The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

  Upright on their carved, gilded benches, the most venerables of the Court Ecclesiastica nodded their approval of his words. The congregation murmured, inspired by his passion.

  “We are a blesséd people, my children,” Helfred continued. “For in the midst of upheaval and despair God heard our prayers and delivered unto us a queen of might and power. The wicked fall before her like wheat before the scythe. She is young and full of fire. She is the Rollin of our age, sworn to preserve God's peace, God's garden kingdom of Ethrea. Let us pledge to be her trustworthy gardeners. Let us commit our hearts and souls to plucking out any weeds that would take root in this our glorious, peaceful home.”

  In the choristers' gallery above the pulpit, a lone exquisite voice rose in song.

  “To those whom God has granted much bounty, much devotion is in turn required.”

  It was the signal that the Litany had concluded. With a gracious lifting of his hands, Helfred invited the congregation to stand and sing.

  Rhian, painfully aware she had the vocal talents of a frog with a sore throat, mimed the words and basked in Alasdair's glorious tenor, which helped soothe her irritation and jittering nerves.

  A queen of might and power? The Rollin of our age? Helfred, are you mad? How am I to live up to such fulsome praise?

  It was the most extravagant he'd been since she'd started attending each evening's service. At first he'd hardly mentioned her, choosing instead to focus on her father's legacy of harmony and prosperity, on the good fortune of Ethrea to be a shining example of peace in the world. He'd preached the importance of friendship: husband and wife, brother and sister, neighbour and neighbour…nation and nation. Encouraging each night's congregation to look upon the league of trading nations as friends and brothers under the skin, people of good heart and good intent whose differences from Ethrea were far outweighed by their shared beliefs in mutual support and appreciation.

  Preparing the fallow field of public opinion for the day warships of Harbisland, Arbenia and Tzhung-tzhungchai are moored in our harbour. Oh, Papa. Did you ever think to see such a sight?

  In the past week, though, Helfred had slowly but surely shifted his compass until it pointed due Rhian . It was important, she knew, for her people to see her as some kind of invincible, God-blessed hero. Her mantle of royalty must glow so brightly that they were blinded to the truth of her youth and inexperience. They had to believe in her, be willing to lay down their lives, the fathers and sons, the wives, mothers and daughters of Kingseat, who would surely be the first at risk should the warriors of Mijak reach their shores.

  Oh, God, I beg you. Don't let it come to that.

  As ever when she let her thoughts touch upon Mijak, her belly churned with nausea and her palms slicked with sweat. Especially tonight, with fresh horrors newly revealed.

  Human blood for sacrifice. Is there no end to Mijak's evil?

  Also churning through her, Emperor Han's revelations. Just when she thought she had his measure, he found new ways to confound her.

  But I have to trust him. I can't let myself be a prisoner of the childish, mistrustful past. It seems that without Han and his witch-men, the warships of Mijak would be in the harbour already. But, dear God, he frightens me.

  And so did her prolate's extravagant praise. Being chosen by God didn't make her divine. Helfred of all people should understand that.

  The hymn ended. Helfred descended from his pulpit and walked the tiled pathway between the chapel's pews, followed by his Court Ecclesiastica. As soon as they reached the chapel's open, ornate doors, Rhian followed with Alasdair half a pace behind her.

  The crowding townsfolk on the wide, torchlit stone steps had respectfully fallen back, giving her prolate his pride of place. The most venerables stood ranged behind him, lending him their aged, solemn presence. She still found it marvellous that these old men, so united against her under Marlan, now stood shoulder to shoulder in defence of her crown. In support of Helfred, whom they had so eagerly declared anathema and would happily have seen flogged near to death.

  It's extraordinary, really, what one little miracle can do.

  As was by now their custom, she and Alasdair joined Helfred on the top step. Though by rights it was the prolate who should receive the congregation's respects after Litany, Helfred was only briefly acknowledged as the church slowly emptied of Kingseat's devout. Instead, again, Rhian found herself the focus of attention.

  After their first attendance at the Litany, Alasdair had been uneasy, so many people crowding that close. Ven'Martin was buried but his memory lived on. He'd wanted a skein of Kingseat guards posted outside the chapel, a silent warning to anyone with ideas.

  She'd over-ruled him. “Let them stand in the street at the foot of the chapel steps,” she'd decreed. “That's not unseemly. But to post them a handsbreadth from me? It would send the wrong message entirely. I am Rhian of Ethrea, God's chosen queen, who slew two recalcitrant dukes with her righteous sword. How then can I stand on the chapel's steps surrounded by armed guards?”

  He'd acquiesced, of course. But every time he made a suggestion and she declined to take it, she thought she saw him drift a little further away.

  Now, standing with him and Helfred, lit by rank after rank of burning torches and accepting her subjects' awed praise and thanks, smiling, smiling, frozenly smiling, she knew she'd done the right thing…no matter the personal cost.

  She'd thought she might become used to this, to facing the people she'd sworn to defend with her blood and her life. Instead she felt the weight of that promise pressing her harder and harder against the ground. The hope in their eyes. The blind, fervent belief. The love they had for her because she was Eberg's daughter, his sole surviving child. Because she had God's favour. Because she was so young and beautiful. But how would it be when they realised their lives really were in her hands? Would they still believe in her? Would their faith remain strong?

  Or will they turn against me when the first blood is spilled?

  A frightening thought. She felt herself shiver.

  “Rhian?” murmured Alasdair, his hand on her elbow. “You're weary. We should return to the castle.”

  She was more than weary, she was exhausted. The afternoon's hotas had been relentless. “In a moment,” she said, smiling, and eased her arm free. “Let everyone come out of the chapel first.”

  He didn't protest, just gave the signal to their footman, waiting discreetly at the bottom of the chapel steps. As the last worshipper paid his respects their carriage drew to a halt in the street before them. She turned to Helfred.

  “Your Eminence, thank you for such a rousing sermon. Surely you've given us much to think on.”

  “Majesty, that is always my intention,” he replied, his eyebrows raised.

  Young and full of fire, indeed. If you're not careful, Helfred, my fire will singe you.

  She turned to the most venerables. “My lords, God's blessing and the peace of Rollin upon you.”

  They murmured the same to her in reply. Then it seemed she was free to depart…only it was swiftly apparent her people didn't wish her to leave.

  “God bless you, Majesty!” a voice called from the crowd.

  “Bless the memory of your father, too!”

  “Aye, bless him and bless you!”

  Distinct words were quickly lost in the rising tide of praise, prayer and acclaim. Helpless she stood there, awash in emotion…theirs and her own. This hadn't happened before. Helfred's pointed sermon had surely stirred them.

  “Good people!” she cried at last, struggling to pitch her voice above the clamour. “Good people of Kingseat and Ethrea, my thanks!”

  Raggedly the crowd fell silent. So many torchlit faces, staring. So much eager, breathless hunger for her words, for her . It almost stole her courage.

  “Good people,” she said again, “indeed, my thanks, and the thanks also of Alasdair, your king. My beloved husband and the strength by my side.”

  Another cheer went up, and mor
e calls for God's blessings.

  “You ask God to bless me,” she said, “but I tell you he already has, beyond measure. I am queen of a jewelled country. My dear friends, know that you and your welfare are my first and last thought upon rising and upon closing my eyes at night. There's nothing I won't do for you. No battle I won't fight, no danger I won't face. I am my father's daughter, I'm the sister of your two grand princes, three men taken from us so untimely. I still grieve. I know you grieve with me. But I also know they want me to be strong…I know you need me to be strong…and I am. You give me strength. You heal my heart. You're my family.”

  The crowd's roar then threatened to crack the new night sky. Stinging with tears, abruptly overwhelmed by the past, she made her way down the steps to the carriage with Alasdair's hand warm on her back. The footman opened its door for them. Before she ducked inside, Rhian turned and raised a hand to the people clustered on the great chapel's steps and on the cobbled footpath, even spilling into the street.

  “Come,” said Alasdair. “You've done enough for one day.”

  She let him guide her into the carriage and sagged into her cushions as he sat opposite. The footman closed the doors. A moment later she heard the thud, felt the jolt, as he leapt onto his travelling step. The coachman cracked his whip and the carriage rolled forward. She closed her eyes, and still saw the crowd.

  Dear God, they look at me as though I am Rollin reborn.

  The clip-clop of the horses' hooves was oddly soothing as the carriage made its careful way through the most populous part of the township, heading for Kingsway which would take them back to the castle. It was expertly sprung, jouncing gently over the cobbles. A pity it couldn't jounce the memories from her mind.

  “Rhian,” said Alasdair. “Are you all right?”

  “When I was twelve,” she said, with her eyes still closed, “Papa, the boys and I attended a wedding in Meercheq. It was my first grown-up outing, and I was ever so proud of my brocade and pearls.”

  The dress had been one of her mother's, expertly altered to fit her girlish form. The fabric had smelled faintly of rosewater, Mama's favourite scent. She could remember that much of her long-dead mother. Queen Ilda always smelled of roses.

  “Something happened at the wedding?” said Alasdair.

  She rolled her head against the cushions behind her. “No. On the way home. It was autumn and the weather was still fine, so we were riding in an open carriage. I remember that journey so clearly: the sun on my face, Simon teasing Ranald over some girl who'd spent the whole wedding making sheep's eyes at him. Papa trying not to laugh.” She felt her lips curve in a remembering smile. “Ranald threatening to hang Simon over the side of the carriage by his heels if he didn't shut up. Simon used to pester him unmercifully, you know.”

  She heard Alasdair chuckle. “I know. That never changed, even when they were grown.”

  He was right. It didn't. “We passed a ploughed field,” she continued, and felt her smile fade. “There were pheasants in it, exploring the tilled soil for any abandoned seeds. Their plumage was brilliant. Iridescent. They were beautiful. So innocent. The field was bordered by a copse…and on its far side I saw a group of hunters, with their game dogs and their slingshots and their bows and arrows. I wanted to leap from the carriage and run back to warn the pheasants. I was twelve, and I knew I'd seen them in their last living moments. I knew they'd soon be dead, strung up in a larder somewhere. I wanted to cry. To scream. I was so angry .”

  “Why? Birds die so men can live, Rhian.”

  She opened her eyes. “I knew that, Alasdair. But I didn't want to know it, I hated knowing it, knowing those pheasants were about to die…when they were so innocent of the knowledge.” She blinked hard. “When I stood on the chapel's steps and looked at Kingseat's people, the memory came flooding back. I was twelve years old again, helpless to save those innocent lives.”

  Alasdair raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “You're not helpless, Rhian. You're not twelve. And you're not alone.”

  “In my head I know that. But in my heart…” She sighed. “When Papa died so soon after the boys, all I could think about was protecting the kingdom from Marlan. The only thing that mattered was keeping the crown, because it was my birthright and he had no business trying to take it. Not him . I was prepared to die for my cause. Now those weeks seem almost insubstantial.”

  In his plain, bony face, Alasdair's dark brown eyes were fierce. “They're not.”

  She tightened her fingers round his. “I had a dream last night. I dreamed I stood on the castle battlements looking over the water to the horizon. I saw a terrible storm approaching. I couldn't stop it, couldn't turn it back. All I could do was stand there, and wait for it to strike.”

  “Rhian…” Alasdair shifted to sit beside her. “I have bad dreams, too. Dreams that you die because I can't protect you. They're our fears talking, they're not the future. I can protect you. I will protect you. And you'll protect Ethrea. Yes, Mijak is a terrible storm. But we can weather it. We will weather it.”

  “Do you truly believe that?” she said eventually. “Or are you just saying so to soothe me?”

  “I believe it,” he said firmly. “I'll never lie to you, Rhian.”

  “Nor I to you. But, Alasdair, we won't win this fight without Zandakar.”

  He turned his head to look out of the carriage window. The last of the town's lights were slipping behind them; they'd reach the castle soon. “You're so certain of him. Despite everything you've learned of him, the slaughters and the brutality, the blood, the destroyed cities, who he is , who his family is, my God, what they're doing even now, you have no doubt he can be trusted.”

  How could she answer that? How could she tell him: “ From the moment Zandakar picked me up and carried me from the clerica at Todding I've felt safe with him. I've trusted him. What he's done is not who he is. Not all of who he is. Another man dwells inside him, a man yearning to be free of violence and bloodshed. Who looks to me to set him free .”

  She couldn't. Alasdair would never understand. And this fragile moment would shatter irredeemably.

  “I'm certain we need him,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “I have no doubt of that.”

  Alasdair looked at her, his eyes resigned. “Then for your sake I'll try to work with him, Rhian. But please don't ask me to befriend the man, or lose all my mistrust, or for one moment cease my scrutiny of him. As your husband – as Ethrea's king – to do less would be the worst kind of betrayal.”

  “I won't.” She smiled, and he kissed her, and for that brief moment their world was at peace.

  They returned to the castle to find that Ven'Cedwin had been admitted to the foyer of their privy apartments, and was waiting for them. He stood at their approach, his lined face creased further with concern.

  Feeling her belly twist, Rhian glared at the guards…but in fairness knew she couldn't complain. Cedwin was a venerable, he was her secretary, they knew he had the freedom of the castle.

  “What now?” she muttered, and moved forward to meet him. “Ven'Cedwin? This can't wait till the morning?”

  Her secretary glanced at Alasdair, then shook his head. “Sadly I fear it cannot, Your Majesty.”

  “The ambassadors?” said Alasdair. “I take it you saw the letters dispatched to them?”

  “Indeed, Majesty, I did,” said Ven'Cedwin. “Each was delivered, and each has received a reply.”

  “Which I'm not going to like,” said Rhian. “Am I?”

  “No, Your Majesty,” said Ven'Cedwin. “I feel it's likely you'll be greatly displeased.”

  God give me strength …She looked at Alasdair. “He's right. This can't wait.”

  Alasdair opened the door to their apartments. “Then by all means, let us withdraw and be displeased in private.”

  Ven'Cedwin collected his leather satchel and followed them inside to the parlour. As he closed the door behind them, Rhian began to pace. Alasdair, frowning, stood beside the bookcase
.

  “Let me guess,” she said, passing Ven'Cedwin in a swirl of green velvet skirt. “They decline to attend any meeting tomorrow.”

  Ven'Cedwin fumbled open his satchel and withdrew a sheaf of papers. “Yes, Majesty. All but one.”

  “Ambassador Lai.”

  “That's correct, Majesty.”

  She glanced at Alasdair, hard put not to shock Ven'Cedwin by swearing. “I do hope our friends, the ambassadors, are struck down by a sudden plague.”

  “A plague of excuses, perhaps,” said Ven'Cedwin. He shuffled through the notes in his hand. “ A previous engagement – that's Arbenia. Religious observances – that's Keldrave, Haisun, Barbruish and Slynt. Icthia claims to be unwell—”

  “Now Athnïj I'm willing to believe,” she said, still pacing. “If I were him I'd be sick too, knowing my homeland's been conquered by Mijak. What of Dev'karesh?”

  “Dev'karesh also pleads a previous engagement.”

  “With Arbenia?” Alasdair snorted. “I suppose anything's possible.”

  Halting, Rhian whirled to face Ven'Cedwin. “Are you saying not even Voolksyn will come? I thought he supported me. He stood up to Gutten.”

  Ven'Cedwin shook his head. “No, Ambassador Voolksyn has also declined. But of them all, he's the only one to give an honest answer.”

  She held out her hand. “Show me.”

  Ven'Cedwin gave her the note from Voolksyn. Harbisland regrets absence, it read. Harbisland respects Ethrea but we are sovereign .