The Godspeaker Trilogy (133 page)

Ludo arrived just before noon the next day, while she and the privy council were hammering out the final details of the judicial combat and its staging in the castle grounds. He was shown to the council chamber and admitted at once.

“Ludo!” said Rhian, greeting him with a sisterly kiss on each cheek. “Welcome back to Kingseat. Not so long since we saw you last, at the coronation, and still it feels an age. Your journey was uneventful?”

He bowed, and kissed her hand. “Tolerably so, Majesty. Travel on water refuses to agree with my vitals. And…there were some dark looks from the riverbanks as the barge passed between Hartshorn and Meercheq.”

“It's to be expected,” she said quietly, with a glance at Alasdair. “Some foolish people model themselves on their disobedient dukes. How is Henrik?”

Ludo, so handsome and stylish and vibrant with life, wilted a little. “Father minds the duchy for me, Majesty. He is well enough, all in all. The tonics your physick Ursa sends help him a great deal, but…”

But Marlan had broken him, and he'd never fully mend.

She squeezed his arm. “He's ever in our thoughts, Ludo. Whatever the crown can do, you've only to ask.”

“I know,” he said, his voice hoarse. “And he sends you his dearest regards.” He turned. “And you, Alasdair. Your Majesty.”

She indicated the table. “Sit. Speak for duchy Linfoi as we discuss matters of state. Since you're yet to nominate a voice for this council…”

“I am thinking on it,” he said, taking the only spare seat, beside Ven'Cedwin. “It's not a decision I'd choose to rush, Your Majesty.”

She nodded. “You and Alasdair can discuss it over dinner. For now let us consider the wider needs of Ethrea.”

When the council meeting ended, she left Alasdair and Ludo to their reunion and returned to the tiltyard with Zandakar for more training. She was definitely getting stronger, faster, more skilled with the shortsword, but she couldn't escape the unpalatable truth. Time was running out. Tassifer's Feast drew closer, and with it the most fateful meeting of her life.

The next day, over Alasdair's objections, she abandoned leadership of the council to him entirely. Until the day of the judicial combat she would do nothing but train with Zandakar, sunup to sundown.

“You'll work yourself to skin and bone!” Alasdair protested that night. “You'll be so exhausted he'll kill you by mistake!”

Thrumming with pain, so weary she could weep, she lowered herself into the oak tub of water prepared for her. “No, he won't,” she said, wincing. “He's going to keep me alive.” And when Alasdair tried to argue further, added, “ Please . No more. I have to do this, and you know it. Keep Ludo company. I must be a poor host.”

Helfred returned to Kingseat with the Court Ecclesiastica the following morning. She spared him a scant half hour from her training so he could tell her of the changes he'd wrought in the venerable houses of Meercheq and Hartshorn, and to repeat his assertions that the dukes would come to fight. She thanked him for his services, bade him to rest, then afterwards talk with Alasdair of other arrangements for the combat. He agreed without demur. On her sinewy, warlike appearance he passed no word of comment. Which was wise of him, for she surely would've said something rash.

With Helfred settled, she returned to her hotas .

Under the privy council's guidance, and with the efforts of so many clerks and privy secretaries, the kingdom continued to prosper. No whispers of Mijak had been heard yet around the harbour or in the taverns of Kingseat, a good thing for which she was most grateful. Save for the mutterings in Hartshorn and Meercheq, and reports from their ducal households of frantic sword practice and declarations of defiance, no disturbances were reported in the kingdom. With Helfred's venerables and chaplains preaching peace and the wisdom of obedience, the upheaval caused by Marlan seemed mostly subsided.

Alasdair and Helfred crafted the invitations to the ambassadors and Emperor Han. Rhian signed them, and sealed them, and returned to her hotas . Edward and Rudi drew up plans for the creation of the judicial combat arena. Rhian approved them, and returned to her hotas .

Sunrise by sunrise, Tassifer's Feast approached.

Her last training session in the tiltyard, late in the afternoon, was witnessed by the privy council and Ludo and Ursa and what seemed like a quarter of Commander Idson's garrison and half the castle's courtiers and staff. When it was finished Zandakar pressed his fist to his chest. His eyes were glowing with savage pride.

“You ready, Rhian hushla . You dance hotas like a queen.”

He was bleeding in a dozen places where her shortsword had caught him. She bled as well, but not as much as the first time they trained in this fashion.

Sword sheathed by her side, she returned his salute. “Zandakar—” She bit her lip. “I won't see you again until this is over. Thank you.”

He bowed his head. “Rhian is welcome.”

As she walked from the tiltyard those watching her began to applaud. Hands clapped, feet stamped, a few voices called out.

“God bless Her Majesty! God bless our warrior queen!”

She felt tired, yet triumphant. Afraid, yet strangely at peace. She acknowledged her enthusiastic people with a smile, then beckoned to Ursa.

“See to Zandakar. I hurt him.”

Ursa frowned. “I should see to you—”

“He barely touched me, Ursa. See to Zandakar,” she said again. “How else can I reward him?”

As Ursa withdrew, unhappy, Alasdair joined her. Leaving the chattering, excited crowd behind they walked towards the nearest castle entrance. Off to the right, castle servants put the finishing touches to the raised timber gallery of seats for the guests invited to witness the next day's judicial combat. Hammers banged. Workers shouted. Groundsmen prowled the lawn with heavy rollers, flattening the turf so a combatant might not trip on a tussock and so present his or her throat to a sword by mistake.

“Kyrin, Damwin and their retinues have arrived in Kingseat,” Alasdair told her quietly. “Word came while you were training.”

A mingling of sweat and blood trickled down her face. Zandakar's longsword had nicked her left cheekbone; she could feel the puffy swelling round the cut. “Do they lodge separately or together?”

“Separately. Damwin's in his township residence. Kyrin's with his cousin, Hadin.”

She nodded. “Very well. Can you see a herald is sent to them, with strict instructions for the morrow?”

“Of course.” His fingers brushed her leather-sleeved arm. “You wish to be alone now?”

Desperately. The thought of what she'd soon face was overwhelming. She made herself smile at him. “I'm sorry. I do.”

“Bathe. Rest. We'll share a quiet supper,” he said. “Then an early night.”

She closed her fingers round his wrist and held on tight, just for a moment. “That sounds perfect.”

And it was, in its peaceful way. They dined privily, no servants attending, no other company but their own. Spoke not a word about Mijak, or Zandakar, or the dukes, and how she must defeat them. Instead they spoke of the future, of a royal progress around Ethrea, of sailing to other lands and seeing things wild and new. And then, dinner consumed, they retired to bed and consumed each other. Haunted but not speaking the truth: tonight might be our last .

But afterwards, though Alasdair slept, Rhian stared at the ceiling. Sleep eluded her. Fears crowded in. So she slipped unnoticed from their bed, pulled on a linen shirt and woollen hose, slid her shortsword from its sheath and padded barefoot to the castle's Long Gallery where she could settle her nerves with one last dance. The castle guards bowed when they saw her. Alasdair insisted they patrol the castle corridors, fearing the dukes might attempt to emulate Marlan and send a murdering dagger against her. She wasn't worried, but surrendered to his fears. It was easier than arguing.

Feet and hands thudding on the gallery's parquetry floor, her breathing steady and rhythmical, she danced the hotas in candlelight and silence, through shadows and soft flame. With their forms and discipline now second nature, she found her thoughts drifting towards her dead father.

Papa, can you see me? Could you see me in the tiltyard? It appears I've become a warrior queen…

The thought was enough to make her smile, even though fear gibbered and nibbled around her edges. Warrior queen . Ranald and Simon would laugh themselves blue-faced at the notion.

If I weren't so frightened I might laugh at it myself. By this time tomorrow I could be dead…

She'd already signed her writ of succession, naming Alasdair Ethrea's king without encumbrance. The privy council and Helfred had witnessed her declaration, and her prolate now held it safe in Church keeping.

By this time tomorrow…

Shaking herself free of such unhelpful morbid fancies, she blotted sweat from her face and prepared for another tumbling pass down the gallery. It would have to be the last one. She was exhausted, and the next day would start hideously early with a full Litany in the castle's chapel. She had no hope of evading it. Try, and she'd turn Helfred into a warrior prolate.

Rollin save me. There's a dreadful thought.

Tumble…leap…cartwheel…stab here…slash there…hamstrings – elbows – belly – throat – another leap…and another…with Zandakar's impatient voice ringing in her ears.

Rhian wei defend. Rhian defend, Rhian die. Attack, attack, like striking snake, attack. Speed, Rhian. Wei time duke touch you. Faster. Faster. Cut him. Duke die.

It was the heart of the hotas : no defence. Attacking only, with blinding speed and ruthless disregard for self. As a creed it called to something within her, released some inner wildness, unshackled a part of her that until she met Zandakar she'd only ever glimpsed.

A part of her that Alasdair didn't understand.

Reaching the end of the gallery she plundered the last of her physical reserves and danced all the way back again, punishing herself, pushing herself to her scarlet limit and beyond. There was pain, she ignored it. Lungs and muscles burned, she let them. Blinded by sweat, deafened by the waterfall thunder of blood through her veins, she reached for the dregs of her strength and poured them into the hotas .

Her last lethal cartwheel ended with her dropping to the floor, first to knees, then to hands, her shortsword clattering disregarded beside her. Head hanging, sweat pooling on the polished parquetry, she gasped and sobbed and prayed she was good enough to prevail. Good enough not to die.

When she looked up, Emperor Han stood before her.

H
e nodded, almost a bow. “Your Majesty.” “ Han …” She sat back on her heels, panting, too perplexed to feel angry. “If I tell you to stop doing this I don't suppose you'll oblige?”

As before, the emperor's long black hair was pulled back from his marvellous face. Instead of black silk he wore multi-coloured brocade, gold and crimson and emerald and blue. Silver thread sparkled in the waning candlelight. His dark eyes were hooded, something unreadable in their depths.

“What is that fighting style called, that you do?”

Games, games. Always games with the Tzhung . Letting her hands rest comfortably on her thighs, she shrugged. “Hotas.”

“Mijaki?”

“That's right.”

“And you think to defeat your dukes with the warfare of Mijak?”

Another shrug. “I think it's the only kind of warfare I know. My father never taught me how to wield a longsword.”

Han smiled. She noticed for the first time his white teeth were slightly crooked. “The quaint customs of Ethrea,” he said, faintly insulting. “No army to speak of, yet your noblemen play with their longswords and dream of the dead days killed by your holy man Rollin.”

“Would you rather we had killed each other instead?” she countered, then frowned. “Yes. Of course you would. Then Tzhung-tzhungchai could've overrun this island as it's overrun so many other helpless lands. I wonder if that's not what you're hoping for now. I wonder if you expect me to die tomorrow, so you can consume Ethrea like a pickled egg.”

If Han was surprised by her acumen, or affronted by her accusation, if he felt anything at all, it was impossible to say. His amber face was untouched by emotion, his eyes flat and black. He regarded her steadily, no tension to be seen in his lean, elegant body. “Do you think you will die, Majesty?”

Her shortsword was within easy grasp, but if she reached for it she'd give him something she never wanted him to have. “No.”

This time he laughed. The sound was shockingly pleasant. “Brave Queen of Ethrea, your God chose well when he chose you.”

Calling upon every discipline Zandakar had instilled in her, she rose in a smooth single motion to her feet. The shortsword stayed on the ground but she still had a dagger strapped to her hip.

I'm tired of his games. I'm bored by men thinking I'm the pawn on their chess board.

“What do you want, Han? Why do you keep coming here?”

His eyebrows lifted, as though she'd asked a silly question. As though the answers should be obvious. “Curiosity, Rhian. I wanted to know how you fared, the night before your fateful encounters.”

“I'm touched,” she said, letting a little of insult show in her own voice. “And I can't help but notice you failed to answer my previous question.”

“Do I think you'll die?” His eyes widened. “Of course. All mortals die, Rhian. Some sooner than others, some smiling, some with a scream. But they all die.”

She looked at him in silence. They , he'd said. Not we . And what did that mean? He's trying to unsettle me. He thinks I can be twisted round his fingers like a strand of silk .

“Do you think I'll die tomorrow?”

Han clasped his hands placidly before him. “Sun-dao has asked the wind that very question.”

“And did the wind answer him?”

“The wind always answers Sun-dao.”

She felt her heart thud. Don't ask, don't ask …but she couldn't help herself. “What did it say?”

Instead of answering, Han unclasped his hands and reached out to the nearest tall candle in its wrought-iron holder. The mellow flame flared blue. Leapt from its wick to the tip of his finger where it danced like a firefly. Like magic. Like sorcery. Rhian stared, her heart pounding.