The Godspeaker Trilogy (132 page)

“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.”

Rhian smiled. Dear God, what a mouthful. He looks too young to understand a half of it . “Thank you—”

A tide of red obliterated the boy's freckles. “Nosher, Majesty.” It came out a strangled whisper.

“Nosher?” She laughed. “That's the name you were born with?”

“No, Majesty. Me mam, she calls me Gib.”

“Well, Gib, that's a message well delivered,” she said. “Off you go now. Mind your duties.” As the boy scuttled out of the tiltyard she looked over at Adric. “Your Grace! It seems we're needed in privy council. I'll see you within. Do not tarry for me.” Adric nodded and withdrew, the courtiers following, and she turned to Zandakar. “That's it for today. I'm sorry, this summons doubtless means you'll be penned in your chamber until tomorrow. Come sunrise we'll dance again.”

He shrugged. “Rhian hushla . Rhian say.”

“Thank you for your training, Zandakar. I will be better tomorrow. Sergeant Rigert!”

Rigert came running. “Majesty?”

“Escort Zandakar to his apartments.”

He bowed. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And, Rigert?” She smiled, not comfortably. “Let him not trip or slip or accidentally hit his face on a fist between here and the castle. What is done here is done on my command.”

Rigert looked down. “Yes, Majesty.”

She hurried to the council chamber, not bothering to pause to make a swift toilet. Let her council see her sweaty, bloody, dressed in battered leathers with a shortsword at her hip. Let them lose as swiftly as possible their comfortable idea of what womanly meant.

Though they support me whole-heartedly, still they have a lot to learn.

Alasdair's eyebrows shot up when he saw her, but to his credit he made no comment. Edward, though, so old-fashioned, so chivalrous, couldn't help himself. “Majesty. Let us send for the physick! This is wrong, this is monstrous wrong, that you should be wounded unto bleeding!”

“Heed the Duke of Morvell,” said Rudi. “And do reconsider this martial fervour.” He peered more closely. “Your cheek is bruised.”

“Zandakar struck her,” said Adric, making mischief. “So hard I thought Rigert was like to spit him on the spot.”

Ignoring him, taking her seat, she looked at Alasdair. “I deserved it. What's amiss? What has Helfred said?”

Alasdair was displeased, she could see that in his eyes. But he didn't task her, knowing to hold his tongue until they were private. Instead he looked at Ven'Cedwin, patiently standing behind a chair. In the venerable's ink-stained hand was a half-sheet of parchment.

“That's from Helfred? Let me see it.”

“Majesty,” said Ven'Cedwin, and gave her the letter.

It was addressed to her, but clearly Alasdair had read it. She didn't mind. It seemed a small thing, to give him access to state letters. Eased, she thought, the constant sting of her precedence. Helfred had written the missive himself, she'd know his self-conscious penmanship anywhere. She read it swiftly as her council sat at the table.

Kyrin and Damwin were informed of her decree. Both were furious and refused to reveal their intent, but he was certain they would obey and come to Kingseat Castle to face judicial combat. She had, he assured her, emphatically pricked their hot ducal pride. Which was of course precisely as she'd intended. One way or the other the dukes would be prostrate before her.

In obeisance or in death. The choice will be theirs.

He had been forced to make changes in both venerable houses, Helfred continued. Alas for the weakness of avaricious men who had long forgotten where their true loyalties belonged. But that was Church business and she need not concern herself. He was returning to Kingseat with the Court Ecclesiastica so they might preside over the upcoming business with the dukes.

“I see by your expression, Majesty, the dukes haven't come to their senses,” said Rudi. “A pity.”

She laid Helfred's letter carefully on the table. “A great pity, Rudi.”

“Majesty,” said Alasdair, his eyes eloquent, his voice scrupulously noncommittal. “We have five days until Tassifer's Feast.”

Oh God. Five days. Could Zandakar teach her enough to survive a double duel in only five more days, when so much else in the kingdom claimed her attention?

I should've said the Fast of Wilmot. That would've given me four extra days. In nine days I could learn almost twice as much, be twice as ready for judicial combat.

But that would give Mijak an extra four days, when she didn't know how close its warriors were or how soon their sails would appear on her horizon.

They could appear tomorrow. We could be lost so soon.

Except she refused to believe that. If Mijak appeared tomorrow, defeat was inevitable. Why then would God have chosen her if that was the case?

We have time. I have time. I have to believe that.

“Five days, yes,” she said, nodding. “They will suffice.”

“It's not likely Damwin and Kyrin will change their minds at the last gasp,” said Edward. “Stupid, stubborn fools that they are. Where shall you hold the judicial combat?”

“Here,” she said. “In the castle grounds.”

“Witnesses?” asked Rudi. “Aside from ourselves and the Court Ecclesiastica, that is.”

“Duke Ludo will arrive from Linfoi in the next day or two,” said Alasdair. “And I believe the leaders of Ethrea's venerable houses and clericas are also summoned.”

Ven'Cedwin glanced up from his swift note-taking. “That is correct, Your Majesty,” he murmured. “His Eminence saw to their notification before he departed.”

“Prominent townsfolk should also attend,” said Edward. “Representatives of the greater families in the other duchies. Perhaps even a smattering of the common people. If this is to be done, it cannot be done in secret.”

Rhian stirred. “Nor can it be treated like a public entertainment. If I must judicially slaughter these men I'd prefer it be done in a sober, serious fashion.”

“I doubt Edward's suggesting sideshows and food-sellers,” said Alasdair. “But he's right that this cannot be done circumspect, either. Judicial combat is lawful. These dukes are in the wrong. If we attempt to hide the proceedings we risk giving the impression we're somehow shamed by our actions.”

He was right. She just wished he wasn't. She nodded. “A fair point.”

Edward cleared his throat. “And what of the ambassadors? What of Emperor Han?”

“What of them?” she said, staring. “Domestic Ethrean matters are Ethrea's concern. There's no need for them to attend the proceedings. They'll hear about them, and that will suffice.”

Edward and Rudi exchanged troubled glances. “Forgive me, Majesty, but I don't think it will,” said Rudi.

“There is…talk,” Edward said, uncomfortable. “Servants chatter to servants, word reaches our ears. Not every ambassadorial comment remains private.”

“Or flattering?” she added. Edward opened his mouth to reply, but she shook her head. “No, don't bother, I can guess the kind of things they've been saying.”

“They have scant respect for women rulers, Majesty,” said Adric, clearly his father's confidant and eager to assert his meagre authority. “It's hard to believe they'll tell their masters to follow you into battle. Not unless they've seen with their own eyes that you're not frightened of blood.”

She felt her fingers try to clench. I might not like him overmuch, but it doesn't mean he can't be right . She wanted to shout, Emperor Han will follow me. Emperor Han knows who I am in this. He'll champion my cause . But what was the use? She couldn't ask Han of Tzhung-tzhungchai to speak for her. Ethrea could never once be seen as the emperor's lapdog. If she was to convince the ambassadors to convince their masters that she was fit to take the lead in the fight against Mijak, perhaps Edward and the others were right. Perhaps the ambassadors should be invited to witness the judicial combat.

But how little do I care for the idea of asking the world into Ethrea's kitchen, so it might see how we bake our cakes.

“Rudi, I take it you agree with Edward? You think Han and the ambassadors should be invited as witnesses?”

He nodded. “Reluctantly, yes.”

“Adric?”

“Certainly! Once they've seen—”

“Thank you.” She looked at Alasdair. “And you?”

His eyes were apologetic. “I wish I could say no, but…”

“I see.” She stood. “Gentlemen, I stink like a cowherd. While I bathe I'll consider your suggestion. If I can bring myself to agree I'll send word to let you know. In the meantime please continue with your planning of the…event…and I'll hear your thoughts tomorrow.”

She left them to their organising, and closed the chamber door behind her.

God help me. God help me. Will this get any easier?

Since she had no intention of conducting further public business, after her bath Rhian dressed in one of her old blue linen gowns. With its sleeves unlaced and set aside she sat on her bed to dab some of Ursa's fierce ointment on her swordcuts. When Alasdair at last returned from the privy council chamber and found her cursing under her breath, he plucked the jar of ointment from her fingers.

“Let me.” The wool-and-feather mattress sagged as he sat beside her. “I think Zandakar thinks to make of you a colander.”

She winced at the ointment's burn. “No. If I'm cut the fault is mine, for not being fast enough.” She gasped a little as his fingers found the deepest wound.

“It's painful?”

“Not at all,” she said, frowning. “A delightful tickle. I'm struggling not to laugh.”

Turning her hand over, Alasdair kissed its palm. “Sorry.”

Love for him came in a wave so strong, so overwhelming, for a moment she could neither see nor breathe. This quiet intimacy, this small precious heartbeat of time snatched from the chaos that was their lives since Linfoi…it stung tears to her eyes. So much had changed since Ranald and Simon were brought home, fever-struck, that often she felt a stranger in her own skin. Brothers dead. Father dead. Marlan seeking to control her, destroy her. Miracles and madness. Her world ripped apart and remade before her eyes. So often it seemed she would never catch her breath. So often it seemed she'd never recognise herself again.

Quiet moments like this helped keep hysterics at bay.

Alasdair glanced up. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said, and had to clear her throat. “You never mentioned you thought I should make an audience of the ambassadors.”

“Edward and Rudi only broached the subject with me yesterday. I wanted to think about it. I wanted to see if you'd mention it first.”

“And I didn't. In truth…”

“In truth, it never occurred to you?” he said, and shook his head. “It should have.”

She pulled her arm free of him. “Really?”

“Really,” he said. With her hurts not all tended he put the jar aside, slid off the bed and moved to the chamber window. Dusk was falling. The chamber's lanterns seemed to burn a little brighter as the light beyond the panes of glass slowly faded.

Staring at his broad shoulders, his straight spine, at his rich blue velvet doublet, she pulled a face. “You're right. It should have. Papa would scold me if he was here.”

Alasdair turned. “You can't think of everything. It's a wonder you can think of anything , beyond trying to stay alive.”

He was afraid for her. So afraid. I'm afraid for myself . She reached for the ointment and continued physicking herself. “Edward might he wrong. The dukes might yet surrender without combat, Alasdair.”

“You know they won't,” he said, his expression bleak. “They've come too far now to turn back.”

And so had she. Her only way was forward, through rivers of ducal blood. “If I invite outsiders I turn law into spectacle.”

“And if you don't, you lose an important chance to impress on the ambassadors your fitness to rule,” Alasdair countered gently. “Adric's right. What is it to Harbisland or Arbenia that Ethrea's God declared you should lead them to war? They worship in their own way. Our way means naught to them. But they do respect a wielded sword.”

Regrettably it was true. Nor was it something a ruler of unwarlike Ethrea had been forced to consider for hundreds of years. So protected, we've been. Swaddled in peace like an infant, untouched by the squabbles elsewhere in the world. And now it seems our protection was mere gossamer. Almost illusion. We are vulnerable in ways we never imagined .

“I'll have to invite them, won't I?” she said, and sighed. “Arbenia. Harbisland. The rest of them.”

“And Han.”

She jammed the cork stopper back in Ursa's jar of ointment. “Yes. He'll have to come.”

Alasdair leaned against the embrasure. “You don't like him.”

“He frightens me.” She shivered. “It all frightens me, Alasdair. I can admit it to you, in here, while we're alone.”

He returned to her, and gathered her into his arms. “With me, in here, while we're alone, you don't have to be brave. What else am I for, if not to give you strength when you feel weak?”

She buried her face in his velvet-covered chest. “Well…you're very good at pulling off my boots.”

He laughed, and she laughed with him, and for a moment, so briefly, fear retreated.

“Come,” he said, and kissed her hair. “Let's eat and retire early. The world can mind itself for one night.”