were turned away too, after being told they could blame Rhian and her stubborn rebels. Families sundered … businesses put at risk …
She wondered if the men watching her could hear her heart beating. Beyond the chamber’s windows, dusk was fading fast. It was almost time for dinner. Her last council meeting before Kingseat capital would need to conclude soon.