The Godspeaker Trilogy (210 page)

His hands came to rest on her shoulders, and his forehead lowered to touch hers. “Yes. A lot more.”

“I'm sorry. I never meant—”

“I know,” he said, and kissed her. “Neither did I.”

Overwhelmed she clung to him despite the tiltyard railing between them. “We will survive this. We will find a way to weather this storm.”

“Which storm?” he said wryly. “Ethrea's crisis, or our own?”

“ Both ,” she said, and held him even tighter. “As God is my witness, Alasdair. We'll survive both.”

“Well,” he whispered. “If the Queen of Ethrea says so, who am I to disagree?”

As they walked back to the castle, the path lit by more breeze-guttered torches, Alasdair said, “This business of Han witching you to see the great trading nations' rulers. I've been giving it careful thought.”

He was frightened for her. She could hear it in his voice, not quite as steady as he doubtless imagined. She suspected she knew what he'd been thinking, but didn't say so. She owed him the courtesy of speaking first, before yet again she ignored his advice.

“Yes?”

“Ask Han to bring them here,” he said. “Don't go witching with the emperor. It's too dangerous, and we can't afford to risk losing you.”

She took his hand, and laced her fingers through his. “Can you imagine the Count of Arbenia or the Slainta of Harbisland agreeing to Tzhung-tzhungchai's emperor witching them anywhere ? They never would, Alasdair, you know it.” She tightened her fingers. “And you can't go in my place, either, because—”

“I know,” he said, impatient. “I'm needed here, to work with Edward and Rudi in cobbling together our army, God help us. We've not much time, and so much to do. Still, I worry.”

She leaned into his shoulder, briefly. “I'm sorry, I don't mean to burden you, but I do have to go with Han.” She felt her heart thud. “And, Alasdair…I have to take Zandakar with me.”

“Zandakar,” he said. Though his face was warmed by torchlight, his eyes were shadowed and unreadable.

She tugged him to a halt. “ Yes . Can you think of a more potent argument for an armada than the sight of his scorpion knife flaming with blue fire?”

He wasn't pleased, she could see that, but still he shook his head. “No. I can't.”

“Then he must go with me.”

“Have you told him?”

“I asked. He's agreed.” She started walking again, taking Alasdair with her. “About the army. While I made a great fuss in council, over not giving the trading nations any sovereignty here, I'm afraid—”

“I know,” he sighed. “I've been thinking about that, too. With the best will in the world, with all the enthusiasm and courage our people can muster, in truth they'll be no match for Mijak's warriors. Not even Zandakar can transform farmers into soldiers in the short time spared to us. You'll have to ask Arbenia and Harbisland, and all the rest, for archers and swordsmen to fight alongside the people of Ethrea.”

“Edward and Rudi will hate the idea,” she murmured. “God knows I hate it. It's one thing for the trading nations to keep us unmolested by infrequent pirates. But let them claim, when this is over, that without their soldiers Ethrea would be destroyed…what kind of precedent does that set? It seems we're on the brink of truly tearing up the treaty charter as it now exists. When the time comes to recreate it, will the trading nations demand more and more rights of us? Refuse to pay their tithes and tariffs? Exact a price for their assistance when in truth, by saving us they're saving themselves?”

Alasdair's arm slid round her shoulders. “I don't know, Rhian. All I know is that without them, we won't survive Mijak. But let's not run too far ahead of ourselves. Let's defeat Mijak first, however we must defeat it, and let the consequences come when they come. If we don't, all this worry will be for nothing. We'll be dead, and the kingdom enslaved.”

She couldn't fault his argument. She could only trust that in saving Ethrea, she didn't destroy it.

Returned with Alasdair to their privy apartments, she took pen and paper and scribbled a note to Han.

The Long Gallery. Tonight.

Then she wrote a second note, not quite as short, to Voolksyn of Harbisland. It was a gamble. But if the meeting with Han paid off…if he came…

The message boy she summoned took the sealed notes away, running. Afterwards, she sat in the parlour and breathed a fervent prayer.

She was tired. She was hungry. As Alasdair had said, she stank. But to Dinsy's dismay, instead of stripping off her rank huntsman's leathers and soaking in a bath before eating a hearty supper, she kissed Alasdair's cheek and made her way to the castle's Long Gallery…where she waited in solitude for Han to come.

“Rhian.”

Startled out of her doze she bounced to her feet, heart pounding and knife unsheathed in her hand.

“Han!”

His purple silk tunic and pants gleamed with a golden lustre in the gallery's candlelight. He still looked weary, but his grief for Sun-dao was well-contained.

“You summoned me,” he said, politely enough. “Why be surprised I'm here?”

“I'm not,” she said, and re-sheathed her knife. Her mouth felt woolly and her belly was grumbling, resenting its lack of food. “Are you all right?”

He raised a supercilious eyebrow. “Of course.”

“Your witch-men, Han. After what happened in Jatharuj, are they recovered?”

What little warmth there was in his eyes abruptly died. “You need not fear, Rhian. I have said my witch-men and I would help create your armada. I am the Emperor of Tzhung. My word is my word.”

Oh, men and their vaunted pride. “I'm not questioning your word, Han, I'm asking after you and your people! Tzhung-tzhungchai has received a grievous blow. You are the first of us to shed blood in this war against Mijak. You lost your brother. I feel for you. Is that so hard to believe?” She felt herself sneer. “Or is it that the feelings of this girl-child of Ethrea are vastly unimportant?”

And that stung him, just as his contempt of last night had stung her. His lips thinned, and his interlaced fingers tightened.

“Rhian, did you summon me to say again what was said mere hours ago? I doubt it. Shall we resist the urge to play games?”

“Truthfully, Han?” she said, glaring. “Right now I'm resisting the urge to slap you.”

To her surprise, he laughed. “Not a breathing soul in my empire would dare say that to my face.”

“In case you'd forgotten, we're not in your empire,” she pointed out, waving a hand at the candlelit Long Gallery. “We're attempting to prevent your empire from becoming part of Mijak's empire.”

His amusement faded. “I have answered your curt summons, Rhian. Why am I here?”

She cleared her throat, feeling a touch of warmth in her cheeks. “I do realise the note was…peremptory. I was trying to be cryptic.”

“Oh, you were,” Han assured her. “Also rude.”

Vexed, she chewed at her lip. Don't bite, don't bite, you need this man . “I apologise.”

“And I will hear you out,” said Han. “Provided it doesn't take all night.”

So much for the pleasantries. “I want to go to Arbenia and Harbisland tomorrow,” she said. “Around ten of the clock, after I've met with my council. And I want Zandakar to come with me. Are you strong enough to take us there so soon after Jatharuj?”

Han raised an eyebrow. “Arbenia and Harbisland are but two trading nations, Rhian. You will need warships from everywhere if this armada is to have any hope of success. Do you expect me to witch you all over the world?”

“No,” she replied. “After the Tzhung, Arbenia and Harbisland are the only two nations that count. Haisun answers to you. The other lesser trading nations answer to them. Once their loyalties are captured, all loyalties are captured. And in truth, Han, we need only convince one of your equals to join us.”

“Equals?” He sounded offended.

She frowned. “You know what I mean.”

“Which one?”

“Harbisland,” she said promptly. “Though Ambassador Voolksyn's not made us a single commitment, he has always been the most prepared to listen. If we can convince his Slainta that it's Mijak that should be feared, not Tzhung-tzhungchai or Rhian of Ethrea, the Count of Arbenia will meekly follow. He won't dare look a coward in front of the Slainta, or see himself left out of a chance to pillage spoils, after.”

“Really?” said Han. “You sound very confident.”

She tilted her chin at him. “I am.”

That made him laugh again. “Liar. You're terrified.”

He could read her so easily. “All right. Yes,” she said, defiant. “I'm terrified. But so are you.”

Her chance shot found its mark. Han blinked. His lustrous purple silk tunic shimmered as he took a deep breath, and let it out.

“It's true, Rhian of Ethrea,” he said, his voice low. His eyes were haunted. “I am indeed afraid. For the wind has blown me visions. It has shown me what lies in store for the world if we fail against Mijak.”

Rhian swallowed, hard. “Then we won't fail.”

“So young,” he murmured. “So sure of victory.”

“Would you rather I weep and wail like a child lost in the markets? Somehow I doubt it. Now, if you'd be so good as to answer my original question?”

“Am I capable of keeping my word to you?” said Han, coldly haughty. “Yes. I am. Tomorrow I'll take you and your Zandakar to Harbisland, and Arbenia. And if you succeed in winning the slainta and the count and the lesser trading nations to your desperate cause, my witch-men will bring their ships to your harbour. They will bring the ships of Tzhung-tzhungchai also, they'll sail with you into battle against Mijak.” A muscle leapt along his lean jaw. “And when they do, Sun-dao won't be the last of us to die.”

“Thank you, Han.” Treading softly, Rhian closed the distance between them, and rested her clenched fist gently on his chest. “The Queen of Ethrea won't forget Tzhung-tzhungchai's greatest emperor.”

Han smiled. Snapped his fingers. In a gust of wind he stepped back…and disappeared.

Relieved and exhausted, she returned to Alasdair in their privy apartments.

“Han agreed?” he asked, pulling off her boots.

“He agreed,” she said, breathing the rich aroma of gravied beef and buttered pumpkin. “And I begin to believe we might stand a chance.”

Alasdair paused, his warm hand on her ankle. “You didn't before?”

“Let's eat,” she suggested. “Before I faint from hunger.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

H
elfred was disappointed, but not truly surprised, when Rhian and Alasdair failed to appear in Kingseat's great chapel for Litany. He had to make do with the presence of Dukes Edward, Rudi and Ludo. Adric was absent too, and must be scolded for it, for only once had he bothered to take his place in the pews reserved for Ethrea's privy council.

And then, of course, there was Mister Jones. Dexterity. God's most unlikely messenger. Rumpled and threadbare, he sat with Ursa in the privy pews, lightly frowning, listening as the prolate he'd anointed sang Rhian's praises, again. Thanked God for Ethrea's courage, again. Cultivated the seeds of readiness for danger, again.

Surely I must sing a different song, soon. Soon my dear people must be woken from their dreams of safety.

Thinking of it broke his heart. The pain of his own waking hadn't passed. He felt it still, the loss of his innocence. The anger, the disbelief, the slow crushing acceptance, that God could not protect them from everything. That the world was vaster and stranger and more cruel than he'd ever suspected.

Murdering priests of Mijak. Sorcerous witch-men of Tzhung-tzhungchai. Even Dexterity, bursting into flames. Only scant months ago my life was so ordered. And now it's in disarray. It lies in pieces around me.

As the choristers' sweet voices soared to the chapel's rafters, he stared at his beautiful bound copy of Rollin's Admonitions , open before him on the pulpit. Admonition 24 leapt to his eye.

The past lies behind us. The future is unwritten. Do not cling to the past, for it is an anchor. Do not fear the future, for fear kills hope and blinds us to possibilities.

A timely reminder, perhaps. Was he indeed allowing fear to kill his hope, to blind him? Was his fear of the unknown, of Zandakar and the witch-men's strange powers, preventing him from seeing they were indeed Godsent, as Dexterity claimed?

He didn't know. He didn't know . And that was the worst part. He was being asked for a leap of faith…when he'd never had to leap before.

Behind him, Ven'Thomas cleared his throat suggestively. Looking up, Helfred realised the choristers had finished their final hymn and the congregation was staring at him, curious.

“Ah,” he said, uncomfortably aware he'd turned an unbecoming pink. “Thus is concluded our service this evening. God's blessings upon you, and the peace of Rollin. Pray for our brave queen, her stalwart husband, and our realm's privy council, charged with the most grave duty of its protection.”

And so another Litany was ended.

Afterwards, once he'd spoken with his congregation as they left the chapel, and favoured Dexterity with a solemn smile, he returned to the castle and his own privy chapel. He needed solitude again. A chance to clear his mind and open his heart in the hope that a final answer to his fears would come.

Heedless of bruised knees, he knelt on the cold chapel floor and stared into the heart of God's Living Flame. Stared with his own heart open, his mind emptied of fears and thoughts, waiting, waiting, for the truth to be revealed. The chapel's silence was profound. All he could hear was his breathing, and the soothing, monotonous rattle of his wooden prayer beads, click-click-clicking between his restless fingers. His vision blurred. His breathing slowed. One by one, his prayer beads clicked to a stop.

A hesitant hand pressed on his shoulder. A voice said, “Helfred. Helfred, turn round.”

Stirring out of his trance-like daze, he turned. And shrieked. And fell over.

It was his dead uncle, Marlan. The former Prolate of Ethrea.

“Helfred, Helfred,” said his uncle, hands uplifted, palms out. “Do not be afraid. I've not come to harm you.”

Choking with fright, Helfred scuttled backwards on his rump till his spine struck the chapel altar. The last time he'd seen Marlan, his uncle was going up in flames. Before that hideous moment there'd been cruelty and violence. Depravity. Sin. Marlan had ordered Kingseat's soldiers to kill Rhian.