The Godspeaker Trilogy (87 page)

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You must miss them dreadfully. And your father.”

She nodded, keeping her head down. “Yes. Dreadfully.”

And he knew what that pain felt like. Long sharp nails hammered through the heart and soul. Hammered through the lungs so that breathing was hard. But there was no point talking about it. Talking didn’t make the grief go away. Sometimes not even time could do that, and for her the loss was still too close. So, change the subject. He put the finished puppet’s head aside.

“Rhian … what possessed you to have Zandakar teach you his hotas ?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I thought perhaps they might come in useful.” She stretched a little, wincing. “They’re certainly good exercise. I’ve found muscles I’d forgotten I had.”

“You were awfully sharp with Helfred,” he added, taking a chance. But he had to say something. She was fatherless, now. Someone older and wiser had to guide her.

Her needle flashed in and out of the puppet’s jerkin, making tiny stitches. “Was I?”

You were, and you know it, and it was painful to see . But he couldn’t say that to her. High-mettled and brimful of temperament, that was Rhian. “I know his manner’s unfortunate but his only concern is for you. And he’s taken a terrible risk supporting you instead of his uncle. If things don’t work out the way we hope …”

“But they will,” she said, still stitching. “They must. You know that better than anyone, Dexterity.”

Yes. But there are no guarantees . “You say you intend to marry Alasdair Linfoi. You say Helfred can marry you, if he grants you dispensation from your wardship. But if you keep treating him so roughly, Rhian, what makes you think he’ll oblige? There’s no law says he must. You’re dependent upon his good will. Would you fritter that away with harsh words and rough handling?”

Her busy fingers faltered. “Everything I do, I do for Ethrea,” she said, her voice tight. “Helfred says he serves the kingdom. If that’s true of course he’ll oblige. What other choice will he have?”

There were so many arguments he could make. So many ways to show her she was wrong. But he could see, looking at her, she wasn’t ready to hear them. Perhaps when they reached duchy Linfoi she’d be ready to listen.

If she’s to be queen she’ll have to learn how to listen. Not even a queen is right all the time.

Rhian reached for the scissors, snipped her scarlet thread then picked up the jerkin’s little gold fringe. “Zandakar’s so solitary,” she said, rummaging in the tin for a reel of yellow cotton. “He needs a friend. Someone to share his thoughts with, as far as he’s able.”

Ah. “And you thought that if you shared his hotas first, if you got him to trust you while he taught you their patterns …”

“Then perhaps he’d share his thoughts with me, too. Share his past, and I could learn if he is a possible threat to Ethrea.” She glanced at him. “Yes. It’s my duty. Or should I have suggested you learn his hotas instead?”

He shuddered. His middle-aged bones dance those impossible steps? God forbid . “No. It was clever. Clearly he likes you. He may have given me his chalava but beyond that he’s shown no desire to be friends.”

“His chalava ?”

Dexterity fished under his shirt and pulled out the crudely carved wooden creature Zandakar had pressed on him back in Kingseat. He’d hung it around his neck on some twine. “He was very insistent I keep it with me, always. I didn’t want to upset him. This seemed the simplest solution.”

“Chalava?” said Rhian, staring. “What’s that?”

He shrugged, fingering the odd carving. “I’ve no idea. Something important, though. Probably superstitious. Perhaps you could ask him the next time you dance the hotas .”

“Yes. Perhaps.” She was frowning. “Dexterity … he says he’s lost his memory.”

Startled, he looked up from tucking the chalava back under his shirt. “Really? Do you believe him?”

She pulled the remnant of red cotton from her needle’s eye and rethreaded it with a length of yellow. “I don’t know,” she said, tying a knot at the end of the cotton. “You said he had dreams from his past.”

“I … well, I suppose there might be a difference between dreaming something and remembering it when you’re awake. We could ask Ursa. She’d know.”

Rhian looked up. “I don’t think so. I think we’ll keep this between us, Dexterity. At least for now. As you said, it could just be he’s as wary of us as we are of him.”

“Yes. It could be.”

“And can you blame him?”

“No. I can’t.”

She laid the threaded needle aside, took pins from the tin box and pinned the gold fringe to the scarlet jerkin. “Of course he could be lying. Men dissemble all the time. Women, too. I grew up watching that at court.”

Of course she did. Stop seeing her as a girl, you fool. She’s been raised a princess and fate’s made her a queen. There are things she could teach you, for all you’re old enough to be her father. Best not forget it.

She added, “But you know, even if Zandakar hasn’t told the full truth about himself I can’t help but like him. There’s a gentleness, a—a—decency there. I can feel it.” She pulled a face. “Does that sound silly?”

“No. It doesn’t. I’ve felt it myself.”

“And he was sent by Hettie.”

She was almost teasing, but he didn’t smile. “Yes. He was.”

“She must’ve been quite a woman, Dexterity.”

“Indeed,” he said softly, his smile unsteady. “She was my sun and my moons and every star in the sky.”

And I miss her more now, for seeing her, than I have in many years.

“Would you do me a favour, Dexterity?” asked Rhian, gently. “Would you climb up on the roof and tell Helfred I’d like to see him?”

So … she was reconsidering her hasty words, was she? Proud, but not too proud if an apology is needed. I think she’ll make a fine queen, Hettie … if she’s given the chance .

“Of course, Your Highness,” he said, standing. “I’ll fetch him directly.”

The journey through duchy Arbat continued.

In the township of Whistling Grove they sold Ursa’s dried liverberries for enough coin to see them safely the rest of the way to duchy Linfoi. Helfred proposed they complete their trek by river-barge but Rhian wouldn’t hear of it. There was still a chance of men posted to watch for her. They must stay on the byroads, the laneways, the cart tracks. How foolish to come so close then throw victory away.

Helfred, mollified by her private apology, proffered the princess no argument. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

Every day, twice a day, she danced the hotas with Zandakar. His training was merciless. She asked for no mercy. The time she spent learning emptied her mind of fret and care. It was escape, of a kind, from the cruel memories of all she’d lost and the fear of her uncertain future. When she was sweating, exhausted, humming with pain, it was harder to hear the clamouring voices of doubt.

Helfred, still disapproving but powerless to prevent her, assuaged his conscience by insisting on his presence at the training sessions. Rhian sighed and gave into him that far. It was easier, in the long run. She did snap at him, though, when he complained Zandakar was not treating her with the deference she was due.

“Helfred, I’m his pupil . This is how it works.”

“Your Highness, he strikes you!” Helfred turned pink. “On your—on the—it’s not seemly . I must protest.”

“I’m the one he’s striking, Helfred. If I’m not protesting then you can hold your tongue.”

Defeated, displeased, Helfred surrendered. Zandakar taught her the hotas and was taught in turn by Helfred, who was just as merciless in his way. Dexterity drove the wagon. Ursa made copious notes in her journal and gathered what healing plants she could find when time allowed.

The journey continued. They were anxious to end it.

Zandakar strode through the slow-falling night with the peddler’s van following and his heart empty of the god.

He was slowly becoming accustomed to its silence, becoming accustomed to the grinding ache of loneliness that had taken residence in his bones.

I am a clay man, with nothing inside me.

Behind him, Dexterity drove the horses and spoke of toymaking with Rhian. He was teaching her whittling. She was a woman who liked to learn. Her hotas were progressing, though she had come to them too late. Dexterity had lit the van’s torches, their pitchy smoke stank up the clean air and drifted among the branches of the close-growing trees.

I miss the open spaces of Mijak, the desolate plains and the hot red sands. This place is too wet, too green, too crowded. This place is not Mijak. I want to go home.

An evening breeze danced across his naked head, making him shiver. He wanted to grow his godbraids back, he did not like that his head was bare. Perhaps that was why the god was silent, because his godbraids had been cut off and burned and every three highsuns he shaved his head. No godbraids … no sacrifices … no blood for the god.

If Vortka could see me, aieee, it would be the scorpion wheel.

He had many words now, thanks to Helfred. He could explain to Dexterity that he must grow back his godbraids … except Dexterity would ask why and he was not ready to say. He was not ready to tell these people of the god, of Yuma, of Dmitrak with his smiting hand. Dexterity and Ursa and also Rhian, they smiled and they smiled but he was not safe here. Helfred never smiled, but Helfred did not count.

If I tell them my truth they might seek my life for it. Nor do I know what the god requires. I do not know if it wants me to tell them or if it wants me to hold my tongue.

Why it still mattered, he could not say. If the god had abandoned him why should he care for its desires? Why should he strive to work its will in the world? The god had his mother. The god had Dimmi. It had thrown away Zandakar. Why should he care?

It is something to care for. Without it I have nothing. I will be a clay man forever, with nothing inside me.

The breeze swirled around him. As well as pitchy smoke he smelled standing water and unknown flowers and something dead and decaying, some animal in the undergrowth. The breeze jinked into his face and he smelled something else.

Men. Unwashed men. They stink of danger. They stand in the shadows and wait for prey.

As he spun around, shouting, “Dexterity! Stop!” a rock soared out of the lowering gloom and took the horse Priddy hard in its face. The horse screamed and reared, throwing its harness-mate Star into panic. “Dexterity! Down! Down!” he shouted, and ran towards them.

Aieee, the god see me! No snakeblade, no slingshot, no bow and arrow of my own!

But Dexterity was clutching a stout wooden club. Where had it come from? “What is it? What’s happening, Zandakar? Good God, are they footpads?”

Footpads? Not a word he knew. That did not matter. He snatched a torch from the corner of the wagon and held out his hand. “Dexterity. Give!”

Dexterity looked at the wooden club, hesitated, then handed it over. “But Zandakar, there’s only one of you! Oh dear—” He pointed. “We’ll have to try running!”

Zandakar spun round again. Six men on foot, four held flaming torches, each one armed with a knife or sword. The two without torches held knives in both hands. Rough men, walking swiftly. Greed in their eyes.

Death in my eyes. They will not touch the god’s knife-dancer.

He heard Rhian say, “What is it? What—oh, Rollin save us!”

They will not touch Rhian. They will not touch anyone. These sinning wicked men will die.

“Zandakar, no! Zandakar, what are you—Jones, don’t just stand there, stop him!”

And of course that was Ursa, tumbled out of the van to tell everyone what to do. He paid no heed to her. Light on his feet he danced towards the rough men, the footpads, torch in one hand, club raised in the other. He did not say a word to them, he did not warn them or tell them to leave. They laughed to see him dance towards them. He was one man and they were six, why would they fear him?

You will fear me soon enough.

Without breaking stride he threw the club hard overarm, and the strongest man in the warband collapsed to the ground, his face bloody and pulped. The first one dead, he would not be the last. For three pounding heartbeats his five living enemies stared in shock. Three heartbeats was long enough to dance the dead man’s knife into his free hand, then into the throats of two more rough men.

Three dead … three to die.

They ran at him, howling. He dropped his own torch and showed them the striking falcon, the spinning blade, the stinging scorpion. He lost himself in the glory of the dance, he bathed himself in the blood of wicked men.

I am made flesh again! I am full of killing!

Hot blood dripped down his face, from his hands, soaked his arms and the front of his brown cotton shirt. Blood slathered the blades of the knives he held. At his feet sprawled the bodies of his defeated enemies, slashed and sundered. None of them breathing. Every godspark sent to hell.

He threw back his head and screamed to the godmoon and the godmoon’s shy wife, screamed to the strange stars they strode among.

“Aieee, the god see me! I am Zandakar, its warlord! I have slain its enemies. The god see me in its eye!”

Dear God. There’s so much blood …

Staring at the slaughtered robbers, Rhian felt her empty belly turn over. She’d never enjoyed the killing part of hunting. Fast riding cross-country on a good horse, that was exhilarating. But the actual blood and death of it? No, she’d hated that. Wrenching her sickened gaze from the gaping wounds, the tangle of entrails, the bloody gleam of shattered bone, she looked at Zandakar instead.

Zandakar, who did this.

He wasn’t even breathing heavily. And he was calm again now, after that savage cry of triumph. He stood in the road so self-contained, with a blood-clotted knife in each bloodsoaked hand. Completely and supremely self-possessed. He’d killed them so fast . They hadn’t stood a chance. Simple, stupid footpads thinking to prey on unsuspecting peddlers.

Prey on my people and take their safety from them.

She realised then, with a cold stab of surprise, she wasn’t sorry the men were dead. Not knowing who she was they would have stolen from her. Maybe raped her. Maybe even killed her, and Dexterity and Ursa and Helfred.