The Godspeaker Trilogy (137 page)

On the short grass below him Rhian danced a finger's distance from the duke's sword. He was tall and broad, thick through chest and belly in the way of some men in Ethrea. He had speed even though he was large. Speed and hate, they were a dangerous combination. Tcha, Rhian should not be playing, she should kill this man.

Alasdair king had told him all the noblemen of Ethrea learned swordplay from boyhood. They did not learn for killing, it was stupid, but this fighting duke was hot for blood, hot for Rhian dead at his feet. There was blood on him, Rhian had cut him twice, there was blood on the man's right cheek and his right arm, blood dripping from his fingers to stain the green grass red. Rhian was bleeding but only in one place, from her left shoulder where the point of his sword had pricked her. If she had not danced away from him his sword would have run her through.

The two times she had cut him Rhian could have killed him. With her shortsword she could have cut his throat or taken his head, instead of cutting his arm she could have pierced his heart, she could have killed him and that would be the end of this disobedient duke.

Instead Rhian danced her hotas , and wounded, and did not kill him.

Why, Rhian? You promised to live. Have I failed you, have I killed you, are you dead like Lilit because of me?

He heard himself groan, felt his throat close tight with pain. If Rhian died because his training failed her, he would die soon after. Alasdair king had said it. Alasdair king was not a killing king but he had seen his own death in the man's brown eyes. And who could blame him?

So would I kill anyone who killed Rhian.

In the tiltyard beside the castle the duke slashed his sword double-handed side to side, seeking to cleave Rhian in two pieces. Rhian danced over the blade, like a fish leaping she arced above the steel and used her own blade to wound him a third time, to bloody his breast and belly with a slash from shoulder to hip. It could have been a killing blow, the man should be tangled in his entrails, but he remained on his feet bleeding with his longsword in his hand.

Zandakar banged his fist against the stone wall.

Rhian, Rhian! What are you doing?

He felt his other hand spread flat against the window's uneven glass, felt his heart drum hard against his ribs. Sickness was in him, a vomiting fear. Aieee, god, even so far away he could see her intent, she wanted to weaken the duke, she wanted him to see her as a killing queen who would spare him if he knelt.

You stupid Rhian, you stupid girl, this duke is a killing man, you cannot show mercy.

The duke slashed again and this time Rhian's leap was not high enough, she misjudged his reach so his sword cut across her back. Aieee, god! But she was not dead, only wounded, she was not on the ground for him to butcher. Her leather doublet was opened on a slanting line from shoulder to spine, the skin beneath it opened too, he could see blood but it must only be a shallow wound for she could breathe and leap and dance.

The god see you, Rhian! Dance your sword into him up to the hilt, you cannot let him strike you again.

Tcha, how he wished he was her warlord, so he would have the power to make her listen, make her fight as she should fight, he wished Alasdair king was her warlord and not – not – what he was. Something I do not understand .

Wounding her made the duke bold, made him reckless, he rushed at Rhian with his sword ready to kill. She danced free of him, her hotas flawless, though she was bleeding and surely in pain. Zandakar did not fear for that. She had suffered pain before, in her training from the first day he made certain to hurt her so she would know how to dance, though her bones screamed and her muscles wept and the blood in her veins was turned to fire. A warrior who could not dance in fire was swiftly dead, even breathing he was dead. It was the first thing he taught her, the first thing she had learned.

The duke attacked her again, and again his sword found her, this time her left arm. Its sleeve was leather, not metal. Blood spurted, she stumbled, Kyrin almost took her head. His whirling swordpoint found her cheek instead, and she was bleeding again.

Rhian! Rhian!

Danced swiftly backwards, out of his reach, Rhian worked her blood-slicked fingers, tested her strength in that wounded arm. Then she danced towards Kyrin…and as she danced, something changed . As the duke circled her, as she circled the duke, her head high, her sword ready, light on her feet, her steps kissing the grass, Zandakar saw within her a new and colder purpose.

Aieee, god. At last. Now she is a killing queen.

If he could see that, so far away, too far, Rhian, then must the duke see it. Something changed in him, too. His easy confidence shifted, he looked wary, his cadence altered. His sword lifted, barring his body, his steps slowed, his head sank low.

Rhian attacked.

Never had she danced the hotas with such speed and grace, never had he seen her leap so high or spin so fast. Aieee, god, if she learned them when I learned them, when she was a child …Her sword flashed in the sunlight, where its blade was not dulled with blood. The duke tried to defend himself, tried to kill her with his longsword, but she would not let him, she cut past and under and over his guard, she cut his flesh, she danced her sword in him and through him so he dropped his own sword on the blood-splattered grass. He was cut in so many places, his fine clothes were slashed from neck to groin. His gross flesh was showing, and the wounds she put in him slicked it white to red. The duke was a dead man standing on his feet. Then he was not even that, for he dropped to his knees, his head lolling slackly, his hands dangled by his sides.

Rhian danced her shortsword into his throat.

Joy and relief burst in him, he wanted to shout. He wanted to run to her and tell her she was a killing queen, Queen of Ethrea, she was in the god's eye.

Aieee, god, you see her. You see her and she lives. Kill me before you look away.

Panting, sweating, dripping blood on the grass, Rhian felt the hard tug on her shortsword as Kyrin's body began its slow fall to the ground. She tightened her grip. Watched, uninvolved, while he slid off the tempered steel and thudded on the grass. The wound in his throat was neat. Only a little blood spilled as her blade emerged. His heart had stopped pumping, which meant he really was dead. Dead, dead, because I killed him . The blood roaring in her ears was deafening. Or was that the shouting of the witnesses she'd called? She couldn't tell.

Sweet Rollin's sacrifice, she hurt. She hurt .

Footsteps behind her. She shifted her gaze. It was Helfred and Ursa, with the apprentice Bamfield close at her heels. He was carrying the heavy physick's bag. Their expressions were identical: relief and horror entwined.

On reaching her, Ursa moved to inspect her wounds. “See to Kyrin,” she said. “You cannot touch me yet.”

Ursa looked to Helfred. “Your Eminence?”

Helfred nodded. “Her Majesty is correct, madam. Confirm that the duke's life is extinct, and we shall see what's to be done after that.”

Rhian snorted. Of course his life is extinct. I just shoved my sword through his throat . But there was protocol here, as there was protocol in every corner of this life she had sought. Had now half-won, with Kyrin dead.

She didn't look to where Kyrin's people and Damwin were standing but she could hear furious muttering and a man's harsh sobs. Raymot, most likely. Whatever faults Kyrin had, his son had clearly loved him. She felt a pang at that and ruthlessly crushed it.

This is not my doing. This was Kyrin's mischief. I never asked for this. If he'd knelt, he'd be alive. Please, God…make Damwin kneel.

She could smell her own blood, metallic tang in the warm air. She could smell the stink of Kyrin's emptied bowels and flushed bladder and could easily have vomited. She could've wept.

I did the right thing, Papa. What else could I do?

Ursa looked up from her crouch beside Kyrin. There was blood on her fingers, where she'd pressed them to his neck. “Eminence, he's dead.”

Helfred sighed. “And so is justice delivered.” He raised a hand, and Idson joined them. “Commander, see the duke is taken from the tiltyard to the castle chamber prepared for this purpose, and leave him there with a guard that his body might not be disturbed.”

Idson bowed. “Your Eminence. And what of his party?”

“They remain,” said Rhian. “Until this matter is fully dealt with.”

Another bow. “Your Majesty. Your Eminence.”

A small bustle, then, as four of Idson's soldiers came with a cart and loaded Kyrin and his bloodied longsword onto it. Raymot's sobs turned to wild, raving shouts. Still Rhian did not look at him, or the others, but said to Idson, “Silence him, Commander. He disturbs my peace. Then have one of your men fetch me water and some cloths. My blade is fouled. I would clean it.”

Idson gave her a startled look, and did as he was told.

“Majesty,” said Ursa, her own hands wiped free of Kyrin's blood and a frown on her face. “I must tend you, it's my duty as a physick.”

She shook her head, which was a mistake. The swordcut in her left cheek burned like fire. “Not yet.”

“Majesty—”

“Not yet.”

“Might I ask why?” said Ursa, her tone icily disapproving.

Because I say so and that should be enough . But if she uttered those words aloud she'd be more than a killing queen. She'd be something monstrous. And already she stood too close to that abyss, with Kyrin dead and Damwin undealt with.

She looked at the physick. “Because the trial is not over, Ursa. So says the law. Please. You and Bamfield should return to your places.”

The old woman wanted to argue, but she held her tongue. “Majesty,” she said curtly, and with a jerk of her chin collected Bamfield, holding the physick bag, and marched back to the royal dais.

Helfred stood beside the cart, one hand lightly upon dead Kyrin's uncovered breast. His head was bowed. He was praying.

I should pray too, but I can't. Not here. Not now. My God, my God. I killed him. Please, please, make Damwin kneel.

Helfred kissed his thumb to his heart, then to his lips. Stepping back from the cart he nodded to Idson, who brought forward a black cloth and draped it over Kyrin's body. His soldiers took hold of the cart's shafts and began to trundle it from the tiltyard. Idson watched it go, then turned.

“Majesty?”

“A moment.” She looked at Helfred, whose eyes were inexpressibly sad. “Prolate?”

He moved aside, forcing her to step with him. “What did he say to you, Rhian?”

She felt her heart skip. “What?”

“Kyrin,” he said, frowning. “And don't think to deny it. I saw his lips move. We all did, on the dais. Kyrin spoke, you lost your temper, and now he's dead. Before then you merely played with him. I think you were hoping he'd come to his senses and capitulate. Am I correct?”

Of all her wounds, the one across her back was the worst. Every time she breathed she could feel her breached flesh shift and split, could feel a new trickle of blood crawl down her skin. Her beautiful leather doublet was ruined. She was nearly ruined. Tcha, a stupid mistake. She'd totally misjudged herself and come close to letting Kyrin divide her.

If Zandakar is watching he'll be cross with me for that.

She wanted to turn and look up at his window, knowing his chamber overlooked the Great Lawn. But Alasdair would see her do it, and life was complicated enough already.

“Rhian?” prompted Helfred. “Answer me.”

“I thought you might ask me if I were all right,” she said, flicking him a wry glance. Another soldier was approaching, carrying a wooden pail and some cloths. “I am somewhat wounded, Helfred. And then, of course, there's the matter of the man I killed. Or is that a trifle now, since he isn't the first?”

Hundreds of eyes were trained upon them. This was a place of public execution. Therefore Helfred restrained himself, mindful not only of the witnesses in the stands but also Kyrin's distraught son and Damwin, who must surely be considering what he would do next.

“Did he threaten you, Rhian?” said Helfred. “Is that why you abandoned your tactic?”

“He threatened Alasdair,” she replied.

When you're dead I'll have your whipped cur to play with, bitch. He'll be begging long before I'm done. I know men who know men, who know the ways of Barbruish. What they can do with a thin knife must be heard to be believed.

Helfred released a small sigh. “If you killed Kyrin for revenge, Rhian, then—”

“Revenge?” she spat. “Helfred—” Then she fell silent, because the soldier with the water and cloths had reached them and it was time to clean her sword. “Speak to Damwin, Your Eminence,” she said, beginning the task. Damn, but her back hurt, and her arm. Scouring her stained blade coaxed them both to bleeding again. “Offer him one last chance to spare himself Kyrin's fate. Perhaps, now he's seen his fellow rebel butchered, he's in a mood to reconsider.”

Helfred glanced over to where Damwin and the others were standing. “It does not look likely, I'm forced to confess.”

If she looked too she'd be granting Damwin some kind of victory. “Ask him, Helfred. If I must have his blood on my hands as well, then I'll have it perfectly clear that the choice was his, and his alone.”

Helfred let another, smaller sigh escape him. For a moment he looked again like the chaplain he had been, beleaguered and harassed by the stubborn princess in his care. Then he nodded. “Your Majesty.”

Though she now hurt abominably, her muscles seized stiff, her open wounds protesting the air, she made certain no-one watching her would think she felt anything but the sunshine. The water in the bucket turned from clear to red as the perfection of her shortsword re-emerged from the blood. Behind her, Helfred's murmur ceased.

“She is foolish, Prolate,” said Damwin in his deep, clipped voice, as Raymot cursed. “You would do better if you convinced her to yield, rather than thinking I'll leave this tiltyard with Hartshorn's duke unavenged.”

“ I'll avenge him!” declared Raymot. “He's my father and she murdered him!”

Not before he tried to murder me, you sot.