The Godspeaker Trilogy (94 page)

Rhian and the duke stood and turned to face their witnesses in the chapel. Neither was smiling. Both appeared stunned.

Dexterity swallowed tears. It’s done, Hettie. It’s done .

Rhian lifted her chin. Her eyes were sparkling. “Friends, you have witnessed my marriage. Now witness this: no longer am I styled Rhian, Her Highness, a princess of Ethrea . Now you will know me as Rhian, your queen.” She took Alasdair’s hand. “And here is my husband. Once a duke, now king consort. In God’s presence I declare this, before his sacred Flame.”

Dexterity took a deep breath and slid from the pew onto his knees. “God bless Queen Rhian,” he declared, his voice ringing out. “God bless her king.”

One by one the others in the chapel followed his example. Even Zandakar knelt, though he stayed silent.

“Know this,” said Rhian, tears standing in her eyes, once the echoes of the joyful shouting had died. “You are my people and I will defend you unto death. I will defend my kingdom from all who’d seek to harm it or steal it or stain it with blood. In God’s presence, before his sacred Living Flame, this I swear. This I swear. This I solemnly swear.”

“And as Ethrea’s king consort,” said Alasdair, “in God’s presence, before his sacred Living Flame, I solemnly swear also.”

Rhian smiled at him, almost shyly. Then her expression hardened again.

“Now let the word go out to the people of Linfoi. Let it go out to every duchy in the land. Rhian is married and she is the queen. And let any man who would stand against her beware … for she will hold on to what is rightfully hers.”

T
he next day Dexterity came downstairs for breakfast to find Ursa had eaten already.

“I’m off physicking, Jones,” she said, all bustling impatience. “There’s been an outbreak of scaleytoe the next village over and the local physick has sent to the duke—the king—for aid. I’ve treated my share of scaleytoe in the past so I’m lending a hand.”

“Oh,” he said. “Do you need help? I’ve nothing to do here. In fact, when we finally see her again I was thinking of asking Rhian for leave to go home.”

“Before the dukes come, and learn how their world’s been rearranged without them?” Ursa shook her head. “You can’t do that, Jones.”

“Why not? I’ve done what I said I’d do, I’ve got Rhian to safety. She’s the queen now. She’s married. She doesn’t need me.”

“Zandakar needs you,” said Ursa, lowering her voice, mindful of servants who could enter the dining room at any moment. “And we need you keeping an eye on him till we find out what’s what. That man’s a mystery yet to be unravelled, Jones. And he’s your responsibility. Just you stay put.”

She was right, of course, but he still felt like wailing. “And what about my toyshop? For all I know Tamas has taken leave of his senses and it’s burned to the ground!”

“If that’s the case, Jones, you can’t unburn it from here,” said Ursa. “Stop fussing and eat some bacon. I’ll see you again at dinner, I expect.”

“Wait. Can you use another pair of hands or not? If people are ailing …”

She considered him, hands on hips. “Have you ever had scaleytoe?”

“I’m not even certain what it is.”

Ursa sighed crossly. “Tcha. Then you’re no use to me. It’s nasty, and catchable if you’ve not survived a tussle with it. We don’t need it spreading any further. Now let me go, Jones. I’ve sick folk waiting.”

He stepped back, gloomily. “All right. Be careful. I’ll see you at supper.”

She hurried away, full of purpose, leaving him to enjoy a solitary breakfast. He ate bacon and mushrooms and drank good Kingseat cider. Replete, with no sign of Rhian or the new king—and not surprised, considering—he took himself back to his room to collect his whittling tools and his latest half-finished puppet then wandered outside to find an out-of-the-way patch of sunshine in the gardens where he could work undisturbed. He didn’t know where Zandakar was, or Helfred, and for the moment he didn’t care. He’d not been alone with his thoughts since leaving home for the clerica. It would be a relief, to sit quietly and whittle.

Time drifted by, and no-one bothered him. The manor buzzed worse than a beehive with preparations for the dukes’ imminent arrival. Servants rushed about, chattering and laughing. Smoke from the breadhouse ovens floated on the breeze, mingling with the aroma of baking bread. Alarmed cackles from the poultry-shed beyond the neat hedges suggested chicken would be part of the funeral and investiture day’s feasting. From where he sat, idly carving, he could see a steady procession of wagons trundling up and down the manor drive, loaded with wine casks and ale barrels and extra servants to cope with the dukes’ retinues. Striped tents went up on the wide lawns beside the manor house. Pipers and lutists and a harpist arrived. Their determined practising added motley music to the mix.

Sighing, content for the first time in many long days, Dexterity used the tip of his knife to gouge out an eye for his new puppet, which bore a passing resemblance to Zandakar. Reminded, he paused in his whittling to frown across the manor garden’s fragrant flower beds.

You know, Hettie, when I rescued Zandakar I didn’t expect him to become a permanent part of my life. I never imagined he’d be my responsibility …

“I know you didn’t, Dexie,” said Hettie, apologetic. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more truthful with you.”

“Hettie!” Startled, he ran the whittling knife into his finger. “Ow!”

Conjured out of thin air, she sat beside him on the garden’s worn wooden bench. “Oh, Dex.” She took his hurt hand and kissed away the blood-drop welling from the small wound. The pain ceased. The wound healed.

He stared at her. “How did you do that?”

“Magic,” she said, smiling. But the smile was strained, and something about her looked wrong …

“Hettie, what’s the matter? You look exhausted . How can that be? You’re not—you’re a—” He fumbled to a halt, uncertain. Suddenly afraid. “Hettie?”

She patted his knee. “Don’t worry about me, Dex. You’ve worries of your own.”

“I know,” he said, and looked around, but none of the passing manor servants seemed to notice he was sitting with a strange woman who hadn’t been there a moment before.

“It’s all right,” said Hettie. Her face was pale. Almost translucent. Was he imagining things or did the faint shapes of flowers show right through her? “They can’t see or hear me.”

“But they can see and hear me ! They’ll think I’ve gone mad, sitting here talking to myself.”

“No. All they see is you whittling your puppet.”

“Good.” He shifted a little so her hand fell from his knee. “So why have you come this time, then? Is there someone else for me to rescue? Or do I get an explanation at last? Better yet, you could say hello to Rhian and the du—the king. You could put Helfred’s mind at rest. I’m starting to weary of folk looking sideways at me.”

“Dexie …” She sounded hurt. “You’re not pleased to see me?”

“I’m not pleased my life is such a rambunction,” he retorted, reckless with dismay. “I thought I’d be safely back home by now, rousing on Tamas and being condescended to by Lady Dester. Instead I’m stuck here waiting for the dukes to arrive. It’s the last place in Ethrea I want to be. When they find out what’s happened there’ll be a terrible ruckus. I’m a toymaker, Hettie. I’m not cut out for terrible ruckuses.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

He felt horrible, railing at her, but he couldn’t help it. My life was so peaceful. I just want things back the way they were. Is that too much to ask?

He sighed. “What do you need?”

Hettie smoothed her blue dress over her knees. For the first time he noticed the cotton was faded and patched in places. The lace on its hem was stained. Torn. It wasn’t like Hettie to be unkempt. Despite his crossness he felt a clutch of fear.

“Not me, Dex. It’s Zandakar. He needs you.”

“Why? What do you mean?”

“His heart is troubled, my love. He carries a burden of secrets. It’s time he shared that burden before it destroys him.”

A burden of secrets. His guts roiled in protest. Sweat dampened his skin.

I knew that. I knew Zandakar was hiding from us. And still I defended him. Was that a mistake?

“Is he dangerous, Hettie? Have I put Rhian in—”

“Every man is dangerous, Dex. In his own way.”

“Have I endangered Rhian? Tell me! ”

Hettie took his hand. Her fingers were cold, as though she were sickening with something. He remembered her cold fingers. Their touch chilled his heart.

You’re a ghost already, Hettie. You can’t die twice … can you?

“You’ve saved Rhian, Dexie,” she said, holding tight. “Don’t ever doubt that. You can save Zandakar, too. You have to.”

He tugged his hand free. “Save him from what? Hettie, do you know his secrets?”

She wouldn’t meet his eyes, which was answer enough.

“ Tell me! What’s the good of you keeping secrets too? Tell me what you know of him and—”

“I can’t,” she said. There were tears in her eyes. “I’ve done all I can, Dex. This is your battle and you have to fight it.”

“And how can I fight it if I don’t know what’s going on?”

“Zandakar can tell you. You have to make him tell you.”

He stared. “Hettie, I can’t make Zandakar do anything and to be honest with you, I’m not inclined to try. In case you haven’t noticed he’s a bit handy with a knife.”

“You must try,” she said. “Zandakar needs you, Dex. He’s alone and grieving and he’s lost his way. You can help him by being his friend. You have to help him. He’s the key to everything … and you’re the key to him.”

The half-finished puppet was still in his other hand. He looked at its rough face, an echo of Zandakar. “Well …”

“Please, Dex. Go now. He’s faltering. He’s about to do something that can’t be undone.” She leapt up. “Hurry, Dexie! He’s in the farmyard. Run! ”

The fear in her eyes was the most frightening thing he’d ever seen. He dropped the puppet’s head and stood. Since the first day they met, he’d never been able to say no to her. “All right. I’m going.”

She snatched at his sleeve. “And Dex—whatever he tells you … it must remain secret.”

“ Secret? Hettie—”

“Rhian’s not ready. Neither is Ethrea. There’s strife here to settle before she can know the truth. Trust me, Dexterity. You can’t tell a soul. If you don’t keep the truth of Zandakar to yourself we’ll be worse off than ever. Promise me you’ll do that. Promise me, Dex!”

Hettie … Hettie … the things you ask of me . “All right,” he said. “I promise.”

Her smile was a pale thing, as pale as her skin. “Thank you. Now go.”

Churning with fear, with love and trepidation, he turned his back on her and started to run.

Hettie was right. He found Zandakar in the manor’s farmyard. In the slaughter pens, where the eviscerated carcasses of calves and sheep hung from hooks draining out their blood, ready to be roasted for the investiture feast. The morning had slipped away. It was the working men’s dinner hour, and Zandakar was the only soul there.

When Dexterity saw him, he nearly cried out. The man he’d saved from the slave ship was on his knees before one of the draining-tubs set under the butchered beasts. Oblivious to everything around him, in one breath he poured cupped handfuls of blood over his head … and in the next he poured it into his mouth. Choking, swallowing, he drank the clotting stuff. He was bloody to the elbows, his neat Ethrean shirt and trousers soaked scarlet. In profile he looked as Helfred had described him: a brutal man from a brutal race.

Hettie … Hettie … who is this—this creature?

Apparently sated, Zandakar started chanting, a singsong litany in his own strange tongue. He was lost in his ritual, and there were tears in his voice. Such grief. Such sorrow. Such despair beneath the sun.

The knife he danced with, the one he’d taken from the footpads, was slipped through his belt. He pulled it out and held it before his face.

“Chalava!” he said, his tear-fractured voice knotting in his throat. “Azai azai chalava wei Zandakar. Wei navnaki, wei jokoribi, Zandakar wei, aieee, chalava, Zandakar zho huknuza!”

What was the knife for? What did it mean? Was it part of this dreadful ritual? Or was Zandakar planning something worse …

“Chalava! Huknuza zho Zandakar!”

Dexterity reached under his shirt and touched the crude wooden carving he still wore around his neck, that Zandakar had given him—it seemed a lifetime ago, now—back in Kingseat. Chalava .

Could that be a god ?

He knew some nations worshipped animals as gods. He knew the people of Haisun worshipped no god at all. And in Tzhung-tzhungchai it was thought God was the wind. Men listened to windchimes, to hear his voice.

Did Zandakar drink blood to learn his god’s desires?

Rollin have mercy, Hettie! What manner of man have you brought to us here?

And then he did cry out, because Zandakar slashed himself with the knife, slicing through sleeve and flesh on his left forearm, cutting more deeply and dangerously than he ever could with a stone.

“Zandakar! No! ”

It was madness, of course, to accost a man like Zandakar. He was thrown aside as easily as a dog tossed by a bull. He felt a sharp burning as the knife’s edge caught him and opened a shallow cut down his cheek. Ignoring the pain and the swift spurt of blood, he threw himself for a second time at the ex-slave because yes, he clearly was mad, and heard Zandakar let out a startled grunt and a whoosh of air as his elbow connected hard with the man’s belly. Remembering the way Zandakar had put Rhian on her back in the hotas he swung his leg round in a clumsy arc and was rewarded with another grunt.

Zandakar hit the ground on his back. Sickened, recalling Ursa’s tales of knife-fights by the harbour, knowing he had only a heartbeat of time, Dexterity dropped to his knees and with all his strength banged his fist onto the cut in Zandakar’s arm. Zandakar shouted. The knife fell from his fingers. Puffing, groaning, Dexterity tossed the blade aside and flung himself across Zandakar’s ribcage.

“Stay down! Stay down, you fool of a man! What are you doing? What were you thinking ?”

A stream of foreign words was his only reply. They didn’t sound cordial. Nor was the look on Zandakar’s blood-slicked face the smile of a friend. His lips were peeled back in a snarl of fury as he cursed the interference that had likely saved his life.