The Godspeaker Trilogy by Karen Miller
“And go where, Dex?” said Hettie. “If we fail in the coming days nowhere will be safe.”
“ We ?” He stared at her, then shook his head. Stepped back. “Oh, no. No, Hettie. Not again. I'll not be bamboozled and hoodwinked again. I've lost my livelihood to this business. I won't lose my life too.”
“But you will, Dex,” she said. The tears were dried on her cheeks, or vanished. “You and everyone else. We have this brief moment of respite, this heartbeat of time in which to act…and then the storm will break. Such a storm, Dex. It will sweep the world bare. It will scour every land to bones and stone. What are your hurt feelings compared to that?”
“Nothing, it seems,” he retorted. “Nothing to you or to God. And that hurts me further, Hettie. Am I a wicked man for feeling so? Am I sinful, for mourning all I've lost because I did what you begged of me without a second thought? Perhaps I am. And I'm so sorry if it seems pretty, my love , but if you truly ever knew me you'd know toymaking is my heart. Now my heart's torn from me and I'm grieving . And I think I'd rather grieve alone!”
He was nearly shouting. There were tears in his eyes, clogging his throat. Never since the day they met had he spoken to her in such a fashion. Never railed at her. Never longed to shake her. Never felt so abandoned and alone.
“I'm sorry,” Hettie whispered. “Don't you think I know what I've done? Using you the way I have, don't you think I know what that's cost? Of course I know, Dexie. I knew before ever I came to you that first time, the price you'd pay for loving me like you do.”
It was hard to breathe. Her words were like blows from a harbour-brawling sailor. “And you came anyway. You used me and never told me what I'd lose for loving you.”
“How could I not?” she said, beseeching. “With so much at stake, so many lives in the balance, Dex. How could I not use whatever weapon came to my hand?”
“But why you ?” he demanded. “You were never so pious when you lived in this cottage, Hettie. You went to Litany most weeks, but not always. And you never gave a thought to Church beyond that. Why is it you who—” And then he choked to silence, and felt himself back away. “Are you even really Hettie? Or are you something else that's dressed itself in her face, to coddle me into thinking – into doing—” He sucked in a shuddering gasp. “Are you – you're not—”
“No,” said Hettie swiftly. “No, Dex. I'm not God. I swear it on every sweet night we spent together. I'm your wife. I'm Hettie.”
“And why have you come back to me? There's nothing else I can do for you. Rhian's on the throne and she knows the danger we're facing from Zandakar's family. She doesn't need my help any more. She's got Emperor Han and his witch-men.”
“Does she?” said Hettie. “Emperor Han is a mystery, Dex. His heart is a locked box and only he has the key to it.”
He stared, suddenly sick. “Rhian's in danger from the emperor?”
“She's in danger on all sides, Dex. Winning her crown was only the start. I thought you understood that.”
Clutching at the stubbly start of his new beard, he turned away. “I don't understand anything , Hettie! I used to have such a simple life!” He turned back. “These witch-men. What are they? What power is it they command? Are they like the priests of Mijak? Do they truck with evil and darkness? With blood ?”
Hettie was wearing a threadbare shawl. She tightened it around her insubtantial shoulders, her golden hair lank and loose about her face. “No. But, Dex, you should be wary. The witch-men of Tzhung-tzhungchai serve their emperor first and last and always. Remember that in your dealings with them.”
“Dealings?” He shook his head vehemently, remembering Sun-dao. “I'll have no more dealings with them.”
“Yes you will, Dex.”
“Hettie, I won't . I'm finished with great matters. I'm a small man. I've grown so small I'm practically invisible.”
She smiled. “Oh, Dex. You were never a small man. Your heart's so big the world could fit inside it.”
He folded his arms. “I tell you I'm done with advising the mighty. Rhian doesn't want me anyway. She's made that clear.”
“She may not want you but she needs you. God needs you, Dexie. Can you turn your back on God?”
“I did it before. I can do it again.”
“Oh, Dex…” Hettie shook her head. “Put God to one side, then. Ethrea needs you. Can you stand there and say you'll turn your back on your home? Dexie…” She walked to him and put her hand on his arm. Her touch was lighter than a butterfly's kiss. “I'm not God, but I serve God. I'm working for the victory of all that's good in the world. Don't tell me you'd turn your back on that, for I do know you, Dexterity Jones. That kind of callousness isn't in you.”
“Maybe not,” he said, blinking his stinging eyes. “But I'm weary, Hettie. I'm all used up from healing people, and burning. Isn't there someone else who can do this?”
“For your sake I wish there was. But what you've started, my love, I need you to finish.”
“What I started?” He laughed, incredulous. “I didn't start anything, Hettie.”
“Dex, you must go on.”
He retreated a few steps. “And if I can't? If I won't? What then, will God strike me dead? Burn me to ashes?”
“God won't have to,” Hettie whispered. “The warriors of Mijak will kill you, Dex. You and everyone else they can find.”
“ Stop saying things like that ! Stop trying to frighten me into doing what you want! I tell you Rhian doesn't need me! She's got all those trading nations with their soldiers and their ships.”
“She doesn't have them yet, Dex. She might never have them. Nothing is certain. Not even God knows the outcome of this. So much depends on…”
“On what?” He stared. “On me? No . I won't carry that burden, Hettie. How can I bear up under that kind of weight? You're cruel. Cruel . To come to me now, to say that to me? Oh, Hettie. I never knew you could be so cruel.”
Her eyes were wide and wounded. “Not cruel, Dex. Desperate.”
“Well I don't want you desperate, Hettie!” he retorted. “I don't want you at all. Go away! Leave me be! I'm weary , I tell you. I can't do this. I've had enough of doom and dismay!”
Hettie looked at him in silence…and in silence, sorrowful, faded away.
Unstrung, Dexterity dropped to the grass. “I'm sorry,” he whispered. “I'm sorry. But please don't come back.”
CHAPTER NINE
“Before we do anything else,” said Edward, “we must decide how to resolve the matter of Damwin and Kyrin's Houses.”
“Pull them down brick by stone,” said Adric. “And raise new Houses who know where their loyalty lies.”
Standing at the privy council chamber's window, the sun warm at her back, Rhian fixed him with a cool stare. “And by that you mean what, Adric? Execute everyone related to the unfortunate dukes?”
Adric flushed dark red. “I mean you can't leave them to flourish unchecked, Your Majesty.”
“I don't intend to,” she replied. “And neither do I intend sowing seeds of bitterness that will be harvested in bloodshed at some future time.” She looked around her privy council. “Raymot and Davin aren't their fathers. They must be given the chance not to follow in those dukes' misguided footsteps.”
“And if they don't take that chance?” said Rudi. “If they defy you? If, God forbid, they should challenge you to more judicial combat?”
She felt a small jolt of surprise. The thought hadn't occurred. “You think they'd be so foolish?”
“I think a hot-headed man full of grief and a misplaced sense of injustice would, yes, be so foolish, and perhaps not stop there,” said Rudi, sounding regretful.
“It won't come to that,” said Helfred. “Judicial combat must be sanctioned by the Church. I will not sanction it. The question of the queen's right to the crown has been asked and answered. The matter is closed.”
Clearing her throat Rhian resumed her seat, carefully. “I agree. And I want this business dealt with, gentlemen,
“Your Majesty,” said Ven'Cedwin. He put aside his inked quill and moved to open the chamber door.
“Your Majesty,” said Idson, entering, and swept her a military bow. “The prisoners, as you commanded.”
She'd thought at one time there'd be trouble between herself and Kingseat's garrison commander, since he'd obeyed Marlan so assiduously. But after Marlan's fall he'd begged her forgiveness on bended knee, swearing loyalty to her rule. At the council's urging she'd kept him. God knew she needed men with martial experience, and he'd not given her cause to doubt him so far.
She nodded. “Bring them in.”
Idson stood aside and a skein of guards escorted Raymot of Hartshorn and Davin of Meercheq into the chamber. Raymot, a barrel-chested echo of Kyrin, snarled when he saw her.
“Murdering whore!”
“No, Idson!” said Rhian as the commander's fist lifted to strike him, and pushed to her feet. She'd chosen less warlike attire this morning: a loose-fitting midnight blue brocade gown shot through with gold. Beneath it her stitched and bruised flesh throbbed gently, the pain not quite vanquished by Ursa's potions. Sweeping around the privy council table, refusing to let any discomfort show, she halted before the prisoners. “You are angry and grief-struck, Raymot. I understand that. And though I don't expect you to believe it, I am sorry for your loss.”
Raymot spat at her feet.
“You and Davin are brought before me,” she continued, ignoring his provocation, “to see how best we can put the recent past behind us.”
“ Never !” said Raymot, everything about him vicious. “I'll die before supporting a whore like you.”
“Is that what you want, Raymot?” she asked him gently. “To die in rebellion against the crown?”
“You don't dare,” he sneered. “Kill two dukes of Hartshorn within hours of each other?”
She sighed, torn between pity and anger. “You're not a duke until I say you're a duke, Raymot. And looking at you now, I've no mind to say it. Raymot Doveninger, you are disinherited and your household struck apart. Your estates are forfeit to the crown. Your wife will retire to a clerica. You shall be kept in prayerful seclusion in a venerable house. Your son shall be fostered to a House of Ethrea I can trust. Henceforth some other family shall breed dukes of Hartshorn.”
The blood drained from Raymot's face. “You can't do that! With my father dead I am the duke! You can't —”
Idson unsheathed his dagger and pressed its tip to Raymot's convulsing throat. “She's your queen, fool. She can, and she has. Speak another word and I'll cut out your tongue.”
No-one in the chamber disbelieved him, especially not Raymot. Rhian looked at Idson. “Return him to his chamber, Commander. Double his guard.”
“Majesty,” said Idson, and nodded to his men. Half the skein withdrew with Raymot sagging among them.
She considered silent Davin. As Damwin's heir he'd come to court from time to time, but she barely knew him. Eight years older than Ranald and married already, herself a mere child, there'd been not an inch of common ground between them.
“Well, Davin?”
Unlike Raymot there was no hatred in his eyes or his thin face. Because he felt none, or because he was a consummate actor? She didn't know, and held her breath.
“I have no quarrel with Your Majesty,” he said quietly. “I want to be Duke of Meercheq.”
She smiled. Unlike Raymot, he was no fool. “And perhaps you shall be – if you can prove your loyalty to the crown. For now, return to your chamber. We'll talk again in due course.”
“You can't trust him,” said Rudi as Idson and the rest of his soldiers escorted Damwin's son out. “He shows a meek face now, Majesty, but that mask will surely slip.”
Rhian returned to her seat. “Don't worry. I'm far from trusting Davin. He'll remain my guest in Kingseat for some little while yet.”
“Hostage to his family's good behaviour?” said Alasdair.
She nodded. “It seems the wisest course.”
“It is,” said Edward, approving. “But I'd send the rest of his party packing, Majesty. Porpont needs an eye kept on him, but he'll oversee duchy Meercheq well enough for now.”
“An excellent suggestion. See to it, will you? And as for duchy Hartshorn…” She turned to Helfred. “Since the Church must be so closely involved with Kyrin's surviving family, Prolate, can I leave you to oversee the dissolving of his House?”
“You can, Majesty,” said Helfred. “I suggest that Raymot begins his penance in Kingseat's venerable house. His wife I'd remove to the clerica at Todding.”
“Agreed,” she said. “As for what else must be done, Helfred, choose such churchmen as you can trust to be discreet, humane and impervious to the distress of all concerned.”
Helfred nodded. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
“What of finding a new duke for Hartshorn?” said Ludo.
“No good can come from choosing Kyrin's successor in haste,” she replied. “The wrong duke would be worse than no duke at all.”
“Most Venerable Robert, of the Court Ecclesiastica, is a formidable administrator, Majesty,” said Helfred. “He would serve you well in duchy Hartshorn until you choose its next duke.”
He made it sound such a simple thing. No more difficult than selecting fabric for a new dress. But if I choose the wrong man, what strife will I be sowing for poor Ethrea to reap ? “Very well. I accept Ven'Robert's assistance with thanks. Now, as to the funerals of those regrettable dukes…”
Kyrin and Damwin had both died as traitors, rebels to their lawful queen, but to make an example of them now, with Mijak breathing hot and bloody at their backs…
“Let them be laid in their family vaults with the proper rites,” Alasdair suggested. “And let their foolish sins be interred with them. The dukes served your father well enough, Majesty, until events overcame their reason.”
And showing mercy today would temper yesterday's brutality. She nodded. “Yes. Helfred, see to it.”
“What of Davin?” said Alasdair.
She closed her eyes. If she let Damwin's son return home for the funeral would that stir up trouble? Or would trouble foment if she kept him in Kingseat?
Everywhere I turn, more questions. More decisions. Did I understand it would be like this, when I dreamed of becoming a queen?
“Denying Davin the funeral might turn him from friend to enemy,” said Ludo. “If you like, Majesty, I'll escort him. He'll not make mischief under my nose.”
She was about to agree when she caught sight of Adric's thunderous expression. Speaking of turning friends into enemies…“Ludo, you and Adric both shall escort him, and at the funeral represent the crown.”
“Majesty,” they murmured. Adric looked pleased, like a child in a tantrum being given a sweet.
In Alasdair's eyes she caught a gleam of approval and felt, too briefly, pleasure overwhelm her pain and fear. She stood, and started pacing the council chamber, even though movement stirred her body to greater discomfort.
“Gentlemen, we must now address the vexing question of Mijak.”
Silence. Consternation. The rustling of leather and fabric as they stirred in their seats.
“Both Zandakar and Emperor Han have told us that Mijak is making its way through the world,” she continued. “Once it reaches Icthia nothing but ocean stands between its warriors and this kingdom.” She stopped and turned to face them. “Therefore Ethrea must prepare itself for war.”
Such a small word, with so much power. She felt sick only saying it…the thought of waging it…dear God.
“War,” murmured Edward. “It seems scarcely believable.”
“ Believe it ,” she said brutally. “ All of you. Accept its inevitability so we needn't waste time debating. Our breath must be saved for deciding how we'll win.”
Adric stared at Helfred. “I
From the look on his father's face, and Edward's, even Ludo's, he wasn't the only one asking the question. Rhian exchanged glances with Alasdair, but held her tongue. This was Helfred's business.
“The divine is ultimately unknowable, Your Grace,” he said, breaking the silence. “As a man I cannot answer your question.”
“Yes, but you're not just a man, are you?” Adric retorted. “You're God's Prolate. How can you sit there and declare you don't know if he can protect us?”
“Say a man is thatching his roof. Does God prevent him from slipping and falling to his death? Does God prevent a woman from dying in childbirth? Does he banish illness from the world?”
“He caused a child to rise from the dead,” said Rudi. “It seems God is fickle, Your Eminence.”
“ Fickle ?” said Helfred, frowning. “Be careful, Your Grace. You mock God at your peril. That child was a miracle, raised from death so Rhian – Her Majesty – might take her rightful place on the throne.”
“Then why doesn't God send us another miracle?” said Adric. “The divine destruction of Mijak.”
“Because,” Helfred said, his frown deepening, “we are not God's puppets, but masters of our own fates. When last Ethrea seemed on the brink of destruction, God sent us Rollin to help us save ourselves. Rollin pointed the way to peace but it was up to us to achieve it. And we did. Now, as we face another great danger, God has given us Queen Rhian. But whether or not Mijak is defeated is up to us. We must act, not sit weeping and wailing for God to intervene.”
Rhian watched the faces of her dukes as they digested Helfred's unpalatable sermon. A small part of her was amused that they were now subject to the same prosing lectures he'd inflicted upon her when he was her chaplain and she couldn't escape.
Still. Prosing or not, he's right. Not once in history has God solved a human problem. This is our world and we must save it.