The Godspeaker Trilogy (103 page)

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said, bowing. “Quite unharmed, it seems. Although I’ve no memory of what I said or did in the Great Hall. Ursa seems to think it was … miraculous.”

“Miraculous indeed,” said Helfred. Like Sardre, awed respect shone in his eyes. “A harbinger of God sent softly among us.”

“Was there something you wanted?” asked Rhian.

She looked different. He’d grown used to her in rough boy’s clothing, woollen hose and a hardspun shirt. He knew how to speak easily with that Rhian. But this one … grander even than the Rhian in Kingseat … by far more royal and infinitely less approachable …

He felt his cheeks heat. “Ah. Yes. Well. Ursa mentioned you were discussing what happens next …”

“Yes?” she prompted. “You have a suggestion?” The question earned her sharp looks but she paid no attention. “Speak your mind, Dexterity. Your counsel is invaluable.”

“That’s very good of you, Your Majesty. Can I ask if you’ve decided how soon you intend returning to Kingseat?”

“As soon as we can,” she said. “Before Marlan has a chance to turn the whole Church against me. There are some attendant matters to deal with first but when they’re concluded we’ll take a river-barge and—”

“No, Your Majesty,” he said.

King Alasdair’s eyebrows rose. “ No? Mr Jones—”

Heart pounding, he nodded. “That’s right. I’m sorry. No. We have to go by road again.”

“Dexterity, we can’t,” said Rhian gently. “It would take too long. I can’t give Marlan time to—”

“We must,” he said, and stepped closer. “Hettie said.”

She exchanged a glance with the king. “Hettie. I see.”

Duke Edward leaned forward. “I don’t. Who’s this Hettie and why should we care what she has to say?”

“Edward,” said Rhian, one hand lifted in warning. “It’s sufficient that I say we should.” She nodded. “Very well. We go by road.”

The dukes gaped at her. Then Rudi of Arbat banged his fist on his knee. “I can’t accept this. It’s far too high-handed. If we’re to be your council you must consult with us before—”

“Gentlemen,” said Rhian, coldly. “‘Council’ is not another word for ‘men who tell me what I shall and shan’t do’. Is that understood?”

The affronted silence was broken by a snort of laughter from the window. “Well, Alasdair, you always said she was Eberg’s daughter,” said Duke Ludo. “And God knows she’ll need strength if we’re to bring this mad business to a good end.”

“Strength, yes,” said Rhian. She wasn’t smiling. “And faith. And unbending resolve. I can’t waver from my purpose, gentlemen, and neither can you. God knows we’ll have enemies enough ranged against us.” One by one she looked at them, and one by one they nodded.

Dexterity felt his spirits lift. You were right, Hettie. She’s special, is Rhian. So you use me however you see fit if that means it puts her on the throne .

“Was there anything else, Mr Jones?” said Rhian, politely dismissive.

He bowed. “No, Your Majesty. With your permission I’ll leave you to your privy business.”

“You have it,” she said, her eyes warm with affection. “We’ll talk again tomorrow. I hope you pass a restful night.”

“And you, Majesty.” He bowed again. “King Alasdair. Your Graces. Chaplain. Good night.”

Escaping the royal presence, he nodded his way past Sardre then stopped and turned back. His belly was grumbling but before he sought the kitchen to assuage its complaints …

“Sardre, would you know where Zandakar might be?”

Sardre frowned. “The last I saw of him he was in the garden performing his …”

“ Hotas . Are you saying he’s not come in? Because it’s dark, you know.”

“I’m saying I’ve not seen him,” said Sardre, ruthlessly correct.

Which, since this was Sardre, was the same as saying Zandakar had remained outside.

Odd. Most odd.

“Thank you,” Dexterity said, and went off to find him.

The manor’s godhouse was small and clean. No tang of blood. No sign of devotion with knife and sacred beast. How did these people summon their god to them without blood? Without sacrifice? Why would their god believe in them when all they did was kneel and talk? How could they believe in their god when it never revealed itself in the world?

Zandakar frowned. Except Ursa says it did reveal itself this highsun. Through Dexterity, who is made a true godspeaker. I wish I had seen that. I would like to see this Ethrean god. I would like to know if it has more power than mine .

On the chapel’s wall the Ethrean god’s flame burned. It burned because there was a wick in a pot of oil, secreted inside the wall. Dexterity had told him when he asked. Pots of oil . That was a human thing. That was no godly sign. No stinging scorpions. No godspeakers with their smiting hands. No sacrificed lambs that puffed into dust. Nothing in this soft green Ethrea said a god was here with its power and rage.

And yet in this small clean room he felt at peace. More at peace than anywhere in Mijak. The peace of Harjha, that was in this place. Still and quiet so his godspark might rest.

I feel so weary. I do not know who I am.

Since that time in the woodland, when he had told Dexterity about Yuma and the god and the warhost of Mijak he had held his breath, he had waited for death. Dexterity said, I will keep your secret, but why would he do that? He was a soft man, he wept for dead people, the truth had angered him. Such anger in his eyes.

He says I must be warlord for Ethrea. The god’s hammer for Ethrea. But what does the god want? I still do not know …

He heard the chapel door open behind him, and turned on the wooden seat Helfred said was called a pew .

Dexterity.

“You’re in here ?” said the toymaker. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere . What are you doing in here ?”

He got to his feet, slowly. Since the woodland, Dexterity had not wanted to see him, had not wanted to speak with him. Since the woodland, Dexterity had been cold.

He shrugged. “Chapel quiet. Quiet good, zho? ”

“ Zho . Quiet good.” Dexterity walked towards him, his face was a frown. “Zandakar, I saw Dmitrak.”

Dimmi? He saw Dimmi? How could he see Dimmi? Was the warhost here, was it come to Ethrea already?

“ Wei, Zandakar!” said Dexterity, alarmed, and reached a hand to his arm. “ Wei here. In a dream. Hettie showed me.”

“ Wei here?”

“In a dream,” said Dexterity. “Put the knife away.”

Heart pounding, he slid the knife back through his belt. “What dream? Why?”

Dexterity slumped into the nearest pew. “I think she wanted me to know exactly what we’re facing. I think she wanted to remind me … how important you are.”

“You saw Dimmi?”

“Zho.” Dexterity nodded. There were tears in his eyes. “Your brother. He has red hair, zho? In braids, down his back?” Dexterity patted his own hair to show what he meant.

Red. He knew red. “ Zho . Dimmi has red hair.”

“And he wore this strange gauntlet …”

Gauntlet . He did not know that word. But then Dexterity raised his right arm, fingers fisted, and he held it in front of him and his face was fierce.

The god’s hammer. Dexterity has seen its power.

“The people, Zandakar,” Dexterity whispered, his arm dropping to his lap. “Good God, the poor people. Burned. All burned. And cut open, by his warriors. And the buildings, his power struck them and they flew apart, like—like sand ! Who can stand against that? Hettie says you can … but how? You don’t have a gauntlet. We don’t have a gauntlet. There are thousands of them, Zandakar. Your brother and his warriors. Thousands and thousands. They’re like locusts . They’re a plague .”

Locusts. Plague . He did not know those words. But he could see in Dexterity’s face they were bad things. “ Yatzhay, Dexterity.”

“Dmitrak wasn’t yatzhay, ” said Dexterity, growling. “He was pleased. He praised his warriors. And they chanted. They chanted. Chalava! Chalava! Chalava zho! ” He shuddered, then dragged his hand hard down his face. “A little town called Garabatsas. Destroyed. Smoke and ash. Nothing left. All dead.”

The chant was unknown to Zandakar, Dimmi must have made it. It sounded like Dimmi, all bravado and rage. He did not know Garabatsas. Dimmi was making his way in the world. He was riding closer …

“How far Garabatsas?”

“Not far enough.” Another shudder. “I’ve seen what will happen to Ethrea if we can’t stop Dimmi. Stop your mother. Hekat .”

He felt his heart constrict. “Dexterity saw Yuma?”

Dexterity shoved to his feet and wandered restless round the chapel. “No. I saw enough without seeing her too.” He made a sound like a laugh, except it was full of pain. “God help me, Zandakar. Your brother. If you told me you loved him I—I think I’d—” He covered his eyes with one hand. “It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.” But then he stopped and took his hand from his face. “That was you once, wasn’t it? Mijak’s chotzu ? The chalava-hagra ? What I saw Dimmi do to Garabatsas … that’s what you did to Targa? To Zree? To those other places?”

There was scorpion pain in Dexterity’s voice, his face, his eyes. Dexterity was a hurting man.

Slowly, Zandakar nodded. “ Zho . Those places. But wei Na’ha’leima.”

Dexterity flinched. “And that makes a difference, does it?” Then he sighed. “Yes. I suppose it does. Dear God. I’m a toymaker . I’m not meant to know these things …”

Zandakar owed this small sad man his life, but what was there he could say or do that would ease his pain? “Dexterity …”

Dexterity looked up. “Zho?”

“ Yatzhay, Garabatsas.”

For many heartbeats Dexterity stood there, silent. “I know you are, Zandakar,” he said at last. “God help me, so am I.” Then he straightened his spine, he put on his strong face and showed the world he was a man. “I’m yatzhay, and I’m so hungry my stomach thinks my throat’s been—” He stopped. “No. Perhaps not.” He crooked a finger. “Come on. We should go. They’ll be wondering where we are.”

Not moving, Zandakar watched him start for the chapel door. “Dexterity. Garabatsas. You tell Rhian? You tell king?”

“Wei,” said Dexterity, pausing, and shaking his head. “It’s not time. Garabatsas is our secret. What’s one more after all, with so many held between us?”

Dexterity kept on walking, and this time Zandakar followed.

M
arlan’s chamber-servant woke him in the early hours before dawn, whispering: “Eminence? Your Eminence? A letter has come.”

All his life he’d been a light sleeper. During his novitiate it had earned him an unwarranted reputation for piety; driven to distraction by the dreaming snores and snorts of fourteen other boys he’d often be found studying his Admonitions by candlelight. It never occurred to the venerables it was because the novices were permitted nothing else to read.

Wrapped in a silk robe, the servant dismissed, he sat pooled in lamplight and stared at the folded message. He didn’t need to open it to know it was from Ven’Martin. The swift, spiky penstrokes directing the letter to Prolate Marlan’s attention belonged to no other man and the outside of the paper, spoiled a little from its journey by carrier pigeon, was imprinted with the Linfoi venerable house’s mark, a salmon leaping over the Living Flame.

He broke the letter’s cracked wax seal.

Eminence, you are betrayed. Helfred has released Eberg’s brat from her wardship and married her to Alasdair Linfoi. She styles herself queen and is claiming miracles in God’s name. The dukes of Hartshorn and Meercheq stand strong for God, the others are corrupted. I will do whatever you command. Advise me, I beg you, that I might serve God and you. Martin.

He watched as his fingers crushed the letter to ruin. Red spots of rage danced before his eyes. He felt empty, light-headed, his bones made friable and his blood turned to acid.

I will destroy Helfred for this. I will destroy them both.

He wrote a reply to Ven’Martin.

She will attempt a return to Kingseat. Finance yourself from the Linfoi house Treasury and follow her. Inform me daily of her progress. Do not alert her to your presence—and leave Helfred to me. He shall be chastised. What do you mean, she is claiming miracles?

Next he wrote instructions to the Most Venerable Artemis, then summoned his chamber-servant with a shout.

“Have these letters dispatched immediately to the Linfoi venerable house. And send for Ven’Barto. I would see him at once.”

The chamber-servant bowed and took the letters. “Yes, Your Eminence.”

While he waited for Martin’s barely adequate replacement to arrive, he dressed himself in his most severely sumptuous vestments. These heinous crimes were not mere personal attacks. Helfred and Rhian had assaulted the Church … and the Church’s physical embodiment would meet their perfidy dressed in splendour from head to toe. Silk and pearls and gold and rubies: this was the armour of God’s chosen Prolate.

A bleary Ven’Barto arrived in due course and was sent smartly on his way to rouse the sleeping members of the Court Ecclesiastica. Helfred must be judged and tried and condemned. Then would come Rhian’s turn, in the Court Ecclesiastica and the King’s Council chamber.

Challenge me, would you? Think to strike me down? Fools. You shall not escape me. There is no corner of Ethrea that will hide you from my wrath.

The Court Ecclesiastica comprised the kingdom’s prolate and ten learned Most Venerables. The venerables’ outcry when he sorrowfully informed them of Helfred and Rhian’s blasphemy was something of a balm to his lacerated pride. Standing in the court’s chamber on the highest floor of his palace, surrounded by oak and velvet and gilt, he waited for their shocked protests to subside.

“Imagine my dismay, brothers,” he said, and let his voice tremble. “My nephew, my own flesh and blood, corrupted in this hideous fashion. Indeed I must wonder if I am still fit to lead you, so deceived as I am. My judgement must be suspect.”

Most Venerable Thomas creaked to his feet. An old man, and doddering, with a touching faith in his prolate’s unimpeachable pronouncements. “God forbid such words on your lips again, Eminence! You are our prolate, the Father of our Church. Was not Rollin himself deceived by wicked men? The fault lies not in you but in the perfidy of Helfred’s stained soul, and in the wretched arrogance of a girl ruined in her childhood.”