The Godspeaker Trilogy (177 page)

That I'll burst into flames and burn the prolate's palace down around their ears?

Oh dear. Disconcerted, he nodded. “Well, I'll admit to being Mister Jones, the toymaker. And you are—”

“Ven'Norbert. How may I serve you?”

“Serve me?” he said, startled. “I don't need serving, Ven'Norbert. I just need to find the prolate.”

“His Eminence is sequestered in his privy chapel,” said the venerable. “Doubtless to deny you is a heinous sin, but His Eminence was emphatic.”

A sin ? “Ven'Norbert, I've not come to make a spectacle of myself,” he said, his voice lowered. “Or to cause trouble. But I do need to see the prolate, on a matter of state.”

Anguished, Ven'Norbert pulled a face. “Perhaps I should send for a member of the Court Ecclesiastica.”

He had no time for this. Oh, Hettie. How have I become this man ? He stepped a little closer to the conflicted venerable, and lowered his voice even further. “Ven'Norbert, Blessed Rollin has sent me.”

Ven'Norbert gasped. “Mister Jones!” He made the sign of Rollin, kissing his thumb so hard he looked in danger of breaking it. “You should have said so at once!”

Hot with shame, Dexterity followed the white-faced venerable to the sweeping staircase, up the first flight of stairs, the second, the third. They climbed more stairs to the fourth floor, and then Ven'Norbert led him along a red-carpeted corridor, his leather sandals thumping softly. At the end of the corridor was an imposing gilded door. Ven'Norbert stopped and turned.

“The prolate's privy chapel,” he said. “I don't dare enter, Mister Jones.”

Dexterity nodded. “All right. Thank you. Ah – God's blessings on you, Venerable Norbert.”

“And on you,” said Ven'Norbert, faintly. He seemed dazed.

Dexterity opened the gilded door and entered Helfred's privy chapel.

First, like the proletary palace, there was an opulent foyer. Mosaics, paintings, a single Living Flame, and an intricately carved and gilded wooden screen. Dexterity slipped around it, searching for Helfred.

Rhian's unlikely prolate knelt before the Living Flame at the far end of the chapel proper, which was so opulently decorated, as to be oppressive. Hel-fred looked positively incongruous, dressed in the rough, unadorned robe of the kingdom's most humble chaplain.

Even Ven'Norbert had looked more proletary than Helfred.

“I can only imagine,” said Helfred, “that the palace threatens to tumble round our ears. There can be no other reason for this rude interruption when I expressly forbade—”

“It's me, Helfred,” said Dexterity.

Helfred slewed round, ungainly. “Mister Jones? What do you do here? Is Rhian—”

“Naught's amiss with our queen,” he said. “Though she does fret on you.”

Helfred grimaced. “She'd do better fretting on herself.”

“Oh, she does that too.”

There was a single pew in the small, exquisite chapel. He sat down, uninvited, and considered the holy flame in its sconce.

Helfred grunted to his feet. “I suppose she sent you?” He didn't sit down. With tired eyes and a peevish expression he stood before the altar, feet wide and fists on his hips, projecting an image of authority at odds with his plain, roughspun robes. His wooden prayer beads dangled from his cord belt.

Dexterity let his gaze roam the overwrought chapel. “How can you pray in this place, Helfred? The amount of gilt is blinding. I've a pain behind my eyes and I've sat in here scant minutes.”

“What do you want, Dexterity? This is my privy chapel, not the high street of Kingseat township.”

“I want to talk, Helfred.”

“About what?”

“It's odd, isn't it?” Dexterity mused. “Where life has brought us. I tell you, not a day goes by that I don't know whether to be humbled or horrified by all that's happened.” He pulled a face. “Though I must confess, horrified usually wins. The things we've seen, Helfred. Rollin save us, the things we've done. The choices we've made. That we're yet to make. It's all so daunting.”

Helfred sniffed. “Rhian wants you to convince me to brush aside my qualms about Zandakar and Tzhung-tzhungchai, doesn't she? She wants me to embrace him and those witch-men like long-lost loved brothers.”

Dexterity picked at the fraying edge of his bandage. “She didn't say that , precisely. But yes, she is worried by your sudden concerns.”

“I am Prolate of Ethrea!” snapped Helfred. “It's my spiritual duty to be concerned!”

“You didn't seem concerned when I burst into flames that first time,” he said, mild as milk. “As I recall, you proclaimed it a miracle. A sign from God.”

“Because it was! Do you deny it now?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here? Why do you disturb me as I seek divine guidance?”

“Because Rhian's right, Helfred. And you're wrong.”

Helfred clasped his hands and began to pace before the altar, agitated and dismayed. “I don't believe so. The soul of every Ethrean must surely be perilled if we truck with heathen magics, be they wielded by Zandakar or by Han's witch-men.”

“Helfred, God wouldn't have sent Zandakar to us, or the witch-men, if he didn't desire them to help us defeat Mijak!”

“So you say,” said Helfred, still pacing. “But you might be mistaken. You're not a prolate, you're a toymaker.”

Dexterity gritted his teeth. “And not so long ago you were a chaplain. I swear, you begin to sound like your uncle.”

Helfred turned on him. “That is a dreadful thing to say!”

“And Marlan was a dreadful thing to be. Helfred, put aside your self-consequence and listen to me. I tell you straightly, in this matter you are wrong .”

Offended. Helfred stood there and wrestled with his pride, or his conscience, or both. At last his shoulders slumped and his fingers sought the comforting reassurance of his wooden prayer beads. “Wrong how?” he asked, grudging. “Do you care to explain?”

Oh, Hettie. Let me be doing the right thing, please.

“Well,” he said, “all right. But you must promise not to repeat this. I've not told anyone, not even Rhian.”

“Really?” said Helfred, his curiosity piqued. “Why not?”

“Hettie said I shouldn't, but I think I need to make an exception. For if you don't support Rhian, Helfred, I fear Ethrea will be doomed.”

“Very well,” said Helfred, after a moment. “I'll not repeat it…but I'll not promise to change my mind, either.”

Dexterity swallowed a sigh. At least Helfred was listening. “There is no God of Mijak. Zandakar's chalava doesn't exist. At least, not in the way he and the others think it does. Mijak's priests have mistaken a dark supernatural force for a deity. The blood of their sacrifices feeds it, and gives them the power to do abominable things. It also deludes them into thinking they obey their god when they conquer other nations.”

Helfred's eyes had widened. “Does Zandakar know this?”

“I'm not certain if he knows all of it,” he said slowly. “But he knows enough. That's why we can trust him to fight for us. As much as he wants to help Ethrea, he's desperate to save his own people from this terrible lie. To save all the innocents who'd be destroyed by Mijak.”

“A laudable ambition,” said Helfred, “but what you say only strengthens my resolve. Zandakar is Mijaki, he must be using their dark power to—”

“And what of Han's witch-men? They don't dabble in blood sacrifices, do they?” Dexterity persisted. “And Sun-dao died fighting Mijak, Helfred.”

Helfred turned away, clutching his prayer beads so hard his fingers turned white. “Perhaps. But—”

“Helfred, there's only one thing to consider here,” he said, standing. “Mijak must be defeated. Human sacrifice , Prolate! Can you imagine ?”

“I've been trying not to,” Helfred whispered. “My stomach revolts at the very thought.”

“Well, I was in Jatharuj, Helfred. I don't have to imagine, I smelled it. Sometimes I think I'll never rid myself of the stench. In Jatharuj, in my dreams of Garabatsas, I have seen evil's true face…and I promise you, I promise , it doesn't look like Zandakar or the witch-men of Tzhung-tzhungchai.”

“Then how do you explain what they do?” cried Helfred, anguished.

Dexterity shrugged. “I don't. I can't. Any more than I can explain what I've done. All I can do is trust that Hettie wouldn't ask me to put my faith in evil.”

Helfred began to pace again. “It may be simple for you, Dexterity, but it is not so for me! I was a chaplain ! I counselled Rhian, I did my uncle's bidding, I had no thought of high office. No expectation. No desire . I studied the Admonitions , I tried to keep my soul pure. I never asked for the keeping of every soul in Ethrea! Who am I to decide these things? Who am I to know if Zandakar and the Tzhung will taint us or save us, or if they will taint us by saving us and in saving us destroy us. Who am I to know ?”

Helfred's distress was genuine, and heartbreaking. Gone the pompous chaplain, gone the assured sermoniser from the pulpit. He stood before the Living Flame with his soul stripped bare, revealing himself a young man, a doubting man, a man faltering beneath his impossible burden.

Dexterity went to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “You're the man God chose to be Rhian's prolate,” he said gently. “Are you saying God made the wrong choice, Helfred?”

Helfred stared at him, his eyes haunted. “Sometimes I think he did. Yes.”

“Well, I don't. What I do think, Helfred, is we should open our eyes to wider horizons. Just because Zandakar and Han's witch-men aren't like us doesn't mean they don't serve God. I mean, who are we to decide how God is served?”

“A sound point,” said Helfred. “Rollin speaks often of humility in belief. You truly think they serve God, Dexterity?”

“Yes, Helfred. I do.”

“And you're against me denying Rhian their help? You think doing that would be a sin?”

He shrugged. “I don't know about a sin, Helfred. But I certainly think it'd be a mistake.”

“Well,” said Helfred. “You've certainly given me a great deal to think on, Mister Jones. Alas, any further reflection must wait. I have to prepare for this evening's Litany in the great chapel. Will you attend?”

“Ah…” Dexterity considered him. “That depends upon whether you'll be denouncing Her Majesty's alliance with Tzhung-tzhungchai, Prolate.”

“I denounce nothing,” said Helfred, staring now at the softly burning Living Flame. “I await God's whisper in my heart.”

He stifled a sigh. He'd been looking forward to a quiet evening's whittling. But if attending Litany would remind Helfred of this conversation…

“Then I'll be there, Prolate. You have my word.”

D
ay was drifting to dusk when Rhian met with Zandakar in the torchlit tiltyard, alone. She'd ordered his soldier escort to stand guard along the path and turn back any nobles or courtiers thinking to observe their sparring hotas . Tonight she wanted a breath of time where she and Zandakar could talk privately. Honestly. And yes, dance the hotas together. Dear God, how she'd missed that.

He was there before her, dressed in deerhide leggings and a plain linen shirt. She'd wondered if he'd dance with the scorpion knife he'd brought back from Jatharuj, but no. It was the same plain hunting blade she'd given him to dance with, over Alasdair's objections.

He straightened out of a stretch as she approached, and watched her walk towards him. Lean and supple in her own battered leathers, she halted at an arm's-length distance and looked up into his smooth, unsmiling face.

He nodded. “We begin hotas, zho ?”

Unsheathing her blade, she nodded back. “We begin. Zho .”

As though they'd never been parted, as though they'd danced only that morning, they fell into the easy rhythms of the first hotas .

Rhian let her muscles relax, sought her calm centre, that place she'd discovered where the world went away and all she knew was her breathing, her heartbeat, the flow of blood through her veins. Eyes half-closed, barely glancing at Zandakar, she released her gathered tension in a cleansing exhalation.

“You hardly said a word last night, after we found you,” she commented. “Only what you had to, and only when you were asked. I swear, it was like pulling teeth. I know you're not a chatterbox, but still. A simple thank you might've been nice.”

His eyes glinted as he shifted his stance from the ibis, sleeping to the sandcat, waking . Long, fluid muscles worked beneath his skin. “Thank you.”

Time to take Dexterity's advice. “The man who gave you that scorpion knife. Vortka. Who is he to you?”

Sandcat, waking shifted to snake, coiling . “It matters?”

“I'm curious.”

Instead of answering, he tapped the side of her thigh with his knife blade. “More stretch.”

She hissed between her teeth and pushed her toes forward another inch. “Vortka, Zandakar.”

He tapped again. “More, Rhian.”

“What?” she said, glaring. “You want to split me in half?” With a grunt, she pushed herself another inch. “There. And that is all .”

With an ease that never failed to delight and aggravate, he shifted his stance again and turned a perfect, slow-motion cartwheel. Hand, hand, foot, foot. Then flowed straight again into the ibis, sleeping , his control complete.

With a shaming lack of the same elegance, she followed his example. When she stood upright again, she looked at him. “Dexterity said you didn't try and talk to your mother because this Vortka convinced you he had a better hope of changing her mind about sailing from Icthia. Is that true?”

“Zho,” said Zandakar, and watched her overbalance out of her one-legged ibis stance.

Cheeks burning, she turned a second, more pleasing cartwheel. “Well. That's most unfortunate, given what happened to those poor slaves.”

Zandakar bent double, stretching, and looked at her upside down, between his knees, saying nothing. Something unsettling gleamed in his eyes. He didn't need words to tell her Vortka was…special.

But why? How? And what does it mean for Ethrea?

Feeling more limber, trusting her warmer muscles, she began surging into her lunges, first the left leg and then the right. “I meant what I said, you know. About letting Sun-dao destroy Jatharuj. You shouldn't have stopped him, Zandakar. This could all be over now, if you hadn't stopped him.”