The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

  “And we have not?” demanded Istahas. “Harsh words, Majesty. Friends do not say things like that to each other.”

  “Friends tell the truth,” she said. “And the truth is we stand in grave peril. All of us.”

  “From this Mijak?” said An-chata, almost sneering.

  “Yes.” She folded her hands neatly in her lap. “As you know, my lords, every vessel's captain leaving Kingseat Harbour informs the harbourmaster when he anticipates his ship's return. My harbourmaster advises me no less than four vessels are late, according to their sailing documents. One belongs to Tzhung-tzhungchai. The others sail for Arbenia, Barbruish and Dev'karesh. All were bound for Icthia…and from Icthia they have failed to return.”

  The ambassadors of the nations she'd named stared at each other, then at her.

  “You weren't aware of this? How can that be? You all trade with Icthia, don't you know the whereabouts of each other's—”

  “They're aware, Majesty,” said Han, mildly amused. “But to admit it could be seen as spying. The nations you mention aren't all treatied together.”

  She glared at the ambassadors. “I don't care about your treaties and intrigues, gentlemen. I care only that you realise something is wrong . All these ships missing, and no new Icthian ambassador! What else can it mean but Mijak has reached the far eastern coast?”

  Lalaska shrugged. “Trading is a dangerous business. There are storms. Ships are blown off course. Sometimes they sink.” He glanced up at Han. “There are pirates.”

  “ Gentlemen ,” said Rhian, before another argument could erupt. “Of course the voyage between Ethrea and Icthia is dangerous. Every ocean voyage is dangerous. And in the past, yes, ships have been lost to storms. But this is not the storm season. Are you suggesting all these vessels are somehow blown off course in fair weather, or mysteriously sunk without trace or cause?”

  Voolksyn grunted. “It is said the witch-men of Tzhung-tzhungchai control the wind.”

  “And sank their own ship? To what end?”

  “Who knows the devious heart of Tzhung-tzhungchai?” said Gutten, glowering. “It cannot be trusted, it—”

  “ Stop it !” said Rhian, and banged her fist on the arm of her throne. At this rate she'd be bruised to the elbow. “We are gathered to talk of how we'll save ourselves from Mijak.” She swallowed. “And how you can help Ethrea save itself first. For you must know that if Ethrea falls to this ravenous invader, your great nations will be ruined.”

  Gutten glared down his nose. “Why should we believe your words? We do not see Mijak. We never hear of Mijak. We see you with Emperor Han. You look to lie with this man of Tzhung.”

  Alasdair stepped forward. “Mind your tongue, Arbenia. The council will not tolerate slurs against the queen.”

  “Heh,” said Gutten, sour with contempt. “He speaks? This man behind a woman? Is this a king?”

  Rhian felt her blood scorch. Felt Alasdair's rage as he stood beside her throne. I did this to him. He married me and that gives him to men like Gutten for baiting. I should've insisted he sat a throne beside me . But he'd refused, quoting herself back to him. And she'd let herself be persuaded because… admit it, admit it …in her heart she thought that was right. Her father never once diluted his authority. Never once shared it with his queen while she lived. And I'm my father's daughter .

  “For shame, Ambassador Gutten. You should know better,” said Helfred, before she could speak. “As for Mijak, the danger is real. God himself has said it.”

  “Your God,” said An-chata as Gutten choked on Helfred's reprimand. “You say we are subject to the God of Ethrea?”

  “No,” said Rhian. “This isn't about religion, it's about death and dying. It's about saving our lives and the lives of our people.” She shook her head. “My lords, this is not a new move in an old game. This is a new game, that we'll lose for certain if we're not careful. You demand proof that Mijak exists? I have proof.” She looked over at Ven'Cedwin. “Venerable?”

  Her council secretary put down his quill and went to the ballroom's doors and swung them open. A moment later Zandakar entered, escorted by Idson and six conspicuously armed soldiers. Han and the ambassadors stared as he came to a halt before the dais and punched his fist to his chest.

  “Rhian hushla .”

  Ignoring him, she looked instead to the foreigners on whom so much depended. “His name is Zandakar. He is a prince of Mijak.”

  Consternation from all but Han and his ambassador. Gutten and Voolksyn exchanged dark looks, and Voolksyn stepped forward. “Word has reached us of the blue-haired man in your midst, Majesty. Whispers say he is dangerous with a blade.”

  She nodded. “He is.”

  “A prince of Mijak, you say?” Voolkysn's fingers twitched, as though he longed for his own knife. “Then he is the enemy. The enemy sleeps in comfort beneath your roof, queen?”

  “He's not our enemy,” she said swiftly. “He's pledged to aid us against the warriors of Mijak.”

  “So he is a traitor,” said An-chata. “He betrays his own blood. You would trust a traitor, and ask us to trust you?”

  She couldn't help it. She looked at Alasdair. His eyes were on her, his expression grim. “You might call it treachery, An-chata, to see a wrong done and try to stop it,” she said coldly, and looked away from her husband. “I prefer to call it noble. Gentlemen, Zandakar was disowned by his people because he refused to kill any more men, women and children whose only crime was that they were not born Mijaki. He has sworn to help me turn back the tide of blood. He has sworn to die before letting Mijak swallow one more nation. He grieves he wasn't able to save Icthia.”

  “You have no proof Icthia is swallowed,” said Gutten. “This man with blue hair is not proof. This man is a man and can say what he likes.”

  Nervous Athnïj shook his head. “Majesty, I believe you. Icthia is not a silent nation. There is a reason I've heard nothing for so long. I think it must be this Mijak.”

  “You fool, Athnïj,” said Gutten. “To fall prey to—”

  “ Wei ,” said Zandakar, and turned his pale blue eyes to Gutten. “You stupid man, you say wei Mijak, wei Hekat, wei warriors. Rhian hushla kill three men, zho ? Zandakar kill three thousand .” He held up a finger. “One day.”

  As the ambassadors stared, Rhian stood again. “Zandakar speaks the truth. Tens of thousands are slaughtered already, gentlemen. Slaughtered or enslaved, their cities reduced to rubble. Unless you can put your differences behind you, unless you can accept that here is a time where pettiness has no place, where we must all make a leap of faith and trust each other, we shall fall too and before Mijak is done the oceans themselves shall be turned red.”

  “What do you say, then?” said Leelin of Haisun. “You say we go to war for Ethrea?”

  “For Ethrea and for yourselves, yes. By our charter you're pledged to protect us from harm. I say the trading nations must raise an armada and sail to defeat the warships of Mijak.”

  As the ambassadors shifted and muttered, she looked at Alasdair. He nodded. “Go on,” he said in an undertone. “It's too late to turn back now.”

  “Have faith,” murmured Helfred. “God is with us in this.”

  Heart pounding, she looked swiftly at the rest of her council. They smiled at her, even Adric. Warmed, she turned again to the ambassadors. “Gentlemen, there is more,” she said loudly, and silenced them. “I ask your leave to break our charter. Ethrea would raise an army so it can defend itself should war come.”

  “Impossible!” protested Halash of Dev'karesh. “My chief will not hear of that.”

  More agitated muttering as the others agreed. Rhian lifted her hands, palm out. “Please. Be reasonable. My people have the right to defend themselves.”

  “And we have the right to defend ourselves from Tzhung-tzhungchai!” said An-chata.

  “You are in danger from Mijak, not from the Tzhung,” said Han. “Or from a little army of Ethrea. Listen to the queen. Listen to this prisoner prince of M
ijak. Listen—”

  “To the wind?” sneered Gutten. “To the farting of Tzhung's demon god? No. Without Arbenia and Harbisland to hold you in check your empire would own the world, Han. That ambition is thwarted. Now you tell these lies so you can rule us all.” He swung round. “You are a girl. What do you know of men and their greed for power?”

  Rhian felt another wave of heat rush through her. “You can ask me that? When you know how Marlan pursued me, would have killed me? When you saw me kill Damwin and Kyrin because their greed for power overturned their minds? You can ask me that, Gutten ? My God, I'm almost tempted to let Mijak have you. Wouldn't that serve you right for being so short-sighted and stupid .”

  “Your Majesty—” said Helfred, sounding pained.

  She lifted a clenched fist to his face. “Be quiet, Your Eminence.”

  She leapt down from the dais, heedless of the pains such sharp movement woke in her still-recovering body, and stormed among the gaping ambassadors. Han and Lai melted into the shadows. Zandakar, startled, would have moved to protect her but his guards took hold of him and dragged him out of the way. She barely noticed.

  “Rollin's grace! How are you the best your masters can find? How am I, so newly come to power, the only one who sees clearly the danger we face? You prate to me of treaties and charters and you forget this: Mijak has made no treaty with us . Mijak seeks to destroy us. Its warriors are thralled to an evil beyond comprehension. The god they worship is a god of blood and death and they will not stop until we bow down before it. Instead of accusing Emperor Han you should be on your knees thanking him, because he has offered the might of Tzhung-tzhungchai against these demon-driven warriors of Mijak.”

  “The might of Tzhung-tzhungchai is used for one thing only!” Gutten shouted. “Conquest for its emperor!” He turned to his fellow-ambassadors, his eyes alive with hate and rage. “You see what this is? This is Han of Tzhung in league with Rhian of Ethrea, determined to swallow the world between them. There is no Mijak, there is no horde of warriors waiting to slaughter us. She lies !”

  “I do not !” Rhian shouted back, and shoved Gutten in the chest with both fists. “You fool, is Zandakar here by chance ? God sent him to me so I would know about Mijak and its bloodthirsty empress. God gave me miracles so I would be crowned Ethrea's queen and have the power to use Zandakar to save my kingdom from Mijak. To save all of us from Mijak. Tzhung isn't the enemy. Ethrea needs the Tzhung empire, it needs Arbenia and Harbisland and Keldrave and the rest of you. It will take all of us, Gutten, fighting together, to have any hope against Mijak. Do you want to die, Ambassador? Do you want the world to drown in blood?”

  Silence. Every man in the room stared at her. She stared back, dizzy with shouting, desperate for their belief.

  Athnïj of Icthia cleared his throat. “We heard there were miracles, or some such thing,” he said diffidently. “Of course we heard. There was talk of a common man…”

  “A toymaker,” she said, abruptly exhausted. “I've known him all my life. He raised a child from the dead. Marlan touched him, and died. God sent him dreams of Mijak so he could bear witness to the truth.”

  Even as Gutten turned away, his face twisted in ugly rejection, Voolksyn of Harbisland stroked his fingers down his beard. “Dreams, you say?”

  She nodded. The swordcut on her back was burning, and there was a slick wetness beneath the silk brocade of her dress. In her passion, in her anger, she'd torn open Ursa's stitches. But what did it matter? There'd be more blood where that came from if she failed to win this fight.

  “Dreams can be powerful,” said Voolksyn. “Dreams can come from the mother.”

  The people of Harbisland worshipped a goddess. They called her nanatynsala , mother spirit of the earth. Helfred said it was more heathenish nonsense, but right now she'd take any help she could find.

  “The toymaker's dreams are powerful beyond imagining,” she said. “And on Eberg's grave I swear, they show him the truth.”

  “Voolksyn?” said Gutten, incredulous. “You cannot listen to her. This is Han, this is Tzhung, our masters will not have it!”

  Voolksyn shook his head. “If she lies, the mother will break her. Queen, you say this toymaker dreams to bear witness?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Then let him bear witness. Let him speak, and we will judge.”

  Rhian swallowed. Oh, God. Dexterity… “Of course. Commander Idson—”

  Idson bowed. “Your Majesty?”

  “Fetch Mister Jones. Bring him here, quickly.”

  Another bow. “Yes, Your Majesty,” said Idson. And then he was gone.

  She nodded at Voolksyn, turned and walked back to the dais. Kept her head high and her spine straight, even as her heart pounded painfully in her chest.

  Dexterity…Dexterity. Please. Don't hold a grudge.

  Dexterity was pottering in the vegetable patch at the bottom of the cottage's back garden when Commander Idson came for him.

  “Mr. Jones?”

  He turned round so fast he overbalanced and fell over, squashing a very fine tomato plant. Dripping red pulp and seeds, heart thudding, he stared at Kingseat's garrison commander. “Yes? What? What have I done wrong now?”

  Commander Idson's breastplate was too bright to look at. The unclouded sun dazzled the polished steel, transforming him into a man of white fire. Marlan, burning, mouth wide in a scream …Dexterity closed his eyes and averted his face.

  “I'm not privy to that information, Mister Jones,” said Idson. “Her Majesty requires your presence at the castle.”

  He unscrewed his eyes and peered cautiously at Idson, then past him. Where were the other soldiers? They didn't usually send just one man for an arrest. Was this a trick, then? Or some cruel method of luring him into an uncautious utterance?

  Carefully he stood. “I'm not dressed for royalty.”

  Idson looked him up and down, taking in the compost-smothered gardening clogs, the baggy trousers, the shirt that had certainly seen better days. And, of course, the remains of squashed tomato.

  “Nevertheless, Mister Jones. Your presence is required.”

  A tiny bubble of resentment rose to his throat. “Why? I haven't done anything wrong. Unless weeding is counted a crime these days.”

  Commander Idson's mouth tightened. “Mister Jones, I don't care to lay hands on you, but I will if I must. Her Majesty has given me an order and I'll obey it.”

  “An order to escort me to the castle.” He wiped his hands on his trousers; sweat was turning the dirt to mud. “What bit of the castle?”

  “The Grand Ballroom,” said Idson, after a moment. As though saying that much was a betrayal of state secrets.

  Not the dungeons, then. She's not putting me back there, to keep company with Zandakar.

  The bubble of resentment persisted. “She needs me, does she?”

  “What Her Majesty needs or doesn't need is not for me to say.” Idson took a suggestive step backwards. “The queen is waiting, sir.”

  And that was that. The queen is waiting …so who cared what a nobody toymaker might need, or how busy he might be, or what other plans he might have for the rest of his day.

  I don't care what Hettie said, I'm not mixing myself up in this business again. Whatever I do it'll end up being the wrong thing and I'll find myself locked up a second time.

  Even to himself he sounded sulky…and didn't care.

  “All right,” he said, grudging. “I don't suppose I've a choice.”

  “None, sir,” said Idson.

  He was perversely pleased the matter was so important, apparently, that he wasn't even to have a moment to change into clean clothes.

  Even if I could change I think I'd stay like this. I think that young lady needs to know not everyone thinks the sun rises in her eyes.

  Not any more, anyway.

  Idson had come in a light cart pulled by a strong fast horse and driven by one of his subordinates. It had an uncovered back, which meant everyone in the
street could see Mister Jones was in trouble again…

  As the young soldier whipped up the horse and guided the cart into a swift about-face, Dexterity sat on the hard wooden seat and scowled at the curtained windows of his neighbours' cottages.

  Yes, yes, I'm in trouble again…

  Idson said not a word during the journey to the castle. Dexterity wanted to ask him about Rhian's judicial combat with the dukes, but the commander's expression was so forbidding he didn't dare. How frustrating. Ursa hadn't been precisely forthcoming with details. Even though he was still so hurt and angry, he couldn't help but feel worried too.

  I remember her a little girl, trailing a lambswool-stuffed dolly behind her. Now she's killing grown men with a sword. And is that God's plan too, Hettie? A young girl slaughtering men old enough to be herfather?

  Not that Rhian had been given much choice. The dukes had practically slaughtered themselves, so stubbornly had they refused to yield.

  Even so, Hettie. What has the cost been to the girl? All very well to say they deserved it. But does she deserve a life crowded with those kind of memories?

  A pang went through him, remembering how she'd suffered over the death of Ven'Martin. And then he remembered he was angry and hurt, and what Rhian might or might not be feeling was none of his business. He folded his arms, ignoring Idson and glaring at the back of the younger soldier's head for the rest of the journey.

  They reached the castle without incident. The cart halted in one of the rear courtyards and Idson gestured him out. In silence he followed the commander inside and through a maze of ground floor corridors until they reached a set of magnificently carved, gilded and painted double doors guarded by a full skein of Idson's finest men. They saluted when they saw their commander.

  “The Grand Ballroom,” said Idson, with a sideways glance. “Her Majesty waits within. Are you prepared, Mister Jones?”

  No, of course he wasn't. But there was no point in saying that, so he shrugged. “Yes. I suppose.”

  “All right then,” said Idson, and nodded.

  Two of his soldiers flung open the doors.