The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

  As abruptly as it sprang up, the wind died.

  “Han,” she said, struggling to breathe slowly, to not show him her fright, “your witch-men will do what you tell them. Just…whatever you tell them, don't forget the consequences.”

  Han gave her a mock bow. “The girl-queen of Ethrea schools Tzhung's emperor in his business. Truly, Rhian, every day you're a surprise.”

  “Well, I shouldn't be,” she retorted. “How do you think I grew up?”

  “Like the princesses of Tzhung-tzhungchai,” he said. “It would seem I was mistaken.”

  She raised an eyebrow at him, striving to tease. Striving to find some harmless way to ease the tension that gnawed constantly at her guts. “You have princesses in Tzhung-tzhungchai? I never knew that. I'd like to meet them, when this is over.”

  He looked down his nose at her. “I prefer that you don't. Women like you give other women…ideas.”

  She sighed. “Han, did you seek me out for a reason?”

  “You think to send Zandakar with the armada.”

  From his tone, she could tell he didn't approve the plan. “And you've come to say that's a poor idea?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don't agree. His scorpion knife is a formidable weapon. What point is there to having it, if it's not to be used?”

  “Would you believe me if I said the wind whispered this warning in my ear?”

  “Will you try to blow me down the side of the cliff again if I say I find that claim suspicious?”

  His lips tightened. “No. But a witch-man tells no lies about the wind.”

  Rhian folded her arms. “And am I bound to obey your wind when it whispers?”

  “No,” said Han. “But you're foolish if you don't. Think , Rhian. Where does Zandakar's value lie? How can his strengths best serve you? Can he dance his hotas on a ship? Can he train your army in the middle of the ocean?”

  She hadn't asked herself that. She hadn't looked past the hope that Mijak's onslaught would be halted by the armada…and that to stop Mijak they needed Zandakar.

  “And are you certain,” Han persisted, “that his scorpion knife can overcome his brother's gauntlet?”

  No, she wasn't. And neither was Zandakar. But the thought of not using their only true weapon against Mijak…

  “If the knife's not powerful enough to defeat Dmitrak, then why did Vortka give it to him?”

  “I can't tell you that,” said Han. “I can only tell you not to send him.”

  Frustrated, Rhian scuffed her toe in the dirt.

  “You can't sail with the armada, either,” he added. “You're Eberg's daughter. The last of your great House. Your people look to you for strength and comfort. Does a mother leave her children when they are lost and frightened?”

  She looked at him. “Han, am I stupid ? Of course I'm not sailing. I wish I could, the thought of staying behind is torture, but I know where my place is. I know my duty.” She felt tears sting her eyes. “Alasdair sails with them. Unless,” she added, indulging in sarcasm, “the wind has an opinion to share on that, too?”

  He answered her by wrapping the air about himself, and vanishing.

  Feeling cross-grained and blown in all directions, she returned to the castle to find Alasdair breakfasting with his cousin.

  “At last,” he said, smiling. “I was beginning to wonder where you were.” He patted the table. “Come and sit. Eat. There's—”

  Waving a hand, she perched on the window's embrasure. “I'm not hungry. Alasdair, my love, about the armada—”

  “ No ,” he said. He sounded almost vicious. “You're not sailing with it, Rhian.”

  Ludo swallowed his mouthful of egg and put down his fork. “Ah…should I go?”

  “There's no need,” said Alasdair. “The subject is closed.”

  Rhian stared, incredulous. Does every man of my acquaintance believe me suddenly stupid? “Alasdair!”

  He looked weary too. So did Ludo. The battle had scarcely begun and dear God, they were all so tired.

  How will we be when the fighting starts in earnest?

  “Alasdair,” she said again, more gently. “This is about Zandakar. Han's advised me he should stay behind too…and I'm inclined to agree with him.”

  “I should go,” said Ludo, pushing back his chair.

  Alasdair took hold of his forearm. “Stay.”

  “No, really—”

  “Stay.”

  Ludo stayed.

  “Han advised you?” said Alasdair. “When? We've not laid eyes on the emperor for days.”

  “Just now. In the garden.” Rhian pulled a face. “You know what he's like. He treats the world as though everything in it belongs to him.”

  “I thought,” said Alasdair carefully, “that the council was in agreement on this. Zandakar is our best hope against Mijak.”

  Helpless, she stared at him. “Han says the wind says Zandakar mustn't sail.”

  Alasdair sat back and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Well,” he said, muffled. “Helfred will dance to hear that.”

  “I'm not pleased either,” she said. “You're right, Zandakar is our best hope against Mijak. But perhaps we're being foolish, thinking one knife – even that scorpion knife – can defeat all of Mijak's warships. Surely it's Zandakar's knowledge that makes him a weapon. The armada's greatest strength lies in Han's witch-men, and the brute battering force of the trading nations' ships.”

  Slowly Alasdair lowered his hands. “So you agree with Han? You want to keep Zandakar here?”

  There was a knot beneath her breastbone, strangling her breath. “I want whatever serves Ethrea best.”

  “As do I,” he replied. “Zandakar stays.”

  The strangling knot tightened. It was painful to breathe. “It means you'll be alone on the Queen Ilda .”

  Their eyes met, and she struggled not to weep.

  Almost forgotten, Ludo cleared his throat and ran a hand over his short blond hair. “You needn't fear for him, Rhian. Where Alasdair goes, cousin Ludo's his shadow.”

  “No!” said Alasdair, turning. “Are you mad?”

  “Completely,” said Ludo, with a fine attempt at bravado. “Because if you're sailing, then so am I. How did you so graciously phrase it? Ah yes. The subject is closed .”

  Rhian pressed tentative fingers to the pink, knotted scars in her face. They still itched, though the stitches had been out for days. “Ludo, it's a grand gesture, and I appreciate it, but you're needed here.”

  “Not as much as Alasdair will need me on the Ilda ,” said Ludo. “No king worth his salt travels without at least one titled gentleman companion. For the look of things, if nothing else. I'll be his adjutant. His go-between. His nursemaid – you know he needs one.”

  Alasdair threw a bread roll at him.

  “You make a good point, Ludo,” she said, smiling weakly, “but I mean it when I say you're needed.”

  “Rhian…” Ludo sighed. “The only other duke you can spare is Adric. You'd inflict Adric on your husband? I thought you loved him.”

  Oh, God. Adric . “But – your duchy. Your garrison.”

  “My father's chairbound, not a doltard,” said Ludo, shrugging. “Henrik oversees the duchy far better than I ever could. As for the garrison, it's the smallest in Ethrea. The soldiers earmarked to join the general army can be folded into Kingseat's garrison or parcelled out between Edward and Rudi. Those old warhorses are in their element. They'll not notice the strain of a few more men.”

  Ludo was right. Alasdair did need someone to go with him…and after Zandakar, no man in Ethrea would safeguard him better.

  Slumped against the window she looked at them, her husband and his cousin, two men she loved so dearly…and imagined them dead.

  Oh, God. Oh, God.

  With an effort she wrenched her thoughts from that fruitless direction. Han had said it, curse him: no leader could afford to wallow in despair.

  “Very well, Ludo,” she said, her voice stony, her h
eart breaking. “Both of you will go, and you'll do the kingdom proud. With you and Alasdair leading Ethrea's armada, victory must be assured.”

  Alasdair stood, and joined her at the window. One fingertip touched her scarred cheek, so gentle. “Of course it must. If worse comes to worst I'll have Ludo catapulted among the Mijaki. He'll talk them to death and we'll all sail home singing.”

  Half-laughing, half-weeping, she threw her arms around him and held on tight. “I'll never forgive you if you don't come back,” she whispered. “I'll – I'll marry Adric just to punish you.”

  “Punish yourself, more like,” he retorted, his own voice unsteady, his arms strong and warm and holding her close. “And I'll haunt you into old age, woman. You'll never get rid of me.”

  “That's the idea,” she said, and kissed him.

  Behind them, Ludo cleared his throat again. “Ah – at the risk of being a spoilsport, my royal cousins, I need to remind you—”

  “I know,” said Rhian, reluctant, and eased from Alasdair's embrace. “We've a council of war to attend.”

  Hastily bathed and hurriedly fed, re-dressed in fresh huntsman's leathers, Rhian entered her war room, where her council and allies awaited. As well as the Slainta Dalsyn and Ebrich, Count of Arbenia, she was host to the leaders of Dev'karesh, Keldrave and Slynt. The rulers of Haisun and Barbruish had sent their most trusted representatives to sit on the war council. Han had sent his ambassador, Lai. He could not be spared from his witching tasks…and besides, his presence unsettled the other trading nations.

  “Gentlemen,” she said briskly, taking her seat. “Unless something untoward prevents it, or one of you has an objection, our armada will set sail at first light tomorrow.”

  There were no objections. She let her gaze linger on the faces of those men who, like herself, were rulers in their own right. Who, unlike herself, dared to risk their lives in warfare. And why was that? Pride? Arrogance? Fear of losing face before the other trading nations? Tradition? She didn't know. She hadn't asked. It wasn't her business.

  “His Majesty King Alasdair and my most trusted Duke of Linfoi shall carry Ethrea's flag into battle aboard the Queen Ilda ,” she continued. “His Majesty carries my heart, also, and speaks for this kingdom as though my tongue were his.”

  Edward's head came up. “Ludo? I thought we'd agreed Zandakar would—”

  “I've decided Zandakar is of more value to us here,” she said. “Training our army, against the slim chance the armada should fail.”

  She watched the ripple of glances run around the table. Saw the veiled, speculative looks at Alasdair, and at Ludo. Adric sulked, like a spoiled child denied a treat. Wisely for him he didn't challenge her decree.

  She nodded at Helfred. “Your Eminence, the kingdom's chapels stand ready?”

  “Yes, Majesty,” said Helfred. “Even now prayers are begun for the armada's safe return. They will not cease until our ships come home again, victorious.”

  He sounded so confident. His magnificent proletary robes added weight to his conviction; mindful of creating the right impression for the trading nations, he'd allowed himself to be dressed as splendidly as Marlan ever was. In the ballroom's candlelight he sparkled crimson and gold.

  “Thank you, Eminence,” she said. “My lords, this will be a day crammed full of last minute preparations. The castle's message boys are sure to be run off their feet. Before we turn our attention to particular matters, is there anything of general import you wish to discuss?”

  Dexterity raised a finger. “Ah – Majesty? Ursa's tribe of physicks arrives in town today. She was wondering if she could also speak with healers from the trading nations, if any have a little time to spare.”

  “To what purpose?” grunted Ebrich. He had piggy eyes, and they were always suspicious. As though he feared his own shadow would rise up and stab him in the back.

  “Doubtless she hopes to learn from them,” said Ambassador Lai. “Tzhung-tzhungchai has no objection.”

  Which of course meant no-one else did either.

  Rhian swallowed a smile. “Ursa will be most grateful, I'm sure.”

  And so their last council of war continued.

  When it was done, she escaped to the tiltyard, and Zandakar. He hardly ever attended war councils. Like Han, he made the trading nations nervous. He was far more useful teaching soldiers how to kill.

  “Rhian hushla ,” he said, leaving his soldier-students to fend for themselves a moment.

  She led him well out of their earshot, ignoring the smiles and showing-off her presence always inspired.

  “You're not sailing tomorrow,” she told him without preamble. “You're staying in Ethrea.”

  He was dusty, and sweaty, though the weather had turned autumn cool. “Not sailing? Why?”

  “You're needed here.”

  He shook his head. “ Wei , Rhian. The armada needs me.”

  “Not as much as Ethrea.” She gestured to the soldiers, grappling with each other in the tiltyard's dirt. “Not as much as they do.”

  Not as much as I do, though you'll never hear me say it.

  Zandakar was frowning. “Rhian—”

  “ No ,” she said. “Why are you so eager? I thought the last thing you wanted was to fight your family. Your father.”

  It was the first time she'd mentioned Vortka since he'd told her who he was.

  “It is,” he said, his eyes full of pain. “If I sail…I can save him.”

  Oh, Zandakar . She shook her head. “You don't know that. If you sail, you could just as easily watch him die.” Or die yourself . “I'm sorry. You remain here.”

  And then she walked away, before his grief changed her mind.

  The long day ended with a special Litany in the great chapel, attended by Ethrea's queen, its king and its council of war, except for Zandakar. Helfred prayed with touching passion. Ethreans in the congregation wept. Dexterity sat with Ursa, and soaked a kerchief with his tears.

  Public duties performed, Rhian and Alasdair retired to their apartments. They made love in a frenzy, and slept in exhaustion. She woke before dawn to the sound of Alasdair dressing, singing softly as he did every morning. She hid her tears in her pillow so he'd not be distressed.

  As the sun began its slow climb into the sky, Rhian stood on Kingseat's docks with Helfred, and the remains of her council, but not Zandakar, and the trading nations' ambassadors, and watched as Alasdair and Ludo, aboard the royal flagship Queen Ilda , sailed out of the harbour.

  Every vantage point in the township was crowded with people. They shouted, they cheered, they wept, they prayed.

  One by one the warships of the alliance followed the Ilda out to sea. And one by one they vanished, as Han's witch-men wrapped them in the wind.

  When the last warship was taken, an uneasy silence fell. Kingseat was hushed. No-one knew what to say.

  “Come,” said Rhian, dry-eyed and angry. “They have their work to do…and we have ours. Get to your chapel, Prolate. Pray that they sail home.”

  Alasdair looked up as Ludo wove his way towards him along the Ilda's shifting deck. His cousin's handsome face was tinged a pale but definite green. It seemed ocean sailing failed to agree with Duke Ludo of Linfoi.

  “God have mercy,” groaned Ludo, reaching him. “You're eating . Why are you eating ?”

  Alasdair grinned, and took another mouthful of porridge. “Because I'm hungry,” he said, indistinctly.

  “Well, stop it. It's obscene !”

  Taking pity, Alasdair set the bowl aside then kicked a coil of rope towards his distressed cousin. “Here. Sit down before you fall down – or overboard. You for certain don't desire to fall overboard. Han and his witch-men won't stop to save you.”

  They both looked across the Ilda 's side railing towards the nearby bow of Han's imperial Tzhung boat, where the emperor and ten of his witch-men stood in silence, their eyes closed, breathing in the salt air. Then they looked to their own bow, where stood their own three borrowed witch-men, equally sil
ent, equally mysterious.

  After yet another breathtaking dazzle through the witch-men's twilight realm, the armada was sailing normally for a time. Giving Han and his witch-men a chance to rest and replenish their strength.

  Seated on the rope coil, Ludo shivered and hugged his knees. “They make my skin crawl. Do they make your skin crawl?”

  Seated on his own coiled rope, Alasdair shrugged. “I'm reluctant to criticise. Without them we'd be lost.”

  “Oh, I don't say we wouldn't be,” said Ludo. “I don't say we're not in Tzhung's debt until the great-great-great grandchildren of Ethrea's babes today are old and grizzled.” Another shiver. “But that doesn't mean they don't make my skin crawl. Did you ever suspect the Tzhung were capable of this?”

  “No. Did you?”

  Ludo gave him a look. “Don't be silly. I'm a dyed-in-the-wool Linfoian. I don't pay attention to matters barely south of our border, let alone halfway around the world.”

  How typically Ludo. “Well, I suppose that's not unreasonable, considering. It's not like we ever had much to do with them at home. In all my life I caught sight of a Tzhung boat patrolling Linfoi's waters what – three times? No pirates ever think of raiding our duchy. What's there to steal? Rocks? Sheep?”

  “What about when you went to court? Nobody talked of Tzhung-tzhungchai then?” Ludo managed a grin, despite his heaving belly. “Or were you too busy eyeing Rhian to pay attention?”

  The Ilda was an immaculate ship. There was no useful flotsam lying about to throw at his cousin. He could throw the bowl of porridge, but that might hint at a lack of decorum. “Of course there were rumours. Whispers. Far-fetched stories. I wondered, in passing. But I was at court for the council, to speak for my father, not to waste my time with Tzhung fairy tales.”

  “And now here we are in the middle of nowhere,” said Ludo, looking over the side of the boat to the empty ocean beyond. “Surrounded by witch-men with powers I can't begin to understand. Dear God. Are you certain this isn't some fever-born dream?”

  “Alas.”

  “I was afraid of that,” said Ludo gloomily, and lapsed into silence.