The Godspeaker Trilogy (202 page)

She'd laughed, and then she'd wept. So much weeping in Ethrea, even though the war was won.

A swirling breeze. A gust of windchimes. In the mirror, behind her, Han stepped out of the air. His black hair had turned milk white. He looked older than God.

“Han!” she said, spinning round. “Where have you been ? I've been worried sick , I thought—”

He nodded. “I nearly was.”

“And Tzhung-tzhungchai? Your witch-men?”

“The empire is strong. Like your kingdom of Ethrea, it will rise from these ashes. In time.”

She felt her shoulders slump. “A long time, yes?”

“A very long time,” Han said. “Perhaps a lifetime.” It was another loss. One she wasn't prepared for.

“Will I see you again?”

“The wind knows,” said Tzhung's emperor. His eyes narrowed in a smile.

A knock on the chamber's door. “Majesty, the carriage is here,” said Dinsy's muffled voice.

“I have to go,” she said, aching. “Zandakar and his warriors are sailing.”

Han nodded. “Then go, Rhian. And remember Tzhung-tzhungchai.”

A swirling breeze. A gust of windchimes. He stepped into the air.

“How could I forget it?” she asked the empty room.

Alasdair was waiting for her, down at the harbour. Helfred too. Ursa. And Dexterity, of course. Zandakar was waiting, his warriors obedient and silent in their ships. The preserved bodies of his family were safely stowed, too.

As well as the gauntlet, he wore Vortka's stone scorpion pectoral. A hideous thing, but she'd not told him that. He wore blue-striped horsehide leggings and a sleeveless jerkin. His blue hair was braided, thick with amulets and silver bells. They were all he had left of his father, his mother, his scarlet-haired brother.

They'd spoken privately once, since that night on the docks. He'd told her he did not blame her for Dmitrak. She wondered if he was lying. She never asked. She never would.

Now she took a deep breath and stepped forward to greet him. Her heart was thudding beneath her black leather doublet. I'll never see him again. When he leaves, he will be gone .

“Rhian hushla ,” he said, his fist to his chest. “The god sees you in its humble eye.”

“Rollin's mercy on you, Prince of Mijak,” she replied. “God's grace for a safe journey home.”

She was proud of herself. Her voice was steady.

“Mijak…Mijak…” Zandakar's voice broke. His pale blue eyes were luminous. “Mijak is Ethrea gajka, zho ?”

She nodded and pressed a fist to her heart. “ Zho . Mijak is gajka .” She tried to smile. “I will dance my hotas every day, Zandakar. Rhian hushla will never forget.”

“Godspeed, Zandakar,” said Alasdair, most reserved. He mourned Ludo deeply, inconsolable still. He and Henrik would take his body home to Linfoi tomorrow. “Take good care of Mister Jones.”

Zandakar nodded, and his braided hair chimed. “ Zho , Alasdair king. Mister Jones is safe.”

Dexterity . Rhian hugged him. She was the Queen of Ethrea and he was a toymaker. She hugged him, weeping, before the whole world. There was nothing more to say, and so they said nothing.

Ursa hugged him next, and pressed on him her old physick bag stuffed to bursting with potions and pills and God alone knew what.

“You're off to heathen lands, Jones,” she said, tears streaking her wrinkled cheeks. “You're going to need all the help you can get.”

Helfred prayed then, a heartfelt sermon of thanks and hope. Such a small group, they were. Such unlikely friends. Such a fantastical journey they'd taken together.

And then it was time for Mijak's warfleet to depart. Zandakar and Dexterity trod the gangplank to their ship. Helfred and Ursa withdrew, leaving Rhian and Alasdair alone. They watched in silence as Mijak's warships inched their way clear of their moorings, oars splashing the water, sails snapping in the breeze. All the scorpions on them were painted out.

Alasdair cleared his throat. “I thought…when the warships sailed…”

She stared at Zandakar, slowly retreating. “You thought I'd sail with them? Oh, Alasdair. You're a fool.”

Dexterity was waving. His hand gently glowed.

“A fool?” said Alasdair, waving back. “Perhaps. But you love him.”

She sighed. “Yes, Alasdair. I love him. But I belong to you and Ethrea. Zandakar was never meant for me.”

“I know that,” he said. “But I wasn't sure if you did.”

And he held her hand tightly until Mijak's warships had sailed from sight.

S
even and a half months later, Rhian stood in the grounds of battered Kingseat Castle, watching as the workmen at last began to rebuild her family's house. Despite Helfred's repeated urgings, she'd refused to have one new castle stone laid before the last dwelling and shop in Ethrea was repaired. Now her township was almost itself again…

Thank God, thank God. I want my home back.

A breeze from the bustling harbour ruffled her growing hair and swirled her blue linen gown about her legs. She preferred her huntsman's leathers but it was Alasdair's birthday. In honour of the occasion she'd worn a wretched dress.

She heard his familiar tread on the re-grown lawn and turned, surprised. He'd said he had work to do, and would leave her to gloat over the castle in private. Now he was here, and to her astonishment was huffing and puffing, carrying a large canvas-wrapped crate.

“Rollin's mercy – what kind of gift is that? And why would you bring it all the way up here?”

He grinned as he let the crate slide to the ground. “It's a gift that's travelled a considerable distance. And it's not mine. It's yours.”

Hers? And then she felt her heart trip. Felt the salty air catch in her throat. Could it be? Could it be?

Alasdair's knife quickly cut through the stitchings on the canvas, which fell away to reveal a sturdy wooden box with a clasp. Heart beating even harder, she opened it.

Oh. Dexterity.

The box was full of toys. Carved and painted and beautiful toys. Striped horses, stringed falcons with intricate wings that could fly. Sandcats and lizards and monkeys and ibis.

So many toys, made with so much love.

“At last!” said Alasdair, peering over her shoulder. “I was beginning to think he'd been swallowed alive.”

So was she, but she'd never said so. They didn't talk of Dexterity, in case it was bad luck.

“Is there a letter?” said Alasdair. “I want to know what he's been up to.”

So did she, and looked through the box. “No,” she said, disappointed.

“Oh well,” said Alasdair. “I suppose paper's hard to come by, in Mijak. Perhaps next time.”

One by one, she held every single toy, remembering her friend. Remembering the toymaker who'd saved a slave, saved a princess, saved that princess's kingdom…who'd travelled so far away to save an enemy from itself.

She laughed.

“What's so funny?” said Alasdair, puzzled.

“Nothing,” she said, because it was either laugh or weep.

And then she stood with her husband, with her king, with Alasdair, and smiled at Kingseat harbour, that busy jewel in the sun. Smiled at the trading ships from Keldrave and Barbruish and Harbisland.

From haughty Tzhung-tzhungchai, whose emperor was Han.

“Come on,” said Alasdair, his arm around her shoulders. “We'd best be on our way. It's Litany tonight, remember?”

Tcha . She'd forgotten. If she didn't go, Helfred would moan.

Alasdair bent to pick up the box of toys. Before he closed its lid, she snatched a cheeky-faced monkey…

… and rode to town in the gig with it warm in her hand.

Stephanie Smith, my editor. She has the patience of a saint and I tried it with this project. Stephanie, you're an angel. The god sees you in its eye.

Mark Timmony, who saved my bacon with his lovely maps.

The guys who make me look better than I am, my beta reader Usual Suspects – Mary, Elaine, Pete, Glenda and Mark.

K
AREN
M
ILLER
was born in Vancouver, Canada, and moved to Australia with her family when she was two. She started writing stories while still in primary school, where she fell in love with speculative fiction after reading The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe . Over the years she has held down a wide variety of jobs, including horse stud groom in Buckingham, England. She is working on several new novels. Visit the official Karen Miller Web site at
www.karenmiller.net
.