The Godspeaker Trilogy (114 page)

Oh, Alasdair . She shifted in her saddle and beckoned to Adric.

“Majesty?” he said, riding up to her other side.

She nodded ahead. “So here is your duchy, Duke Adric of Kingseat. Does it please you?”

Adric surveyed the landscape with avid, glowing eyes. “Your Majesty, it does.”

Even after Volant’s proxy wooing for him and these long days on the road, she hardly knew Duke Rudi’s son. When duty had called him to Kingseat in the past he’d spent his time with Ranald and Simon and any other young noblemen who’d been at court at the time. Simon had quite liked him but they’d never been boon companions.

“Prince Ranald was loved in Kingseat,” she said. “He made a fine duke. He would’ve been a great king. It’s a precious gift I’ve given you, Adric. I pray you don’t lose sight of that.”

He nodded. “I won’t, Your Majesty. How I’ll repay you I don’t—”

“You can repay me by not twisting your future goodfather’s tail,” she said. “And by continuing your loyalty to the House of Havrell.”

“I will,” said Adric. “Your Majesty … about Lord Volant …”

“I have promised Rudi and I promise you no less: if Lord Volant is hurt by Marlan on my behalf, then he and your family shall be avenged.”

“Thank you,” Adric whispered. “My father has been most distressed.”

She led her retinue forward then, with Alasdair by her right hand and Adric by her left. She led them in silence, not because Adric wished to stop speaking but because she did.

So many small powers, when one is a queen. When I was a princess I did not have so many. I was a princess but still I was outranked. Now no-one outranks me. I stand above all. How easy it would be to abuse my position. Perhaps I should be grateful for Helfred. Little chance of abuse with him harping in my ear.

“Something amuses?” said Alasdair.

She shook her head. “No.”

“But you were smiling,” he insisted. “What—”

“It was nothing. I told you.”

She used her voice like a whip. Adric stared at the fields, uncomfortable, as Alasdair closed his mouth tight and rested his gaze on his horse’s ears.

See, Adric? This is what being married to a queen is like. I’ll bet you’re hardly disappointed now …

On they rode, as the sun shone brightly and climbed behind them.

O
f all the duchies, Kingseat knew Rhian best. Loved her best. Opened its arms widest and took her the deepest into its heart. Although word of Dexterity’s miracles had reached Kingseat long before her arrival, they weren’t required to sway the people to her cause. Love of Eberg’s daughter burned as hot as any flame.

Which was just as well, as it turned out. After two more days of miracles Mr Jones was so poorly Ursa forbade him setting foot beyond the van.

“He’s burned to the socket for you, Majesty,” the physick said, with no great deference. “Three-quarters killed himself. I don’t know who’s got me angrier: you or his dead wife. Now you’d best reconcile yourself. Jones’ miracles are over. He won’t be doing any more.”

Rhian went to see him. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his sunken eyes too bright. “Forgive me. I’ve failed you. I just—I can’t—”

“No,” she said, and kissed him. “The failure’s mine, Dexterity, not to see how ill you are. You’ve done more than I asked for. More than I deserve. You rest now. It’s time I did this on my own.” She kissed him again. “Just listen to Ursa and get well. Don’t worry about me, I’ll—”

But he’d fallen asleep, so thin, so pale. Terrified, she kissed him a third time and left to sweat her fears out with the
hotas .

And continued the next day without Dexterity’s miracles.

Undeterred, the people of her duchy’s towns and villages thronged their streets, lined the country laneways, shouted and shouted and shouted her name. Their wild acclaim lifted her, bore her gently aloft.

“Rhian! Rhian! God bless Queen Rhian and her king, Alasdair!”

A few stubborn venerables and chaplains tried to denounce her. They were roughly cast aside. The handful of citizens who spoke against her quickly regretted it. Emboldened by her people’s welcome, Rhian grasped every chance to speak to them herself. In village marketplaces, in larger town squares, in crowded thoroughfares and from horseback on common grazing lands, she raised her voice in thanks for their devotion. Reminded them of their duty to the Crown. Gave them their new duke, Adric, who would love them and speak for them at court. Encouraged their resistance against false authorities.

“Revere God,” she instructed, “and live by Rollin’s teachings. As your lawful queen I insist upon that. But don’t think to set the Church
above Ethrea’s law. That way lies calamity. Obey the law in your lives and God in your hearts. That is the recipe for a peaceful, prosperous kingdom. Eberg knew that and aren’t I Eberg’s daughter?”

She halted her party and spoke so often that a journey of four days stretched to eight. She spoke to so many excited crowds she would have lost her voice but for Ursa’s foul-tasting concoctions and her protective council’s insistence upon rest.

The last township they stopped at was historic Old Scooton, the birthplace of Rollin. It lay a scant two hours from Kingseat capital. There, after another rousing address and a reception from the people that made her laugh with joy, she was invited to sleep the night in rough splendour at Old Scooton’s best inn, a guest of the town council. What she ached for was peace and quiet, a chance to collect herself without an eager audience. But she was queen now. Solitude was a luxury she might never again afford. So she accepted the invitation and resigned herself to noise and crowding and a magnificent banquet she could barely bring herself to touch.

Afterwards, having eaten too little and drunk too much of the inn’s oak-aged red wine, she sat in her guest chamber’s armchair by the window and stared through the glass at the waxing twin moons.

“We’ll reach the capital tomorrow,” said Alasdair. “It will be a momentous day. You should sleep.”

He was already in bed, propped up with pillows. Now they were in Kingseat there was no reason for them to sleep apart. Indeed the sooner she gave Ethrea an heir the happier, it seemed, her council would be. She agreed. It would certainly be prudent.

But for her to fall pregnant she and Alasdair must make love … and since their quarrel over Zandakar he’d not even kissed her lips.

Inexperienced as I am, even I know that’s a problem.

She didn’t look at him. “I’m not tired.”

“Not tired? You’re exhausted.”

“I meant I’m not sleepy. I’ve a thousand worries playing hide-and-seek in my head.”

“Forget them. Come and play hide-and-seek with me, instead.”

Now she looked at him. “What?”

“I miss you,” he said simply. In the lamplight he looked grave. Almost a stranger. “I know there is much still to say, to forgive, for both of us, but for tonight, Rhian … please. Be my wife.”

How could she refuse him? If she let hurt feelings threaten their future surely she didn’t deserve to be queen.

He loved her tenderly. Gently. His care made her weep. Cradled in his arms afterwards, his hand stroking her growing hair and their quarrel a memory, she felt safe and at peace for the first time since her father had told her he was dying. A lifetime ago, now. The pain of a Rhian who no longer existed.

Papa. Ranald. Simon. Until this quiet moment the most important men in my life. I wonder what they’d think of me if they were here. I wonder if Papa imagined their deaths would wreak such change.

“You’re thinking again,” said Alasdair, his voice drowsy.

She spread her fingers against his warm chest. “I can’t help it.”

“Still sorry you married me?”

“
Sorry? Alasdair, I was never
sorry . I only ever wanted to marry you.”

His hand stroked her hair, but there was tension in it. “You didn’t fight for me, Rhian.”

She pulled back to stare at him. “Papa was dying! Every minute we shared was precious. How could I spoil that time with arguments, how could I exhaust what was left of his strength? What if I’d killed him, fighting for you?”

He tightened his arms until she laid against him again. “You’d never have forgiven yourself. Or me.”

“And what about you?” she said, still stung. “You didn’t fight for me, did you? You didn’t even write. You passed that message of condolence through Henrik and after that, nothing.”

He flinched at her mention of his uncle’s name. “Your father forbade me contacting you again when I formally requested permission to leave court and return home. He said my suit would never prosper. ‘
Linfois make adequate dukes but as husbands they leave a great deal to be desired .’ He said it would be unwise to dispute him so I didn’t. We both knew what he meant by that.”

So did she, but … “I can’t believe Papa would’ve stripped you of the dukedom.”

He sighed. “You say. The dukedom was my father’s legacy. I had no right to risk it, not even for you. For all I knew Eberg had left written instructions for after his death. And when I heard you were entertaining suits from the other dukes, and from Marlan, when I didn’t receive any word from you …”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Alasdair kissed her forehead. “We should’ve talked of this before.”

She rubbed her cheek against him. “We’re talking now.”

“Yes, when we should be sleeping. We’ll face Marlan tomorrow. We need to rest.”

He turned down the lamp and plunged the chamber into darkness.

But sleep wouldn’t come. Even as Alasdair’s breathing deepened and slowed Rhian stared at the ceiling, her mind relentlessly clear and tumbling with thoughts. Henrik. Lords Harley and Volant. Damwin and Kyrin. Helfred. Dexterity. The looming confrontation with Marlan.

If he refuses to yield to me is my cause lost? Must I ask the other nations to support me against him? And if I do that … will I lose more than I gain?

Suddenly the chamber was too small, its ceiling too close. She needed air. She was going to suffocate in here. Trembling, she eased herself out of Alasdair’s embrace.

“What are you doing?” he muttered as she rummaged for her boy’s clothing.

“Going down to the stables,” she said, dressing. “I didn’t give Invincible his late-night tidbit.”

“Tidbit?” Groaning, he sat up. “Rhian—”

“It’s his little treat. He’ll be looking for it. I’ll hurt his feelings if I don’t go down.”

Another groan. “Damned spoiled horse. All right. But I’m coming with you.”

“
No, Alasdair!” She laced up her shirt. “Please. I’ve not belonged to myself since I ran from the clerica. After tomorrow I never will. It’s not that I don’t want you. I just want myself more. For a little time. The last time. A few moments of fresh air, alone. A small simple gesture, feeding my horse. Like I did when I was still a girl and life wasn’t so… difficult.”

Slowly, he lay down again, his sleepy eyes understanding. “Don’t be long.”

“I won’t,” she promised. “Go back to sleep.”

“I’ll sleep when you’re beside me.”

Habit had her belting her knife around her hips. After so long training with Zandakar she felt naked without it. Then she stamped into her short boots, shrugged on her coat and took an apple from the guest chamber’s fruit bowl. “Back soon.”

She trod softly downstairs and let herself out into the rear courtyard where the stables were. The inn and its other inhabitants were slumbering. It was late. Or early. Tomorrow was a handful of hours away. The air was cool but not unpleasant, the night sky deeply black and full of stars. Moonlight draped the world in silver gauze. Beautiful. So beautiful.

I’ve had no time for beauty. There’s been time for nothing but running and fear.

Invincible tossed his head when he saw her, offended at being kept waiting for so long. She unsheathed her knife and cut the apple into quarters. “My apologies for the delay, sir,” she murmured, feeding him.

The horse crunched his tidbit, head nodding in appreciation. Smiling, she smoothed his broad, satiny cheek. A whisper of sound in the shadows behind her. Hard hands clutching her shoulders, turning her. Grasping fingers around her throat. Invincible snorted and kicked at the wall.

“Miserable bitch!” her assailant spat on a cloud of bad breath.
“God’s rank enemy beneath the sun! You poison this kingdom! In Marlan’s name I send you to hell where the spawn of devils like you belong!”

Ven’Martin.

Until the moment she felt the blade bite through cloth and flesh Rhian had no idea she’d used her knife. No memory of dancing herself free of her assailant, driving him to his knees and impaling him on tempered steel, just as she’d been ruthlessly schooled.

Kneeling with him on the cobbles, bathed in gauzy moonlight and close enough to kiss, she saw Ven’Martin’s face twist in a grimace of shock and pain. His wolfish green eyes were blank with shock.

“But—but—”

With a soft sigh he slid off her knife and thudded on the cobbles like a sack of wheat falling from a wagon. A thread of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He blinked. Blinked again. His hands pressed the hole she’d made in his belly, turning scarlet. They spasmed. Spasmed. He coughed weakly, blood bubbles bursting. Smoothly, like poured oil, she rose to her feet, her knife-blade crimson in the moonlight, and watched the wasted life fade from his face.