The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

Adric . “Our new duke of Kingseat makes me nervous, Rhian. He lacks…polish.”

  She shrugged. “I know. I've been thinking the same thing.” Her eyes lit with sudden mischief. “In fact, I've been thinking he'd benefit greatly from a mentor. A personage with gentility and self-control, who well understands how to be a man of power without forever shouting about it to everyone within earshot. Can you suggest a candidate?”

  As ever, he was warmed and softened by her compliment. “If I can think of one I'll be sure to steer them together.” He kissed her again, on the lips this time, with enough passion to reassure her – and himself – that disaster hadn't claimed them yet.

  Rhian returned his kiss eagerly. “I think we must make sure of an early supper,” she whispered against him. “After all, Edward and Rudi are senior in their years. Late nights can hardly be good for them.”

  “I agree,” he said, grinning, then withdrew before she could think to ask him what business he had and where he would go next.

  As he stepped into the corridor beyond the antechamber he saw Ven'Cedwin approaching, prayer beads swinging from his belt and a well-fed look upon his plump face. The venerable stopped and bowed. “Your Majesty.”

  “The queen awaits you, Ven'Cedwin. Make sure to draft these letters in your most elegant hand,” he said. “The dukes must not find fault in the manner of their chiding.”

  Ven'Cedwin's lips quirked in a discreet smile. “Indeed they must not, Your Majesty. I take your excellent advice to heart.”

  Leaving the venerable and Rhian to their exacting duty, Alasdair headed to the east wing and Zandakar, his gilded prisoner.

  The skein of guards lined the corridor end to end, as Rhian had promised. Each man's hand held a pikestaff, each man's side was graced with a sword. The senior officer, his name was…was Rigert, bowed when he reached them.

  “Your Majesty.”

  He nodded at the closed chamber door. “Zandakar's within?”

  “Majesty, he is.”

  “And you know his life is forfeit should he behave untoward?”

  Rigert's eyes flickered. “Her Majesty has not said so.”

  “You may take it I speak for the queen in this, Sergeant. Should Zandakar give you any cause to doubt him, stab first and question after. He's not a man to be taken lightly, is that clear?”

  “Majesty,” said Rigert. “I know enough of him to know he's a feisty one, right enough. My half-brother Ansard's in the pay of Duke Edward. Ansard was one picked by this Zandakar to help guard the queen on the road from Linfoi. You can trust I'll not blink if it comes to putting him down.”

  Alasdair clapped the man's shoulder. “Trust I'll hold you to that, Rigert.” And make you sorry if you fail . But that thought he kept to himself. It was the kind of blustering thing Adric would say.

  Zandakar was indeed within the east wing chamber. His hair seemed new-washed, inhumanly blue and bright in the sunlight filtering through the castle's mullioned windows. His ill-fitting attire – linen shirt, leather leggings – was clearly borrowed. He was barefoot. Doubtless Rhian had already ordered the castle tailor and bootmaker to appropriately clothe him. Standing with his back to the wall he watched warily as the chamber door was closed.

  “Alasdair king,” he said. “You want?”

  “Yes, Zandakar, I want,” he said curtly. “Rhian has told me she's released you from prison that you might help her chastise the dukes. You're willing to do this?”

  Zandakar nodded. “ Zho .”

  “Why?”

  “Rhian will fight dukes. Rhian must train or she dies.”

  “But that's what you want, isn't it?” he demanded. “Rhian's death? My death? The death of every Ethrean in this kingdom? Isn't that why you've come here? To make us trust you, to reveal to you our soft bellies? So you can send word to your warriors of Mijak and—”

  “ Wei !” said Zandakar, his face twisting. “You fool king. You think this? Ask Dexterity, he knows, he—”

  “I don't need conversation with a toymaker,” he snapped. “A man who put you , a stranger, before his loyalty to the queen.”

  With a hard-breathing effort, Zandakar relaxed. “ Wei want Rhian dead. Wei want Mijak take Ethrea. I fight for Rhian, for Ethrea.” He held up his left arm. Beneath the loose long sleeve was the bulk of a bandage. “I blood oath this truth.”

  More than anything in the world Alasdair wanted to see a lie in Zandakar's intimidating blue eyes. Wanted to hear a lie in his voice, read a lie in his body. But he couldn't. For reasons he couldn't bring himself to examine too closely – she's my wife, my wife, you had your own, leave mine to me – Zandakar had turned his back on his own people and instead thrown in his lot with Ethrea and the perilled world.

  “Can you promise you'll keep her alive? When she fights Damwin and Kyrin, you can be certain she'll emerge victorious?”

  Fear…regret…frustration: they burned together in Zandakar's pale eyes. “ Wei .”

  “You say no. Yet you must understand that if you fail her I'll carve your heart from your chest myself.”

  Zandakar smiled. “ Wei , Alasdair king. I fail Rhian, I carve heart out first.”

  He believed it. God help him, he believed this unwanted man. Some of the taut fear in his belly eased. Breathing more freely, he nodded. “All right.”

  “Alasdair king, she must have good blade.”

  He nodded. “Yes. I know. It's why I'm here, Zandakar. I've come to take you to the armoury, so you can choose the right sword for her. One she can dance with in her hotas and slice through Damwin and Kyrin's treacherous throats.”

  “ Zho ,” said Zandakar, his eyes fierce with satisfaction. “ Zho .”

  “Zandakar…” Alasdair stared at the man. It sickened him to be discussing Rhian in such a fashion, but this warrior of Mijak might be the only thing standing between her and death. “She can't hesitate when she's fighting them. If she hesitates she's lost, and we'll all be lost with her. She's not like you, the thought of killing doesn't delight. She's not been steeped in blood from the moment of her birth. But if she's not prepared to gut Damwin and Kyrin like the cur dogs they are – if her heart isn't hardened to the task…”

  Worse than discussing her was the sympathy in Zandakar's eyes. “ Zho , Alasdair king. Rhian be killing hard or Rhian be dead. She wei dead.” His clenched fist struck his chest. “My oath.”

  “You don't have much time to school her to it,” he said. “And even though she knows full well what's at stake, she'll fight you every step of the way. The thought of killing again appals her – can you begin to understand that?”

  Zandakar nodded. “ Zho ,” he said, then shrugged. “ Wei matter. I train, she learn, she be hard. Rhian hate me, wei matter. She live.”

  Alasdair felt a flood of relief, and was ashamed. Zandakar would push Rhian, Zandakar would bully and berate and cuff her on the side of her head until she was ready to meet and defeat the dukes. He need never say another word on it. Zandakar would say it all.

  He will earn her wrath and our marriage will be safe.

  It occurred to him, then, so his hot blood turned cold, that he wasn't doubting Zandakar's intentions. Wasn't doubting the man would do everything in his power to keep Rhian alive and victorious. He was trusting her life to Zandakar's bloodsoaked hands…without a moment's hesitation.

  Because he loves her. This murderous man is in love with my wife. I wonder what it says about me, that I'll use his love like a weapon to shield her. That I'll use him until he's all used up.

  It didn't matter. All that mattered was that Rhian prevailed.

  “Come then, Zandakar,” he said, and moved to the chamber door. “Let us find Rhian a sword worthy of her, so she might take her place in history.”

  Rhian took the completed ducal letters to Helfred herself. Ven'Cedwin had protested, saying it wasn't seemly for Her Majesty to stoop to such errand-running when he was here, but she put paid to his lecture with a smiling dismissal. Helfred still managed to drive her to dist
raction but he was Ethrea's prolate and her spiritual guide. No matter the irritation, she needed to speak with him.

  He'd kept the same office in the prolate's palace his uncle Marlan had occupied. A statement, perhaps, that while the man might change the position was unchanging.

  “Majesty!” he said, surprised, standing behind his desk as she was ushered into the warmly wood-panelled chamber. “Was I expecting you?”

  “No, Your Eminence.”

  He nodded at his venerable assistant and waited for the door to close, leaving them alone. “Is something wrong, Rhian?”

  She laid the letters on his desk and sat in the austere wooden guest chair. “Read those, Helfred, then you can tell me.”

  Eyebrows lifted, he sat again and pulled the carefully scribed parchments towards him. When he'd read them both he looked up. “Judicial combat. Is this wise?”

  She shrugged. “Probably not. But they leave me no choice, Helfred. Or can you think of some other way to persuade them to recant their defiance? If so, I'll happily hear it.”

  “I wish I could,” he murmured, and tapped a finger to the letters. “Alas, these dukes are proving most recalcitrant. I fear even the threat of interdict won't change them.”

  “Then I have no other recourse, do I?” She shifted in her chair, resentful. “And the law provides me with this weapon against them.”

  Helfred leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. The light from the window showed her that newfound steel in his eyes. “True.”

  “But you don't approve, do you?” she said. “What, do you think that in challenging them, that if I raise my sword with the intent of taking life, I'm made a murderer if they fall?” She felt her skin shrink and crawl. Remembered Ven'Martin and his blood on her hands. “Is that what you think?”

  “I did not say so, Rhian.”

  “But I think you're thinking it,” she persisted. “After all, don't you call Zandakar a murderer for slaying those footpads in Arbat?”

  Frowning, Helfred released a soft, slow sigh. “I think perhaps I was less…comprehending…then. Life is rarely so simple, Rhian, as each day in this palace teaches me. God knows you've resisted violence at every turn. No-one could accuse you of rushing to justice with a sword. I certainly don't, if my opinion carries any weight.”

  It did, though she'd walk on burning coals before admitting it. “You can be sure someone will accuse me, if I kill Damwin and Kyrin.”

  “Given the state of our perilous world, Rhian, you'll more likely be criticised if you don't use force against the dukes,” said Helfred. “The nations who trade with us don't see the sword as a sin. Majesty, Ethrea sits in the centre of a maelstrom, on the brink of the greatest storm the civilised world has ever known and God himself has told us you must fight the threatening darkness. Until this domestic crisis is resolved you cannot do what God decrees.” Helfred's unsteepled fingers found his prayer beads. They clicked loudly in the quiet. “What happens with the dukes is for the dukes to decide. They will recognise your authority or they will pay the price.”

  She felt her belly churn queasily. Imagined Damwin and Kyrin dead, like Ven'Martin. “And so will I, Helfred. Don't forget that. So will I.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “That's the price you pay, for pursuing a crown.”

  “Helfred, I never pursued the crown!” she snapped, and pushed to her feet. “At least – yes, I did, but not for personal glory, if that's what you imply!”

  “Glory? No,” Helfred agreed. “But there was pride, Rhian. In being Eberg's daughter. In being of royal blood. In the House of Harvell.”

  Her pride, again. She could feel her cheeks burning. This wasn't her chamber to pace at will, but she paced anyway. “Perhaps,” she admitted. “To start with. But not now. Now this is about keeping Ethrea safe. A kingdom divided can't stand against Mijak, but Damwin and Kyrin won't hear that. They refuse to believe we're in danger. All they can think of is themselves. They're the ones consumed by dreams of glory, Helfred, not me. All I'm consumed with is the desire to survive! I don't want to challenge them. I don't want to kill them. But if I have to, I will. For Ethrea, I will.”

  “I know,” said Helfred quietly. “Pride isn't always a bad thing, Rhian. Sometimes it's all that keeps us going in the face of fearful odds and dread terror.”

  Surprised, she halted by the guest chair and gripped its carved wooden back. She hadn't expected him to understand that. “Yes. Sometimes.” She let out a shaky breath. “Helfred, take your time travelling to the dukes. Don't be sluggardly but…don't hurry, either. I need some little breathing space, so Zandakar can school me in meeting and defeating these men with their longswords.”

  He nodded. “As you wish, Your Majesty. And as I travel I'll say a goodly prayer, that Zandakar's schooling achieves its end.” Steel flashed in his eyes again. “These dukes have been disobedient long enough.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Wei!” Zandakar shouted. “Rhian hushla , you wish to die?”

  Sweat-soaked and panting in the mid-afternoon sun, stippled with blood on her cheek and throat and on her arms where Zandakar's longsword had nicked her flesh to make a point, Rhian held up a hand, halting their hotas .

  Zandakar glowered at her, barely out of breath. She glowered back, gasping for air.

  I hate him. How I hate him. He'd never held a longsword until the day before yesterday and yet he wields it like he burst from his mother's womb brandishing the thing.

  “What?” she demanded. Her right arm ached ferociously; the shortsword he and Alasdair had chosen for her from the armoury – and why was I not included in that decision? – had more than twice the length of the dagger she was used to and felt horribly unwieldy. I'll never be able to fight with this. God, I've signed my own death warrant . “What did I do wrong this time?”

  They were sparring in the castle's tiltyard, next to the stables, where once her brothers and her father had crossed swords in training, never thinking a sword would be needed for war. She'd sparred here too, but only with a light foil. Well-bred young ladies had no need for hammered steel.

  Or so they thought. My, how times change.

  Zandakar reached out and slapped her left flank with the flat of his blade. Even through huntsman's leathers the blow hurt. She bit her lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a wince.

  “Rhian put weight wrong, put weight forward,” he said. “Weight on back foot, hushla . So you dance hota like this .” With effortless grace he leapt straight up in the air and flipped his tall body over and backwards. Even as his right foot touched the ground his left leg caught her hard behind the knees so she fell flat-backed to the ground. Before the air had escaped her lungs in a wheezing groan his sword-tip was pressed into the base of her throat. “ Zho ?”

  “Zho,” she said, glaring, and looked sideways to where Adric and a handful of courtiers and the soldiers who guarded Zandakar were dangled over the tiltyard fence. It was politic to let them linger, watching her, watching Zandakar, but she still didn't like it.

  Zandakar stepped back, withdrawing his sword, and she flipped to her feet. Every muscle in her body was screaming.

  “Rhian put weight forward, invite dukes to kill her,” he said. His blue eyes burned with frustration.

  “I know that!” she snarled. “But this shortsword, the weight throws my balance off. I'm used to a dagger, you know I am. I've only just learned to dance the hotas with a knife, Zandakar, don't bully me because—”

  He slapped her face. “ Tcha ! Hatz'i'tuk ! Rhian wei —”

  Cheek burning she whirled, her shortsword extended, her body moving to block his.

  “Stand down, Sergeant!” she commanded. “ And your men.”

  Rigert halted three paces distant, his own sword out and death in his eyes. His two subordinates crowded behind him, just as keen to see Zandakar spitted.

  “Majesty, he assaulted you!”

  “No, he did not,” she said. “We're training. It's his way.” She glanced over
her shoulder. “I was in the wrong, and should've kept my mouth shut. Yatzhay , Zandakar.”

  Baffled, Rigert stared at her. “Majesty…Majesty, he should not be so close to you with a naked blade.”

  “No? Then how would you suggest he trains me, Sergeant? By writing me helpful notes and throwing them at my feet as I cross swords with the dukes?”

  Rigert didn't care for her sarcasm. Lips thinned, eyes resentful, he put back his shoulders. “His Majesty has charged me—”

  “I have charged you, Sergeant,” she snapped. How long, God, how long, before they see the crown first and my sex last ? “I've made it clear you'll not interfere without my express invitation. Must I find another sergeant who can follow my commands?”

  Slowly Rigert's sword-point dipped towards the ground. “No, Your Majesty.”

  She nodded. “Good. Then remove to your post, unless you're after a haircut…or worse.” She turned her back on him, letting him know she took obedience for granted, and met Zandakar's unblinking gaze. His anger had faded. Now he looked at her with grim amusement.

  “We dance now, zho ?”

  She nodded again. “ Zho . We dance.”

  This time she didn't fail. She kept her weight back, she flipped herself up and over with the shortsword balanced and even managed to touch its point to his heart. His teeth flashed, smiling, and when he cuffed her again it was with pleased approval.

  “Your Majesty! Your Majesty!”

  Running with fresh sweat, her muscles pleading for mercy, she turned. “Who hails me?”

  One of the castle message boys, his brown eyes astonished in his thin, freckled face. There were so many boys like him; they leapt about the place like fleas. Neat in castle livery, blue velvet banded with black, a flat-brimmed blue cap on his close-cropped head, he panted to a halt before her, flourished a bow and clasped his hands behind his back. His wide-eyed gaze kept darting past her to Zandakar.

  “Majesty,” he said in his young boy's piping voice, “and it pleases the king to say that word is come from the prolate. You would do the king great honour to meet with him and your council for to discuss these important matters of state.”