The Godspeaker Trilogy (121 page)

Alasdair watched him go. I wish it was me riding back to Kingseat. I’d like to stare Marlan full in the face and ask him myself why Rhian feels the need to hide. He hasn’t a whit of care for her. A man of God? There’s more piety in a tomcat.

As he turned to retreat into the manor house, movement at the very end of the driveway caught his eye. He turned back. Shaded his face with one hand. What was that? A peddler’s van ?

His late father had never had time for ceremony. He was a bluff man, a forthright man, duke of the stoniest, poorest duchy in Ethrea. Oh, there’d been mining, once. Some gold. A little tin. But the earth had yielded up its treasures many dukes ago. Duchy Linfoi had no riches the world wanted to buy. It had stone quarries. It had timber. It produced a thin, sour ale. And labour, of course. That was Linfoi’s primary produce. Sons and daughters who couldn’t wait to flee south.

The wrought-iron gates at the end of the driveway always stood open. There was no-one worth keeping out. Hardly anyone visited. Certainly no-one important. He couldn’t remember the last time peddlers had stopped here.

Perhaps they were lost.

He waited, curious, prepared to be gracious. The dukes of Linfoi prided themselves on their egalitarian approach to the citizenry. It was one of many reasons why Rhian’s marriage to him had been deemed unsuitable. But peddlers were people, too. And who knew? They might have something interesting to sell.

The brown cobs pulling the weather-beaten van looked weary. As though they’d travelled a very long way. The man driving the van—Alasdair stared. Good God . Dark skin. Bald head with—yes, a sheen of blue hair. Where was he from? I’ve never seen anyone like him before .

The long driveway ended in a gravel circle at the manor’s wide front doors. The van stopped. Its extraordinary driver just sat there, unspeaking.

Alasdair stepped forward. “Ah … can I help you?”

The sound of wood banging against wood, then of feet crunching on the gravel. A moment later four people stepped out from behind the van. An elderly woman with liberally grey-streaked hair. A middle-aged man, clean-shaven and close-cropped. A younger man, closer to his own age, also close-cropped, wearing an expression of sour discontent. And a young lad—no—young woman —but dressed like a lad. With short curly black hair, and amazing blue eyes, and—

Alasdair stared. “Rhian?” He walked forward, the ground not quite solid beneath his feet. How was this possible? Rhian was in the clerica at Todding. “Is that you?”

The girl’s chin came up defiantly.

Oh, yes. It’s her.

Heedless of the others he closed his arms about her in one hard, convulsive embrace. Then he let go and stepped back, tangled equally in foreboding and joy.

“Rhian—what’s going on?” He folded his arms to stop himself from holding her again. Touching her. “What are you doing here? Henrik’s just sent me word you’re safe in a clerica. For the love of Rollin, why aren’t you safe in a clerica? What are you doing traipsing about Ethrea in a peddler’s van? Well, don’t just stand there! Say something!”

She bared her teeth in a glittering smile. “I would, Alasdair, if you’d just bite your tongue.”

He took a deep breath and let it out, hard and fast. “Rhian. Please. What’s going on? Why have you come here?”

She put her hands on her slim hips and tipped her cropped head to one side. Her hair, her hair, her beautiful hair . He felt his pulse quicken: he mistrusted that look.

“Actually, it’s quite simple,” she said. Behind the smile, he thought she was frightened. “I’ve come to get married.”

“Married.” He felt his heart stutter. “You mean … to me ?”

“No, Alasdair. To your kennel-boy. Of course to you.”

God, he wanted to kiss her. Instead he shook his head. “Rhian … it’s impossible. You know it’s impossible. Your father—”

“My father is dead.”

“So is mine, as it happens,” he heard himself say. “Three days ago. I’m Linfoi’s new duke.”

“Oh, Alasdair,” she whispered, and came to him, and pressed her palm to his cheek. Her eyes understood completely. “I’m so sorry.”

He covered her hand with his. Her fingers were cold. “I know. So am I.” His voice broke. “I loved the old bastard.”

“And I love the old bastard’s son,” she said softly. “I love him so much I want to make him my king. King Alasdair of Ethrea. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

The power of speech had deserted him. So he did kiss her, and be damned to the world.

Rhian … Rhian … what have you done?

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

A
lasdair stood at the library window and stared into the gardens below, where Rhian and the strange dark man who’d driven the peddler’s van leapt and spun and cheated death on the lawn. The sun was sinking, trailing dusk behind it with cool, shadowed fingers. A beautiful evening for dancing with knives.

“Tell me, Mr Jones,” he said. He’d been standing and watching for some time now. In the end an angry curiosity had overcome him and he’d sent for Rhian’s unlikely chaperone. “What exactly is Her Highness doing?”

“Ah,” said the toymaker. A pleasant fellow, it seemed. Earnest. Harmless. He stood ten deferential paces from the window, obedient to his summons but reluctant as well. “Yes. They’re called hotas, Your Grace.” He came hesitantly to the window. “Rhian—I’m sorry, forgive me, Her Highness—performs them morning and night, if she can.”

“Dare I ask why?”

“Why? Oh dear. Your Grace, perhaps it would be better if you asked Her Highness that.”

I would, if she’d stand still long enough for me to talk to . But since her startling marriage proposal they’d not managed a private word. She and her travelling companions were weary, they needed to bathe and change their clothes and eat something that wasn’t bread and cheese, Alasdair, they’d been on the road for days and days, if they didn’t soon sit down on something that wasn’t moving she swore every one of them would burst into tears.

He knew what she was saying, beneath the spate of words. I need time, Alasdair. I need space. Don’t crowd me. Stay back .

Because he loved her he’d listened and obeyed. He’d said nothing as she bustled and fussed, ordering the van and horses be housed in his stables, seeing the old woman and the toymaker and the dark man and the other man, the sulky one, the old woman’s apprentice, assigned rooms and servants in his largely empty manor. He understood she needed to recapture her calm. What she’d done was momentous, beyond imagining when her father was alive. But Eberg was dead and her world in disarray.

Still. He wasn’t prepared to wait forever. With her arrival on his doorstep his life was topsy-turvied too. His life. His duchy. His people, now he was their duke.

She wants me to be king? Father, can you believe it?

He’d taken Sardre aside, swiftly. “Word of the princess’ presence here must not spread. It must be as though she never came. If word should leave the manor grounds before the best time, the consequences will be dire for all of us.”

Sardre had served the House of Linfoi for three decades. “Your Grace,” he said. And that was enough.

Thank God for Sardre. I’d be lost without him.

On the close-clipped grass beyond the window Rhian flirted with death. Turning somersaults and cartwheels, leaping forward, darting back, swinging beneath her opponent’s slashing arm—and seemingly fearless—she looked like some fairytale warrior-queen. The tip of the dark man’s knife missed her shoulder by a whisper. Vivid as lightning, triumph lit her face. But it didn’t last long. She was shorter by two hands, he was superior in reach and speed. Dear God, he was fast. And focused. He’s frightening . Even as he watched, the man’s leg took Rhian’s out from under her, mid-spin. She crashed to the ground, her knife flying from her fingers.

The dark man smacked her hard on the side of the head.

“It’s all right, Your Grace!” said Mr Jones, stepping closer. “It’s just Zandakar’s way. He’d never hurt her. I know it’s alarming but this is how they train. I promise, you get used to it. More or less.”

Zandakar . What kind of a name was that?

Alasdair watched his fists relax. “More or less? I see. And who exactly is this Zandakar? Or is that another question best asked of Her Highness?”

“Yes, I think it is, Your Grace,” said Mr Jones. “I think you should definitely ask the princess.”

He turned. “Believe me, I will. But I’m interested in hearing what you have to say first.”

The toymaker bit his lip. “Forgive me, it’s not my place to—”

“I’m making it your place. Who is he, Mr Jones? How does he come here? Why does Rhian trust him with a knife—with her life ? Black skin, blue eyes, blue hair if his skull wasn’t shaved. I’ve not seen a man like him before.”

“I believe nobody has, Your Grace.”

“Nobody? Where does he come from?”

“Originally? I’m afraid I don’t know. But … I found him on a slave ship. In Kingseat Harbour.”

This was getting more ridiculous by the moment. “A slave ship ? Are you telling me you bought him?”

“Perhaps rescued him would be a better word,” said Mr Jones hastily. “Your Grace, I understand this is most disconcerting. It’s natural you should have a lot of questions. I wish I could answer them. But I beg you, ask the princess. It’s not right for me to tell you the little I know unless she gives me leave.”

He admired loyalty, so he didn’t press the man. Instead he turned back to the window and stared at the woman who would be his wife. His queen. Beyond the gardens and the manor’s fringe of woodland the languid sun was sinking in a haze of pink and violet. Rhian and Zandakar danced with their knives. There was an intimacy between them he could feel even at this distance, with glass and stone and air between them.

When I lived in Kingseat she and I would fence together. We hunted together. We stood at the butts and shot arrows together. If anyone is to teach her knife-play it should be me.

Except he’d never seen knife-play like these hotas . Never seen such speed and power. Such lethal combinations of cut and thrust. Rhian was a talented, natural athlete but compared to this Zandakar she was a clumsy dolt.

Where in God’s name does he come from?

Dragging his gaze away from Rhian, he looked at Mr Jones. “You’re a toymaker ?”

A glimmer of amusement touched the older man’s tired eyes. “By Royal Appointment, as my father was before me. I’ve known Her Highness since she was born. I made her first rattle. I made toys for the princes, too, may their souls be at peace.”

Grief for his friends, blunted now by his more recent, dearer loss, scraped his raw nerves. Ranald. Simon. What would you say if you were here now? What would they think of him marrying their sister?

“I see,” he said, thrusting aside the thought and the pain. “I suppose that explains how it is you know the princess. But how in God’s name did you get embroiled in this mess? In my experience toymakers don’t often truck with the politics of royal succession.”

Mr Jones snorted. Easy to see why Rhian trusted this plain, inconspicuous man. He had the kindest face … and an innate gentleness that couldn’t be denied. “We assuredly do not, Your Grace. But if I told you how I happen to have stumbled into it I fear you’d say I was moonstruck.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. But I do want to know.”

“Your Grace …” Mr Jones sighed. “Please. I mean no disrespect. But I must decline to answer until—”

“The princess gives you leave.” He waved a hand, accepting the refusal. “Very well, Mr Jones. You may go. But consider this conversation postponed, not abandoned.”

The toymaker bowed. “Your Grace.”

He turned back to the window as Mr Jones withdrew, to see that Rhian and Zandakar had finished their lethal training. They were stretching now, easing the kinks out of their muscles. Letting the sweat cool on their skins.

He went downstairs to join them.

“Alasdair!” said Rhian, and untwined herself from around her leg. Her knife was slid into her belt. “Is something the matter?”

Suddenly he felt shy. How ridiculous. Shy? He could feel the dark man’s gaze, considering him. Assessing him. “No. I just … I saw you from the library window.”

“And?”

“And I was most impressed,” he said lightly, warned by the dangerous light in her eyes. “Your Mr Jones tells me they’re called hotas .”

“ Dexterity told you—” She breathed hard for a moment, her lips pressed tight. Then she turned to the dark man. “Zandakar. Thank you.” She punched her fist to her breast. “Again in the morning, zho? ”

“ Zho . In the morning,” the man said, returning her salute. “Here. At dawn.” He turned. Nodded. “Your Grace.”

At least he thought it was “Your Grace”. The man’s accent was guttural. The words sounded more like “Yur Grarz”. He nodded back. “Zandakar.”

The tall dark man left them, heading for the stables. Rhian watched him for a moment then shifted her gaze. “What you want to know you ask me, Alasdair.”

She was rebuking him? “You were busy.”

“You’ve no right questioning my people. It’s not fair on them. If you want to know something, ask me. I’ll tell you.”

All right, then. “What does zho mean?”

“It means yes .”

“And what language would that be?”

She hesitated. Shrugged. “I don’t know what it’s called. It’s Zandakar’s language.”

“And who is Zandakar, Rhian?”

Her eyes were glinting again. He saw temper, and unease. “A friend.”

“A friend you know nothing about. Who came off a slave ship, from an unknown country.”

She frowned. “Dexterity’s got a busy tongue.”

“He hardly told me anything,” he said, close to temper himself. “He said to ask you. So I’m asking, Rhian. Why is Zandakar with you? What is going on?”

Hands fisted on her hips, she shifted away from him. In the swift-fading light it was hard to read her face. “It’s a long story, and it’s complicated.”

“Which I want to hear,” he said, trying desperately to sound reasonable. But he knew he was failing … and realised he didn’t care. “I want to know who he is, Rhian! He spent the last hour waving a knife in your face! He nearly cut your throat three times that I saw. Nearly stabbed you to death five times, at least! And you don’t even know what country he’s from?”