The Godspeaker Trilogy (182 page)

His expression sombre, Alasdair considered her across the vast expanse of table between them. “I think you have the purest heart of anyone I've ever known. I think, since your father died, you've been outrunning demons without a chance to draw breath. Lurching from crisis to crisis, making desperate choices, facing dire situations no other monarch of Ethrea has ever had to face. And…yes. At times I think you've leapt before you looked.”

It was somehow worse, that he sounded so sad . “I'm guided by what I believe is best for the kingdom,” she replied. “If you think otherwise, Alasdair, then—”

“No,” he said swiftly. “But, Rhian, things aren't so simple. Rejecting Mijak doesn't make a man good. There's more than one kind of evil in the world.”

Before she could answer him, the chamber doors opened again and Helfred returned with Zandakar behind him.

“Rhian hushla ,” Zandakar said, pleased and wary at once, then nodded to Alasdair. “You need?”

She sat straight in her chair, even though her bones were aching and her head pounded without mercy. “Yes. I need. Helfred? The doors.”

Helfred closed the chamber doors and took his place at the table. His prayer beads were wrapped tight around his fingers, and she had never seen him look so grave.

Zandakar stood before them, uneasy in his linen shirt and leather leggings. Beyond the chamber windows the afternoon light was beginning to wane. His blue hair shone darker, just like his eyes.

Clasping her hands in case they trembled, she met his gaze directly. “Your mother the empress is sacrificing people to your god, Zandakar. What do you know of this?”

He said nothing, at first. As though he were the Zandakar fresh off the Slynt slave ship, and had no understanding of Ethrean words. Then he stirred. “People?” His voice was husky. “ Wei understand, Rhian hushla .”

“Oh, I think you do, Zandakar,” said Alasdair. “I think you understand full well.”

“Whatever you know,” Helfred added gently, “it's best that you tell us, Zandakar. These secrets aren't helpful.”

Zandakar shook his head. “Secrets? Wei secrets. Wei people.”

Alasdair slapped his hand on the table. “Zho people, Zandakar! Not cows and goats and whatever else your priests sacrifice. Now Mijak's killing humans , for the power in their blood. How long have you known this? How long have you been lying?”

“Please, Alasdair,” Rhian murmured. “Give him a chance.”

Zandakar was shaking his head. “ Wei. Wei . Alasdair king is wrong. Wei people. Vortka – Yuma—” His voice broke, his face twisted. “People?” He turned away, his outreaching hand touching the wall, seeking support, as though he found it impossible to stand.

“King Alasdair…” Helfred sounded uncertain. “I believe he didn't know. I believe his distress is genuine.”

“You sound surprised, Helfred,” Rhian snapped.

“I – I—” Helfred stared at his prayer beads. “I confess, I don't know what to think.”

“And I confess I find your willingness to believe the worst of Zandakar without proof to be a shameful thing.” Leaving Helfred to his blushes, she turned on Alasdair. “Well? Are you still convinced he's a party to this vile slaughter?”

“Zandakar!” said Alasdair. “Look at me. Look at me .”

Slowly, Zandakar pulled away from the wall and turned. His face was blank, his eyes hollow with pain. “Alasdair king.”

“If I gave you a dagger, now, would you swear in your blood that your denials are the truth? That you had no knowledge of this abominable thing?”

Zandakar held out his hand. “Give me dagger. I will swear.”

“You'll do no such thing!” said Rhian. “You'll go down to the tiltyard and wait there for me. We've time to dance our hotas before I attend this evening's Litany. Go on. I think you know the way without a gaggle of soldiers showing you.”

Walking like a man bereft of hope, Zandakar obeyed.

“I'll wait with him,” said Helfred. “It's plain to see this news has hurt him. Perhaps I can be of some little comfort.”

With an effort, Rhian throttled her simmering temper. Too little, too late, Helfred. Your doubts hurt him first . “That would be charitable, Prolate.”

“Indeed,” said Helfred, subdued, and departed.

Which left her alone with Alasdair, again.

“No soldiers?” he demanded as the doors closed behind her prolate. “Rhian—”

“I know what I said,” she replied. “But to shadow him with soldiers now, after such a showing of mistrust—”

“I'll not apologise for questioning him, Rhian,” Alasdair retorted. “One of us must be prepared to suspect those we'd rather hold close to our hearts. I know you prefer not to think of betrayal. I know making such accusations offends you. But I say it's better to offend than learn too late you were wrong.”

She nodded. “You're right.”

“About?” he said, sitting back in his chair. He seemed to her braced for another attack.

“About me being offended,” she said gently. “About needing you to be hard.” She bit her lip. “It's just…I don't have so many friends, Alasdair, that I can discard them lightly.”

“You're still convinced Zandakar's your friend?”

“I'm not convinced he isn't.”

“And Emperor Han? Is he a friend too?”

Remembering Han's cold eyes, the way his gaze seemed to look right through her, she shivered. “I've no idea what Han is. All I know is I don't want him for an enemy.”

He started to answer, but stopped when the chamber doors opened and a herald entered. “Majesty,” he said bowing. “I bring a message.”

Rhian held out her hand. “Very well.”

The herald presented it and departed. She picked apart the ribbon tying the scrolled parchment, unrolled it and read.

“What?” said Alasdair as the chamber wheeled around her. “Rhian, what's happened?”

There were two scribbled notes, one from an apologetic chaplain called Hyse, the other—

“It's Rulf,” she said dully. “He's killed himself.”

Alasdair stared. “Rulf? Who's—” Then he swore. “ Lord Rulf? Marlan's ward? The useless man he wanted to—”

“Yes.” Tears were pricking her eyes. “He left a letter,” she added, and held up the scrap of paper rolled inside the parchment. “He says he feared for his life after my slaying of Damwin and Kyrin. According to his parish chaplain, he drank poison.”

“Rhian…” Alasdair reached across the table and closed his fingers over the notes, taking them from her. “You didn't kill him. You'd never have harmed him, he wasn't responsible for Marlan any more than Helfred was.”

The council chamber was warm, yet she felt so cold. “I never gave him another thought,” she murmured. “As soon as we were wed, and I knew I was safe from him, his welfare never once crossed my mind.”

Blindly she pushed away from the table and moved dreamlike to the window. Alasdair followed, to pull her against him. She heard the notes crumple in his fist as he closed his arms tight. “Why would you? He was no-one. None of us considered him. Besides, you had more important things to occupy your thoughts.”

She rested her cheek against his chest and breathed in the scent of him, so warm and reassuring. “I should've thought of him once, Alasdair. I should've thought to let him know I bore him no ill-will.”

And now it was too late. Rulf was dead. He'd died in pain and fear, without reason, all because she'd been too busy to think of him.

Too busy, or too careless.

She stepped back from Alasdair, breaking his embrace. “I have to go.”

“Of course,” he said, expressionless. “Zandakar's waiting.”

“My hotas are waiting,” she said sharply. “I can't afford to neglect them.”

He nodded. “Of course you can't.”

“While I'm training, would you find Ven'Cedwin?” she said, when she could trust herself not to snap. “And craft a summons to the ambassadors? Bid them meet us here at ten of the clock tomorrow morning. We've no time to lose, now.”

“Of course,” he said. “Your Majesty.”

“ Alasdair —” She punched his chest lightly with her fist. “Don't be stupid.”

And left him to join Zandakar before she said more that she'd regret.

Dexterity stood with Ursa and watched as Rhian and Zandakar danced their violent hotas . They were the only two people watching; Helfred, an unexpected attendant, had departed as soon as they arrived and Rhian dismissed the handful of courtiers who'd come to gawk.

“Brings back memories, Jones,” said Ursa, then hissed as Rhian avoided the tip of Zandakar's blade by a hairsbreadth.

Draped over the castle tiltyard's railing, he nodded. It did indeed. Rhian and Zandakar broke apart, sweating and panting, and took a moment to consider their next dance.

“You finished with all your puppetry bits and bobs?” Ursa said, considering him sidelong. “Now you've been asked back to serve on the council?”

He shrugged. “For now. Just one more cartload to sell at the harbour markets tomorrow. But I'll not be abandoning my trade altogether, Ursa. Serving on council's not a full-time occupation.”

“Perhaps not,” she said darkly. “But waging war is. There'll be plenty for you to do once this kingdom's finally told what's what in the world.”

He shifted against the splintery railings, uncomfortable. It had to happen, he knew that, but oh, how he dreaded it. Dreaded the destruction of Ethrea's peace. For so long the people of this kingdom had lived without the fear of bloodshed. They knew wars happened, of course. Kingseat's taverns were filled nightly with sailors and their gruesome tales of this battle, and that one. The tales spread.

But hearing of war and living it are two different things.

He grunted as Ursa nudged his ribs with her elbow. “You're brooding,” she muttered. “Stop it. What's to come will come, Jones. Do you think you can prevent it?”

“I know I can't. I know there's things set in motion not a one of us can change,” he muttered back. “And I'm sad for that, Ursa. You can't tell me not to be sad.”

“Well, I can ,” she said, lifting an eyebrow at him. “But I won't, for I'm old enough to know better than to throw good advice at a deaf man.”

In the tiltyard, Rhian and Zandakar had returned to their hotas . Dexterity, watching closely, was struck by how Rhian had changed. She was leaner. Faster. More supple. Less predictable. On the road, while she was first learning, he'd always thought Zandakar had held himself back. Even though he was hard on her, even though he shouted and cuffed her and called her rude names in Mijaki, it seemed clear he was protecting her, too.

But not any more.

Be careful, be careful, Rhian, don't take chances.

She wasn't listening. She flirted with death.

Ursa stifled a groan, her fingers bloodless on the tiltyard rail. “I'm not sure I can keep watching, Jones.”

He was risking splinters too. “She's different, isn't she, from her time on the road?” he said as Rhian turned a neat circle around her blade. “She doesn't dance these wretched hotas the same.”

Ursa sniffed. “She's killed two men with a sword, Jones. Of course she's different.”

She still wouldn't tell him what she'd seen the day Rhian had faced Damwin and Kyrin, and defeated them. He was partly relieved, partly annoyed. He wanted to know…and yet, he didn't.

I could always ask Rhian. But I doubt she'd tell me, either.

“Oh!” Ursa exclaimed, and pressed her hand to her mouth.

“She's all right, she's all right,” he said, his heart thundering as Rhian sprang to her feet after slipping and falling on her back.

“All right? She's bleeding!” said Ursa. “Are you blind?”

No. And she was right, Rhian was bleeding. Zandakar's blade had caught her down one arm, slicing through her linen shirt-sleeve, leaving a thin trail of blood. But she didn't cry out. She scarcely seemed to notice.

He put his hand on Ursa's shoulder, squeezing. “Don't fuss yourself, old woman. Our Rhian's in no danger.”

“Old woman yourself,” said Ursa, shrugging him free. “I'll give you old woman next time you need a posset for your innards!”

He smothered a grin in his beard, and kept his gaze on Rhian.

The only sound in the tiltyard was Rhian's breathing, and Zandakar's, deep and fast, on the very edge of laboured. Grunts, as they leapt and spun and cartwheeled and flipped. The swift thud-thud of their feet as they landed in the dirt, on the grass, the lighter pat-pat as their hands followed their feet.

Rhian, with a great gasp, sprang onto her extended left arm and swirled herself upwards and sideways, her right leg extending to catch Zandakar across the belly. He twisted under her foot, seemingly boneless, and his leg caught her instead in the chest. She crashed heavily, awkwardly to the trampled and sweat-stippled grass. With a shout of savage triumph he came down on top of her, straddling her torso, knife swinging round to press to her throat.

But before his blade could cut off her breathing, hers whipped up into his face, its tip pricking the skin beside his right eye. One deep breath and she'd have him blinded…or worse. A thread of blood, like a tear, found its way down his cheek.

“ Setzhay ?” she demanded, the air rasping in her throat.

Zandakar's blade fell to his side. “ Setzhay, hushla ,” he replied, then smiled. “Good. Good.”

Dexterity let go of the breath he'd been holding, aware that beside him Ursa's face had paled to milk-white. This time he put his arm all the way round her shoulders, and she was so shaken she didn't object.

“Rollin have mercy,” she murmured. “I can't come here again.”

He would. Not because he enjoyed the sight of Rhian and Zandakar fighting like cat and dog, but because it was one of the few ways he knew how to show them he cared.

Zandakar hadn't moved. Neither had Rhian. Her knife-point still pricked the skin beside his eye. The trickle of blood on his cheek was drying a darker red.

She said, still breathing heavily, “Do you believe that I believe you? Do you?”

So slowly, so gently, he took her wrist in his hand and lowered her blade from his face. “ Zho . I believe.”

“This is a new thing? Since you were banished, Zandakar?”

Dexterity watched Zandakar's face twist with pain. “I think zho . Rhian…” He took a shuddering breath. “ Yatzhay , Rhian.”

“What are they talking about, Jones?” said Ursa. “What's a new thing? Why is he sorry?”