The Godspeaker Trilogy (97 page)

“Thank you,” he said, his mouth shrivelled, and handed the empty vial back.

“Don’t suppose you’ve seen the prin—the queen today, have you?” said Ursa, washing the vial clean in the privy basin on its stand under the window.

“No. But then I was outside and—and sleeping a good few hours.” The lie stung him a second time. He thrust the pain aside. “Besides, they are newly married, Ursa. They’ll want a day to themselves, I’m thinking.”

She sniffed. “A day, perhaps. But no longer. We’ve a kingdom in crisis and dukes arriving soon. This is no time for dalliance, Jones. She’s a long, rocky road ahead of her. She needs her wits sharp.”

“I think she knows what’s ahead of her, Ursa.” Some of it, anyway. “It’s because of what’s ahead of her she needs this one day.”

“I know,” said Ursa. She put the cleaned vial aside to dry then perched on the end of her enormous four-poster bed. “And I don’t mind telling you, Jones … what’s ahead of her’s got me nervous. It’s all very well her standing up in that tiny manor-house chapel in front of a handful of servants and nobodies and declaring herself queen, but a queen’s only queen when the dukes and the Church say she is. And Prolate Marlan’s not going to say so. Helfred might’ve had the law on his side when he married the girl to Alasdair but he’s not got the power to declare her queen.”

Dexterity perched on the bed beside her. “He doesn’t need it, Ursa. There’s no law that says Rhian can’t rule. She’s Eberg’s heir, that’s the start and finish of it.”

“Tcha. Law . What’s the law when you’ve tradition behind you, Jones? What’s the law when the Church says you’ve done the wrong thing? I tell you, we’ve landed ourselves in an ugly business. I don’t like it. I wish we were home.”

He put his arm around her shoulders. “And if we were home, Ursa, who’d’ve saved those poor villagers from a nasty case of scaleytoe?”

“Stop humouring me,” she said, and shrugged his arm away. “I won’t be humoured, Jones. I’m right to be worried.”

He sighed. “What’s going to happen will happen. We just have to have faith.”

“Hark at him!” said Ursa, snorting. “Have faith, he says, a man who’s not set foot in Church for twenty years!”

“What are you talking about? I was in a church yesterday.”

She glowered. “You know what I mean, Jones.”

He rarely saw her this upset. Putting his arm around her again, he let his cheek rest on the top of her head. “Yes. I know. But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong. Things are stirring here, grand things, frightening things, that we don’t understand, or aren’t meant to know of yet. But we’re on the right side of them, Ursa. We’re fighting for good, you and me. We’re fighting for Ethrea. We must hold on to that.”

“You’re getting philosophical in your old age, Jones,” said Ursa. She didn’t shrug him away this time. “I don’t like it. Next thing I know you’ll be on your knees in a church properly, and then I’ll have to take to my bed.”

He kissed her hair. He’d never done that before. It’s because I feel guilty . “You should take to your bed anyway. You look tired. Why not sleep awhile, before the servants call us for dinner?”

“Do you know, Jones? I think I might,” she said. “Treating scaleytoe is no simple business. And what’s more, I’ll say the same to you. Get some rest. Potion or no potion you still look like your donkey died.”

He took her advice. In his own room, with the door closed, he sagged onto his bed, aching as though he’d just tumbled down a hill. The weight of what he knew, now, was enough to grind his bones to dust. The weight of his promises. The weight of Zandakar’s terrible secret …

Oh, Hettie, my darling. I hope I’ve done the right thing.

“Alasdair … Alasdair, tell me I’m doing the right thing,” whispered Rhian.

In the bed Alasdair shifted, mumbling. In her chair by the window, dressed again in her boy’s clothes, Rhian stared at the plain, bony lines of his face and wished she could lay her cheek against his. Wished his bed was hers so when she opened her eyes tomorrow morning the first thing she’d see was his sleeping face.

But that couldn’t be. Not yet. The marriage had been consummated, as was only prudent. A fumbling affair with much awkwardness on both sides. Not … unpleasant, however. At least not entirely. And there’d been certain hints that things might improve upon practice.

Though when we’ll get to that practice I’ve no idea.

Because from tonight she and her new husband would sleep apart until the matter of her right to rule was settled. They had to. The last thing she needed was to fall pregnant when she could be facing civil war. There were herbs, Ursa said, and had given some to her, but herbs weren’t always reliable. She needed reliable. She didn’t need complications.

My life is complicated enough as it is.

The dukes would be arriving tomorrow, and she would face them as Ethrea’s uncrowned queen. If they supported her, if they recognised her right to rule as Eberg’s legitimate heir, she might just manage to keep the kingdom together in the face of Marlan’s certain opposition and the rallied opposition of his widespread Church. If they didn’t …

It will be civil war. Ethrean turned against Ethrean. Blood will be spilled.

“Alasdair,” she whispered. “Please. I need to know. Am I being unreasonable? Greedy? Spoilt? Should I stop this now before it truly begins?” Renounce her right to rule. Let the House of Havrell’s time come to a quiet end. Live out her days in duchy Linfoi as a simple duchess and let the dukes fight it out amongst themselves to make a new king.

Would that even be possible? Or would I just be a lightning rod for trouble? I don’t know, I don’t know.

“You’re my husband, Alasdair. Tell me what to do!”

Alasdair snuffled, and pulled the blankets over his head.

Right. Yes. Thank you. That’s enormously helpful.

Except … he was right. She was Ethrea’s queen. It wasn’t his place to tell her what to do. And if he tried he’d only make her angry. He knew that. In many ways he knew her better than anyone ever had. Knew her. Loved her. And she loved him. Even if things were strained between them …

Everything’s happening too fast, that’s the problem. And there’s too much trouble brewing that he wasn’t prepared for. And with his father newly dead …

Beyond the curtained windows the light was slowly fading. Restless, lost, she unfolded herself from the deep velvet chair and slipped from the chamber. Manor servants about their business curtsied as she passed. Nodding brief acknowledgement, she trounced lightly down the staircase to the ground-floor reception hall then outside into the approaching dusk.

Zandakar was in the gardens, dancing, the slow, steady limbering steps that warmed the body so it could tolerate the more energetic hotas without injury. He turned, hearing her approach, and stopped. Acknowledged her with a brief dip of his head. He’d stopped shaving it, so now a blue sheen shimmered. So odd. She wondered if she should order him to shave it again, to make him less conspicuous.

Perhaps she would. But not yet. In truth she was curious to see what it would look like, grown …

“Rhian,” he said, one eyebrow lifted.

“Zandakar.” She frowned. “Is something the matter? You look …” Wrong. Somehow upset. Beneath his familiar composure she could sense a deep unquiet. And there was something in his eyes … “Are you all right?”

“ Zho . All right.”

“You’re sure?” she said, unconvinced. “No-one’s been bothering you, have they? No-one’s made you feel unwelcome? Because you’re part of my retinue. I won’t have you made to feel unwelcome just because you’re… different.”

“ Wei . Zandakar all right.”

Relieved, she smiled at him. “Good. That’s good.” She slid her knife from its sheath on her belt and pressed her fist to her heart in the ritual of pupil to master. “May I join you?”

“Where is king?”

“Asleep. Why? What does Alasdair have to do with the hotas ?”

The look he gave her was gently derisive. What do you think?

She lifted her chin. “I do what I will, Zandakar. I do what I must, to prepare myself for the struggle ahead. The hotas make me strong. They help me focus. When I dance the hotas I’m not a woman. I am Ethrea’s queen. Do you understand?”

He almost smiled. “Zho.”

“Good. Then may I join you?”

Instead of answering he flowed once more into the first set pattern, an easy gliding sidestep and stretching of arm. She followed his lead. Tried to let the now-familiar steps take control of her body and calm her unquiet, doubt-plagued mind.

Her mind refused to be calmed.

“Zandakar,” she murmured, sweeping her knife in a slow, smooth arc, “how does it feel to kill a man?”

He spared her a single disapproving glance. “You want hotas ? Dance hotas . You want to talk? Talk another place.”

“Zandakar, please. I need to know.”

“Why?”

She abandoned the hotas and stood before him. “Because I’m afraid if I can’t convince the dukes who are coming here that I am the rightful Queen of Ethrea, there will be fighting. Not just with words, but with knives. With other weapons. I might have to fight, Zandakar, to keep what is rightfully mine. I might have to kill. I have never killed. Do you understand?”

With a sigh, he stopped dancing. “Rhian …”

“It doesn’t seem to trouble you. Killing,” she persisted. “Is that because you’re a warrior? Have you killed so many you can’t feel any more? If I kill, will I stop feeling? And if I do can I still be a good queen? What is a good queen? If I truly love Ethrea should I even be doing this? Should I be risking civil breakdown, putting our treaties with the trading nations at risk? Putting Ethrea’s future and sovereignty at risk? And do you have any idea what I’m saying? Or would I be better off asking these questions of a tree?”

Zandakar frowned. “Trees talk in Ethrea?”

Despite her rising distress, she had to laugh. “No. Of course not.” She shook herself. “I’m sorry. Never mind me. You’re just a warrior, how could you possibly understand?” She held up her knife. “Let’s continue, shall we?”

But he didn’t resume the hotas . Instead he considered her with his pale, piercing eyes. “Rhian … not easy, be queen. You want queen, you fight.” His clenched fist struck his chest, above his heart. “You hard here. You afraid to fight, you afraid to kill, you no queen. You die. Ethrea die. You want to die?”

“No. Of course not!”

He shrugged. “Then fight. Kill. That is queen.”

“Where you come from, perhaps! Wherever that is. But not here ! Not in Ethrea !”

Another shrug. “All places, Rhian. All places men are men. Men want, men take. You want stop?” He raised his knife. “This stop.”

She stared at him, appalled. Dear God, is he right? There’s been peace in this kingdom for so long … The treatied nations, they fight all the time. Small squabbles, bloody conflicts. Battles over land, religion, over trading routes, over husbands and wives, over who sells what thing of value to whom and for how much. But not here. Here we’ve been spared that for hundreds of years.

Until now, perhaps. Because of me.

“Zandakar,” she whispered. “ Tell me . What does it feel like to kill?”

He sighed. “Kill bad, Rhian.”

She shivered as a chill skittered over her skin. The look in his eyes … “Even when there’s no other choice? When it’s an enemy who wants to destroy you? Even when you’re killing for the greater good?”

“Always bad, Rhian,” said Zandakar. “For you.”

“Why for me?” she said, stung. “Because I’m a woman?”

The strangest look came into his eyes, then. Sorrow and shadows. A memory? Perhaps. Something unpleasant if it was. He shook his head, his lips curved in a sad smile. “ Wei . Because you Rhian.”

Strangely she found his comment comforting. The idea that anyone could get used to killing … or worse still, could en joy it … “I don’t want killing to be good, Zandakar,” she whispered. “I don’t want to kill at all. But I’m afraid that to save Ethrea I might have to.”

“Kill bad, zho, ” he agreed. Then he shrugged, with a cold, resigned fatalism. “Rhian … die worse.”

And that was it, wasn’t it? Really, when all was said and done? Sometimes, in the end, it was desperately simple. Kill or be killed . There was nothing else.

She looked at the dagger in her hand. Felt its weight. Its promise. “Come on, then,” she said, and turned to face him. “What are we doing, standing here talking? Let’s dance our hotas . Let’s prepare for death.”

A
lasdair was in the library, going through the manor-house ledger a final time, when his cousin was ushered into the room.

“Ludo!” He shoved back his chair and went to greet him. “It’s grand to see you.”

“And you, Alasdair,” said Ludo. “Though the occasion lacks joy.”

They embraced, then Alasdair looked to Sardre, still standing in the doorway. “You have need of me?”

“Word from the venerable house, Your Grace,” said Sardre. “The venerables and chaplains will be arriving within the hour to make preparations.”

He nodded. “Very good. See that all is ready for them.” And make certain our unusual guests are safely tucked away in their rooms, out of sight .

Sardre nodded, hearing perfectly the unspoken command. “I shall see to everything, Your Grace.”

And he would. It was, as ever, thank God for Sardre . As the door closed behind him, Alasdair turned back to his cousin. Tall, lean and elegantly attired, the jest between them had always been that Ludo had inherited the Linfoi charm and good looks, leaving nothing but the title for poor old Alasdair. And now he’ll have everything. If he wants it. If he stands by me . “I appreciate you coming early, Ludo.”

“Nonsense! I’d’ve come days ago, if you’d asked for me,” said Ludo, throwing himself into one of the two chairs by the window. “But you always were one to lick your wounds alone.”

Alasdair took the other chair. “Yes. Ludo, have you heard from your father recently?”

“Yesterday,” said Ludo, nodding. “He’s sorely distressed at not being here, Alasdair. You don’t bear him ill will for staying in Kingseat, do you?”

“Of course not. I need him in Kingseat. I need his voice on the council. His eyes and ears. My uncle is a canny bird.”