The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

  Rhian did not turn back at his angry words. Her eyes in her wounded face were so large, so blue. Han saw there the question she would not ask. The favour she would not beg. He saw in her eyes the death of Ethrea.

  And the wind blew through him, stealing his breath. Shattering his resistance. Whispering its desire.

  “Zandakar,” he said. “Give me your knife.”

  The warrior from Mijak gave him the scorpion blade. As his fingers closed around it, he heard the wind howl, he heard the wind's pain as the Mijaki's power seared and sang in his blood.

  With the fingers of one hand he unbuttoned his sodden silk tunic and bared his tattooed chest to the rain and the cold and the avid stare of the Slainta, Dalsyn. He drew the edge of Zandakar's knife across his left breast, above his heart, and bled for Harbisland. For Ethrea. For Rhian.

  The Queen of Ethrea wept for him, bleeding.

  “Ha,” said Dalsyn, smiling, as his brother the ambassador choked on his surprise. “Tzhung-tzhungchai bleeds.”

  Rhian leapt to her feet. “It pleases you, to see him bleeding? This man who will help your people to live? Shame on you, Slainta! Shame on you for a base man. Is this the teaching of your mother, to smile when a man bleeds for you?”

  If she had struck him, Dalsyn could not look more surprised. “What do you know of it? Are you Harbisland, with its history, with its past? Tzhung-tzhungchai—”

  “ Is not the enemy here !” she shouted. “Are you the enemy? You said let Han bleed and I can have what I want. See Han before you, Slainta, bleeding. Is your word worth nothing? Must I battle you and Mijak both?”

  “No,” said Dalsyn, eyes slitted. “My word is true. Ethrea will have ships and warriors of Harbisland against this Mijak.”

  “The witch-men of Tzhung are needed to create our armada,” said Rhian. “They must come here. Ethrea pledges no danger to Harbisland. Ethrea stands surety for Tzhung-tzhungchai in this. Is Ethrea's word sufficient?”

  “Ethrea has never betrayed us,” Dalsyn said, grudgingly. “This one time, the Tzhung can come.”

  “And will you come with us to see the Count of Arbenia?” she said. “You and Voolksyn, with Han, Zandakar and me. We need the ships of Arbenia, Dalsyn. We need ships from every treatied trading nation. Those lesser nations beholden to you, they'll follow your lead in this. And so will the count. I need him and the lesser nations he can influence. And even then…” She took a deep breath. “Victory is not assured. But I can promise you, I do promise you, that without them defeat is inevitable.”

  Dalsyn nodded, then looked at Zandakar. “You pledge surety for Tzhung-tzhungchai. The blue-haired man?”

  “Zandakar has bled for me,” she said. “He fights for me. He'll die for me. Are you saying you want to see him bleed, too?”

  Dalsyn smoothed the length of his plaited red beard. “If I asked?”

  “You, Slainta,” said Zandakar. “You ask. I bleed.” Looking sideways, he held out his hand.

  As Rhian clenched her fists, Han gave the scorpion knife back to Zandakar. Dalsyn leaned forward, his green eyes eager. Zandakar pushed his sleeve back and poised the blade above his arm. Han saw a pale scar there already.

  “Slainta,” said Zandakar. “You want blood, I bleed, zho ?”

  Now Dalsyn looked baffled. Elbows resting on his thighs, fingers laced to white knuckles, bearded chin thrust forward, he stared at Rhian as the rain fell on his face and his sealskin clothes.

  “What are you, girl?” he demanded. “Are you a witch? A sorceress? Han of Tzhung-tzhungchai bleeds for you. The man with blue hair, Zandakar of Mijak, his knife is ready. You call blood from men like the mother calls her rain.”

  Han saw Rhian's head lift at that, as though Dalsyn's words had cut her. “Slainta, I'm not a witch. I'm not a sorceress. I'm a girl called to serve her kingdom. To serve God, and all the good men in this world.”

  “Hmm,” said Dalsyn. Then he leaned back again, and flicked a careless finger. “Withdraw. The slainta speaks with his ambassador and his clansmen.”

  Han met her gaze steadily as she joined him and Zandakar. “You spoke well to the slainta, Majesty,” he said quietly. “You are a worthy queen.”

  “Oh, Han,” she whispered. “I had no idea he'd demand that you—” She let her air hiss between her teeth. “ Why did you do it ?”

  He glanced down at the open wound in his chest, then at her cut face. “Why did you?”

  “Dalsyn's right,” she said, not answering that. So much pain behind her self-control. “I make men bleed. How many men and women will shed their blood before this is over, because I asked it of them?”

  “Tcha, hushla ,” said Zandakar. “You queen, they serve, zho ?”

  Han nodded. “He's right. This is war, Rhian. War is blood.”

  “And it's too late to turn back now, I know,” she said, glowering. “But that doesn't mean I have to like it.”

  “Ethrea!” called Dalsyn. “Come. There is an answer.”

  In the softening rain, Rhian's cropped hair curled even tighter. Her eyes shone an even brigher blue. The wounds in her cheeks had started to swell. Pain danced behind the strength in her face. Turning on her heel, she walked back to Dalsyn, tall and proud upon his sealskin throne.

  Han glanced at Zandakar, and together they joined her.

  The slainta's clansmen stood around him, cudgels held against their sealskin chests. Voolksyn, the ambassador, his brother, stood by the slainta's right hand.

  “Ethrea,” he said, “we are treatied like brother to sister. We are treated for many of the mother's seasons. Ethrea keeps its word. You speak for the Tzhung, you say they can be trusted. I trust your word – until you break it.” He leaned forward, and suddenly his green eyes were malevolent. “Ethrea breaks word…Harbisland breaks Ethrea.”

  “Harbisland will never break Ethrea,” said Rhian. “For Ethrea's word is constant, like the sun.”

  Dalsyn nodded to his clansmen, and said something swift in guttural Harbish. Then he stood, and stepped away from his throne. Voolksyn stepped with him.

  “Han of Tzhung,” he said. His voice was calm, but fear lurked in his eyes. “Take us to the Count of Arbenia.”

  Banishing exhaustion, banishing pain, Han closed his eyes and called on the wind. He wrapped it around them, feeling his bones groan, his blood weep…

  … Harbisland vanished. They walked in the wind.

  Standing in one corner of the castle's Grand Ballroom, Dexterity considered the trading nations' ambassadors. Most of them clustered around the hastily prepared trestle tables that were laden with food scoured from the kitchens. By some kind of miracle, they'd answered Alasdair's cryptic summons. Even Gutten had come. Athnïj, too, though in many ways that was a pity.

  He's looking dreadful, poor man. I wish he'd stop staring at me, Hettie. I can't tell him anything. It's not my place.

  He glanced up at the ornate clock, built so cunningly into the frescoed ceiling, then sidled inconspicuously over to the king.

  “Your Majesty. It's been well over four hours, and we've no idea when Rhian – I mean, Her Majesty – will return. I'm not certain how much longer we can keep them here, if for no other reason than they've eaten more than their fill and drunk copious draughts of wine. Surely, quite soon now, nature must take its course.”

  “He's right,” said Duke Edward, shamelessly eavesdropping. “We'll have a riot on our hands soon, especially since we can't answer one of their questions. And it's not as if we can call in Idson, either. We want these men for allies, not enemies.”

  “I know it's awkward, but I want to detain them just a little while longer,” said Alasdair. “I want to give Her Majesty all the help I can.”

  Duke Edward grunted. “To my mind you'd be better off getting Helfred to start praying.”

  Dexterity saw the fear flash across Alasdair's face, and could have kicked the thoughtless duke. “Majesty, I have travelled with witch-men, remember?” he said, as firmly as he could without seeming to
chastise Edward. “I came to no harm. Her Majesty is quite safe.” He nearly continued, “ And don't forget she has Zandakar with her .” But that might not be as reassuring as he wanted it to sound. “God will protect her, Majesty.”

  Alasdair nodded, but he didn't look convinced. “What hope does she have, I wonder, of convincing Harbisland's slainta? What if he looks on her unannounced arrival as a deadly insult? What if he attempts to arrest her, or worse? What if—”

  “Come now, Majesty, you mustn't work yourself up like this,” Dexterity said quickly. “Remember what our prolate said? We must have faith.”

  “Faith,” said Alasdair. It was almost a sigh. “My faith has been more tested since Eberg's death than in all the years of my life before it. I swear, I begin to think—”

  A cold wind, swirling. A tang of pine and salt water. A splatter of rain, falling beneath the ballroom's ceiling. Rhian stepped out of the unseen air with five men in tow.

  Every sibilant conversation died.

  Dexterity watched as Alasdair broke the frozen moment, walking across the parquetry floor to greet his wife. He halted before her, and bowed his head.

  “Majesty. God be thanked for your safe return.”

  “Yes,” said Rhian. She sounded faint, as though exhausted, or overcome with pain. The self-inflicted wounds in her cheeks were savage. “It was a fruitful endeavour.”

  Han and Zandakar had stepped aside, and so did Voolksyn, allowing the rulers of Harbisland and Arbenia to occupy the centre of attention. Dexterity thought Tzhung's emperor looked even more exhausted than Rhian. Han's battle with the trade winds and his grief over losing Sun-dao had already taxed his strength; what it had cost him to travel so far in the wind, with so many others…

  Frankly, Hettie, I don't want to think.

  Rhian stood straight and tall, calling upon some hidden reserves to keep her from appearing weak before so many vital men. “King Alasdair, I present to you Dalsyn, the Slainta of Harbisland, and Count Ebrich of Arbenia. Welcome allies in the fight against Mijak.”

  As the dukes and Helfred murmured, and the ambassadors stared, even Sere Gutten struck dumb with surprise, Dexterity folded his arms and hugged himself tight.

  Oh, Hettie. She's done it. Our girl's done it, my love.

  “Your excellencies,” said Alasdair. “Welcome to Ethrea. It is an honour to receive you, and a sadness that calamity must be the cause.”

  “King,” said the slainta, staring down from his great height. “Your little queen is mighty.”

  “She is,” said Alasdair. “All of Ethrea lives in her heart.”

  Like Gutten, the Count of Arbenia was wrapped in bearskin, and like his ambassador he was squat and aggressive. “We must talk,” Ebrich announced, as though he declared war.

  Rhian nodded. “Agreed. We've no time to waste.”

  “I think we'll acquit ourselves most comfortably here, Majesty,” said Alasdair. “And while your council oversees the transformation of this ballroom into a chamber of war, might I suggest you have your wounds tended?”

  Dexterity stepped forward. “Can I offer my ser-vices, Majesty? No guarantees, of course, but—”

  “No,” said Rhian flatly. “When you heal you leave no memory of the wound, Mister Jones. There is value in a scar, I've found.”

  “Then allow me to escort you to Ursa,” he replied. “And she can stitch you as untidily as you please.”

  “Very well. One moment—”

  While Rhian had swift, private words with Emperor Han, and the king consulted with Helfred and the dukes, Arbenia's count and his unpleasant ambassador drew aside to converse. The ambassadors of Icthia, Slynt and Dev'karesh, with ties to Harbisland, gathered round the slainta and Voolksyn to hear their low-voiced opinions. The Barbruish and Keldravian ambassadors, beholden to Arbenia but excluded from consultation, milled like twin sheep bereft of their shepherd.

  Ambassador Lai stood alone, his dark gaze resting on his emperor. Not even his exquisitely polished public mask could successfully hide that he was deeply worried.

  Dexterity sidled over to Zandakar. “There was no trouble?” he asked softly.

  “ Wei ,” said Zandakar, equally soft. “They believe now. They will fight Mijak.”

  Oh, Hettie . “Largely because of you, Zandakar. Ethrea owes you a great debt, my friend.”

  “ Wei ,” said Zandakar. “Debt is mine, zho ?”

  In his eyes and voice, that burden of guilt. Memories of the dead that he couldn't escape.

  “Zandakar—”

  “Mister Jones?” said Rhian, turning. “Shall we go?”

  “Congratulations, Majesty,” said Dexterity, puffing a little as they hurried through the castle. “A job well done.”

  “It wasn't easy,” she replied. “Arbenia's count is as brutish as Gutten. I'd not have succeeded without the slainta…and Han.”

  “And Zandakar?”

  “Fortunately, Zandakar scared them stupid.”

  “And you, Rhian?” he asked, because the corridor they travelled was empty of servants and courtiers. “Are they sufficiently frightened of you?”

  She glanced at him sidelong. “If they're not, they soon will be.”

  They reached the infirmary, only to be told Ursa was tending a castle groom kicked by a horse.

  “I'll send for her,” said the clerk, who was attempting to transcribe Ursa's notes, the poor man. “I believe the lad's bruised, not broken.”

  Restless, Rhian paced the herb-scented chamber. Dexterity perched on a stool and watched her, torn between pride and worry.

  “Are you sure you want scars, Majesty? It's dreadful to think of your beauty spoiled.”

  “If I thought beauty was the key to keeping the trading nations in my pocket, I'd care,” she replied. “But it's not, so I don't.”

  He pulled a face. “Their leaders are all men. I don't know a man who's not moved by beauty.”

  “Tcha,” she said. “Beauty may get their trousers stirring, but it won't keep them by my side. Fear and blood will do that – and the visible reminder I'm a warrior queen, not a simpering miss. They'll see the scars before they see me, and they won't look any further.”

  He doubted that: scars or no scars she was a striking young woman, and in her supple leather doublet and leggings a shocking sight for men used to women wrapped in brocade.

  But if lust can inspire them to follow her, can I complain? We need all the followers she can get.

  Ursa returned. “I'm told you're hurt, Majesty,” she said, marching through the open door. “You must have a greater care of your person, for – tcha !”

  “No scolding, Ursa,” said Rhian, unsmiling. “I've not the time or the patience. Stitch me quickly so I can get back to work.”

  Ursa blinked, taken aback. “Majesty,” she said, and did as she was told.

  Rhian refused a poppy potion when the stitching was done. “I need a clear head.”

  “Majesty,” said Dexterity. “I know I'm wanted in council, but if I might take a moment?”

  “A moment only,” she replied.

  “Jones?” said Ursa, when they were alone.

  “She's talked Harbisland and Arbenia to our cause, Ursa,” he said quickly. “Looks like we'll have our armada. But if that should fail—”

  Ursa nodded. “I know. We'll be fighting Mijak in Ethrea. I've already started a list of the physicks I think will make the best leaders. And another of all the supplies we'll need if, God forbid, it comes to that. Another day or so, I'll have it ready for the council.”

  He kissed her cheek. “God bless you. Rhian will be pleased to hear it.”

  “Rhian.” Ursa snorted. “There's a change come over that girl, and I'm not sure I like it. Are you going to tell me she didn't use a blade on herself?”

  “No,” he said, sighing. “She's got the bit between her teeth, Ursa. All we can do is hold on.”

  “God help us,” muttered Ursa. “What have we started, Jones?”

  “Whatever it is,
we must help her to finish it,” he said, and with a strained smile hurried after their queen.

  Her stitched face burning, and regretting the refusal of something to dull the pain, Rhian strode into the ballroom to find the platter-laden trestles gone, and in their place a square of tables around which sat her council, the slainta, the count, and the ambassadors. Han was there too, having returned from Lai's residence after briefly withdrawing to set in motion plans for his witch-men. He'd used the time to change, as well. His tunic now was shaded deep violet. She hoped he'd healed the wound in his chest. Ven'Cedwin sat apart at his own little table, poised to record this historic meeting.

  “Gentlemen,” she said, taking her seat. “Allow me to formally welcome you to our first council of war. Ethrea appreciates your attendance.” She bared her teeth, not quite smiling. “Let us first admit the obvious: we are not all friends here. Even now some of you are involved in disputes. They do not matter . All that matters is Mijak. It does not care if you are friend or foe. It cares only for how swiftly you die.”

  A stirring around the table, as the trading nations swallowed her unpalatable truths. A stirring at the ballroom door, as Mister Jones finally joined them. She gave him a sharp look, and waited for him to take his seat.

  “And now,” she continued, “let us devise our war.”

  With an ease she hadn't expected, terms for a new charter were teased out and settled.

  In the end it was decided Han's witch-men would take the slainta, the count and the various ambassadors to meet with the rulers of the lesser trading nations. They would carry with them a new treaty to be signed, outlining what was required from each nation in quantities of ships, sailors, weapons and soldiers. Once the letters were delivered and ratified, the trading nations would meet in Kingseat to draw up plans for the armada. And once those plans were ratified, Han's witch-men would see each nation's fleet brought to Ethrea, ready for sailing out to meet Mijak.

  “We must not delude ourselves, gentlemen,” Rhian told them in closing. “The battle at sea will be desperate. We won't escape unscathed. But no matter how dire that prospect, it pales before the losses we'll face should Mijak conquer Ethrea and have a safe haven from which to sail to your lands.”