The Godspeaker Trilogy (142 page)

His scrupulous politeness was unbearable. She dropped into the chair nearest to him and reached for his hands. He didn't withdraw them, but neither did his fingers clasp hers.

“You know I'm right about Zandakar,” she said, holding onto him. “With what he knows of Mijak, he could make the difference between victory and defeat.”

“If he tells you the truth.”

“He will, Alasdair. He's not what you suspect.”

A muscle leapt along his jaw. “And what's that?”

“A spy, sent by his mother and brother to help them destroy us. If he was, why wouldn't he do his best to ingratiate himself instead of making me so angry by hiding the truth?”

Alasdair looked at her. “But that's exactly what he's done, Rhian. He's ingratiated himself. He's wormed his way into your affections, earned your trust. You defend him against everyone, even me. And now you're about to defend him to the ambassadors.”

She released his hands. “ Because he was sent here to help us. Because he might he all that stands between us and destruction .”

“Or he might be the key that unlocks the door, not only to this kingdom but to all the civilised world,” said Alasdair softly. “But you won't even entertain that possibility, will you?”

He'd never understand. In a thousand years she'd not make him see her side of this. To him Zandakar was the enemy, even though he admitted that without Zandakar she'd be dead.

“Alasdair, all I've done is put him in a more comfortable prison cell,” she said, her hands fisted in her lap. “And I promise he'll never be alone while he remains in this kingdom. You're right, I do trust him and I don't believe I'm wrong. But I'm not stupid, either. He'll be watched. And if it seems he no longer has our best interests at heart…”

“Then he dies, Rhian,” said Alasdair flatly. “In the moment of his treachery, he dies.”

She nodded. “Yes. He dies.”

Alasdair dropped his gaze again, fixing it to the polished mahogany table. She waited for him to speak, waited for him to say something, anything , but he seemed content to let the silence gain weight and stifle the chamber's sunlit air. She didn't need words to know what he was thinking.

“Han came to me,” she said, when she couldn't bear it any longer. “Twice. In secret. The first time to tell me I had to kill the dukes. The second time…” She shook her head. “I don't know why he came the second time. I think I confuse him. I think he resents me. The wind – the god of the Tzhung – someone or something has told him I'm important and he has to listen to me. He doesn't like it, but he obeys. He'll not move against Ethrea, or any other nation. I know it.”

Alasdair looked at her again, and this time she saw what her silence had done to him.

“I'm sorry !” she said, then pressed her fingers to her lips. Waited until she could speak without weeping. “I've never been a wife before! I've never worn a crown! I'm doing my best, Alasdair.”

“And so am I,” he said, his voice almost too low for hearing. “But you must see that sometimes your best leaves a little to be desired.”

“So I'm to tell you everything ?” she retorted. “I'm not to make any choice, any decision, without first consulting you? How then does that make me the queen? Alasdair, what king in the history of Ethrea, what – what duke ever in the duchy of Linfoi first consulted his wife in the ruling of his lands? What man would ever dream of doing so? And if he did, and others learned of it, what respect would they have for him? How many times must we have this wretched argument ?”

“Not once more,” said Alasdair, and stood. “Not this argument, or any other. You're my sovereign queen and I've sworn you my fealty. My duty's clear, and a Linfoi holds to his word.”

She looked up at him. “What did you think, Alasdair, when you married me? How did you think it would be, when I was queen? Or did you think you'd never have to face this, since I most likely wouldn't prevail? Did you think I'd most likely become your duchess in Linfoi, and then you'd be the one to decide what I knew?”

Alasdair ran his hand over his face, then stared through a chamber window. “Rhian…I tell you truly…I don't know what I was thinking.”

If she reached out she could touch him, yet he was so far away. “I see.”

“I should go,” he said, his voice rough. “There's much to do before tomorrow.”

“Yes. Go. I'll see you at dinner.”

She sat in quiet despair after he left, feeling her cuts and bruises pain her. Then, when she couldn't stand the silence any longer, she went to Zandakar in his plush prison. They hadn't spoken since she'd fought the dukes…and she needed to see him.

He stood slowly as disapproving Sergeant Rigert closed the chamber door behind her, leaving them alone. His expression was grave. “You danced the hotas well, Rhian.”

She shrugged. “I didn't die.”

“ Wei .” He closed the distance between them, and traced his fingertip down the line of stitches in her cheek. “Ursa says scar?”

“Most likely.”

“Good,” he said, and lightly slapped the side of her head. “I watch. You stupid, you wei kill that duke quickly.”

From him she'd accept the criticism. He was her teacher. “ Yatzhay .”

“Second kill good. Quick. Clean.” His fist punched against his chest, above his heart. “You in hota, zho ?”

And of course, he understood. She nodded. “ Zho .”

“ Zho ,” he said again, and this time he smiled.

She mustn't stay here. There was the meeting with the ambassadors to think about, matters of state she needed to address. Letters of patent to draft, that would officially dissolve House Doveninger; Ven'Cedwin would be waiting And Zandakar—

Zandakar understands too much.

“I have to go,” she said, stepping back. “Thank you, Zandakar. The things you taught me saved my life.”

He nodded, still smiling. “ Zho . When do we dance hotas again?”

Oh, God help her. “I don't know. I'm wounded.”

“But when you heal, Rhian, then we dance. Zho ?”

“Yes. Perhaps. Zandakar—” She took a deep breath. “Tomorrow I meet with the ambassadors, to tell them of Mijak and the danger it poses. I'll need you there to speak for me. To tell the trading nations about your people. Your mother. Your brother. How dangerous they are. Will you do that? Will you speak for me, against Mijak?”

A shadow of puzzlement crept into his eyes. “Rhian?”

“Will you?”

He nodded again. “ Zho .”

“Good,” she said, and left him alone.

T
he castle's Grand Ballroom was crowded with memories. Alone, for the moment, Rhian stood at its centre and gave those memories free rein. Closed her eyes and swayed, just a little, hearing the echoes of sweet music long past.

Eberg had held all his official functions in the ballroom, and from the age of twelve she had been his royal hostess at the balls, the receptions, the wooings and soothings of the contentious trading nations. She'd long ago lost count of the times she'd danced across the polished parquetry floor, beneath the frescoed ceiling's ornate chandeliers, watching herself in the full-length mirrors on the walls as she glided about the chamber in the arms of the men important enough to have been invited. The sons of ambassadors, the brothers of dukes and minor nobles and foreign princes, or the princes themselves.

From the age of twelve she'd known they thought, in their secret hearts, that if only they danced well enough they might win her in marriage and so bind Ethrea close to their cause. And because she was her father's daughter she smiled and laughed and wore her jewels and silk brocades, knowing she was beautiful and they wanted her, and never once let them see the thoughts behind her eyes.

No matter the occasion, no matter the honoured guests, she and her father had danced first, and alone. The night's guests clustered at the ballroom's edges and applauded, politely, the king and his only daughter sweeping through the music. She'd had the best of dancing masters and never once trod on his feet.

“Remember, Rhian,” Papa said to her every time, serenely smiling as the world avidly watched. “Their flattery serves their own purposes, never ours. Ethrea must be forever independent. The world is a house of cards, my child. One breath too strong, or too uncautious, and see what a tumbling will come about.”

“Yes, Papa,” she'd always replied. “I know. I won't disappoint you.”

And even though they were dancing, even though they whirled and swirled in front of all those avid eyes, he'd always kissed her forehead then. Dear God, she'd been so loved. She could feel his lips on her skin even now.

Oh, Papa. We can't be independent today. I must ask for help or see Ethrea destroyed.

She sighed, and opened her eyes. The minstrel gallery was empty of musicians. The chandeliers remained unlit. Wrought-iron candle stands, laden with fat white candles, had been brought in to dispel the gloom. With her eyes closed she heard more than music, she heard laughter and revelry. Happier times. With her eyes closed she saw Ranald dancing with a string of beauties, Simon with the beauties' younger sisters. Saw her father, the king, charming and disarming and deflecting all manner of awkward questions.

She'd danced with Alasdair in this room.

Now I dance with the future. I dance with tens and tens of thousands of lives. I dance with death.

She'd never felt so…inadequate.

Dinsy had helped her dress for her meeting with the ambassadors. She wore black silk brocade shot through with restrained gold thread, and her mother's dragon-eye rubies, her talisman. The gown closed tight around her throat, around her wrists, and touched the floor when she stood. She was crowned with the circlet she'd worn to kill the dukes.

“Oh, Majesty,” Dinsy had whispered. “You do look fierce.”

She'd stared in her dressing room mirror and couldn't disagree. The face staring back at her was still pale, still hollow-cheeked. Still beautiful, despite Ursa's neat row of stitches. But her eyes were different. They reflected her soul, and her soul had been changed.

“That gown's loose on you now,” Dinsy had added, and tsked her disapproval. “You're too thin, Majesty. You should eat more. Or do less.”

That was true too. The dress had been fashioned for the boys' funeral. She'd worn it to bury her father after them. It had seemed the best choice for her meeting with the ambassadors, given her part in Damwin and Kyrin's deaths. It made the proper comment without her having to say a word. But it was definitely loose. Dancing the hotas had changed her body as well as her soul. She was muscled like a whippet, lean and whipcord strong. There'd been no time for a seamstress's alterations. And since her wounded back and arm were still painful, she didn't mind.

Her mother's rubies gleamed like blood against the black. Blood was part of her life now. Perhaps she should make sure to wear a ruby always, so she'd never forget it.

A dais had been erected at the far end of the ballroom and her father's public throne placed upon it. Her throne now. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she approached it. Stepped onto the dais. Sat down, spine as straight as a pine tree. Let her hands rest on the throne's arms and resisted the urge to hold on tight.

I am here. I can do this. I must do this. Papa, help me.

Truth be told, the ballroom was too large for such an intimate gathering, but she'd wanted a feeling of space around her. Wanted its opulence to remind the ambassadors that Ethrea wasn't a pauper kingdom. Wanted them feeling a little…awed.

Marlan was my first great test. Damwin and Kyrin my second. Now here is my third…

The ballroom's doors opened a handspan, and Edward peered in. “Majesty? It's almost noon. The ambassadors will arrive shortly.”

She nodded. “Of course.”

Edward withdrew. A moment later the ballroom's doors were flung wide open by liveried heralds and her privy council entered. She watched their approach in the great wall mirrors, their finely-dressed figures dipping in and out of reflection. Even Helfred had changed his plain blue wool habit for something more splendid: the candlelight gleamed on dark red silk. Alasdair, magnificently sombre in black velvet, led the way.

He touched her shoulder with his fingertips as he took his place on the dais, Ludo beside him. She kept her face schooled but let her eyes smile. Despite their differences and misunderstandings, she knew she could count on him…and he on her.

A small desk had been set to one side of the dais, so Ven'Cedwin might record the proceedings. He took his place, piled about with sheets of blank parchment, and picked up a small knife to sharpen his quill.

Beyond the open doors, a stirring and murmur of voices. One of the heralds on duty turned to her and nodded. The ambassadors were arrived.

She glanced at her privy council. “Gentlemen. We're ready?”

“We're ready, Your Majesty,” said Alasdair, scrupulously correct.

So she raised a hand to the herald and he bade the ambassadors proceed.

First to enter the ballroom was Emperor Han. His ambassador, Lai, came three paces behind him. Behind them trailed the ambassadors of the other trading nations, their expressions pruned with displeasure that the Tzhung emperor was in their midst.

They'd come in all their finery. Yes, Istahas of Slynt was still half-naked, but his deerhide leggings were new and his torso was oiled so it gleamed in the candlelight. The others were fully clothed, silk and velvet and leather and much jewellery. An-chata of Keldrave had lost two of his pendulous wife-rings; whether the women were dead or abandoned Rhian didn't know.

Behind them, the heralds closed the ballroom doors. Rhian willed her heart to beat a little slower, and favoured her visitors with an impersonal smile as all but Han and Lai straggled to a halt and stared about them, suspicious of even those men they called friends. The Tzhung did not straggle; they stood apart, self-contained and unperturbed.

“Gentlemen. You have our thanks for attending this meeting.”

Before anyone else replied, Halash of Dev'Karesh stepped forward and nodded in something approaching respectful recognition. His jaw worked rhythmically as he chewed the cloves he carried in a little leather purse dangling from his plaited leather belt. He was feet away from her and still she could smell him. She watched as the other ambassadors gave him ground, their nostrils flaring at his pungency.