The Godspeaker Trilogy (27 page)

Oh, Hekat. Oh, Hekat. I wish you were with me.

She had braved the scorpion pit, she had swum with godhouse scorpions and drowned in their venom. She had embraced that destiny, urged it upon herself. How could he do less when the god had chosen him to give her a son?

Swallowing a whimper, he watched as the rock plain disappeared beneath an onslaught of scorpions. Who knew so many lived in the world?

The god knows. The god made them. They serve its mysteries, and its purpose.

The scorpions reached him, covered him, stung him. They made of him a scorpion man. He forgot his name, he felt his flesh welt, his blood curdle, the god roared through him, leaving him weak. Hissing, scratching, the creatures scrambled upon him, he heard words in their voices, they whispered in his ears.

Vortka . . . precious . . . chosen . . .

Was he dying? He did not know. Consciousness left him. He sank into shadow. When he woke, he was alone. No sign of scorpions. No marks on his flesh.

He knew exactly what he must do.

Raklion waited until it was almost time to ride to Mijak’s Heart before telling Hanochek he would not be riding there with his warlord. He knew Hano would be hurt, so hurt, to have his rightful place taken by Hekat. He was the warleader, he stood tall in the world. Wherever the warlord rode, so rode his warleader.

But not this time. This time I must be guided by the god. The god tells Hekat she must ride beside me, who am I to say she will not?

After meeting with Nagarak for the taking of omens and private sacrifice on his knees, he walked down to the barracks. There he found Hano at warplay with Zandakar, they were the best of friends, his friend and his son. A ring of warriors surrounded them, cheering and shouting as Hano and Zandakar sparred on the warhost field. Zandakar was blindfolded, in his hand a blunt wooden snakeblade. He was learning to fight with senses not fed by his eyes, he was nimble on his feet, swift to feel Hano’s approach and retreat.

Raklion slid between two laughing warriors, held his finger to his lips so they would not betray his presence. He did not wish to distract his son.

Zandakar danced like his beautiful mother, he was light on the green grass, he leapt without weight. Hano was strict with him, he did not make exceptions for Zandakar’s age or his father. Twice Zandakar misjudged Hano’s movements, once he went sprawling hard on the ground when Hano caught him a sharp blow on the rump. Below his blinded eyes Zandakar’s face twisted with anger, he spat out a curse and bounced to his feet.

“Again, warleader! Come at me again!”

Aieee, he was a brave boy, he was a warrior bred in the bone. Raklion held his breath as his small son flew at Hanochek, tapping him smartly with his blunted blade, he did not make a single mistake. He caught Hano in all his vulnerable places, his belly, his hamstring, the soft inner elbow. Hano dropped to his knees, crying surrender.

“You defeat me, I am beaten, see me cowed before you!” he declared.

Zandakar tore off his blindfold, laughing. “I have beaten the warleader! I am Zandakar the mighty!”

Hano snatched him into a crushing embrace, saluting his grimy cheek with a kiss. “Yes, you are mighty! I am defeated by a mighty warrior!” Standing easily, sweeping Zandakar up and over and onto his feet, his head turned. “Warlord!”

Raklion came forward. “Hanochek warleader, I see you train a mighty warrior.”

Zandakar pulled himself to attention, he bowed his head and pressed his fist to his heart. “Warlord.”

He returned the salute with a small ache in his heart. He was always the warlord. Hekat was Yuma , he was never Adda . Hekat knew it bothered him, she called him stupid. He will be the warlord, he shows you respect. You fret because he respects you? How foolish are men . She was right, of course. She was always right.

Reading him as he always did, Hanochek dismissed the watching warriors with a gesture and stood with his hand on Zandakar’s shoulder. “You need me?”

“Where is Hekat?”

“She trains with the new recruits on the horse-field, warlord. Shall I send a—”

He shook his head. “No. It is you I need.” But it was better that Hekat was safely somewhere else. Her voice added to his would not make this easier. “Zandakar, lowsun approaches. Return to the palace, bathe and don clean clothes. We attend special sacrifice in the godhouse this night.”

“Special sacrifice?” said Hano, as Zandakar departed. “What do you pray for, Raklion?” Then his face changed. “Aieee . . . it is time, warlord? It is time to take Mijak in your fist?”

Raklion cast a swift look around them, they were alone but even so. “Not here,” he said sharply. “Walk with me, Hano.”

On the far side of the warhost field grew an expanse of woodland, where warriors practiced stealth among the trees. It was quiet, private, they could talk in that place undisturbed. Raklion led Hanochek there, and when they were swallowed by leaves and shadows he stopped.

His warleader eyed him warily. “You are making me nervous. Whatever you must say, I wish you would say it.”

Hano was not the only man with sweaty palms. “You are right, my friend. The god’s time is come. Five highsuns from now, at the next fat godmoon, it sends me to Mijak’s Heart to change the face of Mijak forever. The warlords are called to meet me there with their high godspeakers in attendance, so they might learn their fate: to kneel before me in submission, to lose their autonomy, to be cast down.”

“Tcha!” said Hano. “They will not be pleased to hear that news.” He frowned. “Are you certain you must tell them at Mijak’s Heart? If you tell them elsewhere, if you summon them to Et-Raklion and meet them with every warrior in your warhost—”

Raklion shook his head, his godbells sang. “This is not warlord’s business, Hano. This is the god’s will, it is given through Nagarak, the god’s voice in the world. They can be told nowhere but in the Heart of Mijak.”

Hano did not like to hear it, but he swallowed his protest. “You are permitted to take ten warriors, that is true?”

“Yes. It is true.”

“Have you chosen who will ride with us, or do we meet now to—”

“Hano.” He lowered his hand, it hurt to breathe. “We meet so I might tell you of the god’s desire, and also that you will not ride with me to Mijak’s Heart.”

“ Not ride . . .” Hano was puzzled. “Raklion, you cannot ride to tell the warlords such a thing without a sharp blade at your side, you—”

“I will have a sharp blade, Hano. I will have Hekat.”

Hano’s face stilled, like a lake unstirred by any breeze. In the woodland’s hush his breathing was loud, almost labored. “Hekat is not your warleader, warlord. I am your warleader, the snakeblade at your side.”

Aieee, god, the pain in him. He and Hekat were not easy together. It was a grief to him, he could not change their hearts. “She is more important than my warleader,” he said gently. “She is Zandakar’s mother. After me he will be the warlord of Mijak, greater than any warlord in our history. The god has said so, and I know it in my heart. Hekat is a part of this, she must be witnessed by the other warlords, they must see her beside me and know she is chosen by the god as the mother of my living son who will be warlord after I am dead. The god desires I heal bleeding Mijak and lead it kindly into peace, to make of it a gift for Zandakar. I will do that, you will help me. In truth, I will not do it without you. But for the throwing down of the warlords, there I must have Hekat. I am sorry, Hano. This is not my will, but the will of the god.”

“She tells you that?” Hano demanded, vicious. “Is this her doing?”

“Hano, Hano . . .” He took his warleader’s shoulders in a biting grip. “Would you have me choose between my knife-brother and my son’s godchosen mother? Are you so cruel? Is your heart so small?”

Hano tensed, he did not pull away. “This is not about my heart, Raklion. I think only of you, and keeping you safe. The warlords will not greet your message with a smile, they will foam at the mouth, they will spit on you in fury. The warlords know me, seasons of fighting have burned my name into their flesh. When they see me beside you they will know better than to challenge your might.”

“They will know not to challenge when they see Nagarak,” he said. “And when they see Hekat, Bajadek’s doom.”

Now Hano did pull away, he thudded his fist into a tree. “ Raklion —”

“I will be safe in the Heart of Mijak, Hano,” he said. “That place is sacred, there can be no bloodshed there. Not even a warlord as hungry as Banotaj, as angry as Tebek, would dare thwart the god’s will in that place.”

“I think the warlords would dare anything if they think their days of power are come to an end!”

Raklion stepped back, he stiffened his spine. “Hanochek, you risk the god’s wrath. It has chosen me, I am in its eye. No harm can come to me in the Heart of Mijak. Nagarak will be with me, he too is the god’s chosen. He will be high godspeaker of Mijak.”

Hano’s eyes were bright. “I am sorry, Raklion. I do not mean to doubt the god, or you.” He heaved a sigh. “Aieee, my warlord, the warlord of Mijak. What a thing that is. How deep are you in the god’s great eye.”

“So deep I think I cannot see,” he confessed. “If I tell you I am afraid, Hano, will I seem less than a man to you?”

“You are the greatest man I have ever known!” said Hano, swiftly. “And while you are with the god in the Heart of Mijak I will be here in Et-Raklion, warlord, I will guard your city and your warhost. I will guard your son, he will live in my eye.”

Raklion embraced him. “I trust Zandakar with you as I trust him to no other, not Nagarak himself. Hano, if I were free to choose you would ride with me. You know that. You must.”

“I know it,” Hano whispered.

Raklion swallowed. “If you love me, Hano, never tell Nagarak what I said about not trusting him with Zandakar.”

Hano eased free, and took a step back to look at him. “I keep your secrets, Raklion. You know how well I keep them.”

“Yes,” he said solemnly. “I do.”

“Have you chosen the other warriors you wish to ride with you to Mijak’s Heart?”

“Not yet. I thought perhaps we could choose them now.”

Hano nodded. “As the warlord desires.”

“Then let us go to the warlodge, we can take our ease with mugs of ale and choose who is most worthy of the honor.”

“Tcha!” said Hano, and fell into step beside him. “Worthiness is a thing for godspeakers to decide. You should be concerned for the speed of their kills!”

It was the kind of bold thing Hekat might say. Raklion laughed, and nodded, and let his hand fall on Hano’s shoulder.

My friend, my friend. I would be lost without you.

S
o, Vortka,” said Brikin novice-master. “You are returned from the wilderness, a tested godspeaker.”

Exhausted, filthy, scoured hollow with hunger, Vortka nodded. “Yes. What should I do now? Should I clean myself and attend a sacrifice or go to the high godspeaker as I am?”

It was a finger after highsun. They stood in the godhouse vegetable garden, where Brikin supervised a new crop of novices, most of whom hardly knew one end of a hoe from the other. As he waited for Brikin to advise him, despite his weariness and discomfort Vortka released a rueful smile. He was tested in the wilderness, transformed by the god and its infinite mysteries, yet part of him still felt like a novice, felt he could easily join the young men and women on their bare knees in the dirt as they grubbed up weeds and wondered why the god had called them for this.

Brikin said, “Nagarak high godspeaker is not free to see you. At newsun he rides with the warlord to Mijak’s Heart. He is secluded till then, seeking guidance in the godpool.”

Vortka felt his heart thump, hard. “Novice-master?”

“The god has chosen us for great things, Vortka,” said Brikin, smiling fiercely. “In time you will be told what you must know of them. Until then, go about your business. Bathe, godspeaker. Attend sacrifice, and eat. The god is not served if you fall stinking and starved on the godhouse floor. Nagarak will see you upon his return.”

Bathe, godspeaker . Vortka felt a surge of warmth. He was tested, he was returned, he had earned the right to be called godspeaker . He did not show his pleasure to the novice-master, such feelings of pride were strictly frowned upon. Instead he looked down at his unfortunate attire, leggings too short for him, a threadbare sleeveless vest. “Brikin, I have no clothing but what I was given by villagers upon the road.”

Brikin snorted. “See Oolikai provisioner on your way to the bath-house, he will give you a godspeaker robe and what else you may require. Once you are presentable and not likely to collapse, report to Peklia in the Sacrifice chamber. You must receive your sacrifice blade and make your first sacrifice under her exacting eye.”

And then what? What did the god expect of him then? He had asked, it had not answered.

“Brikin—”

But Brikin was no longer paying attention, he had noticed a sin in the vegetable garden. Leaping on the sinner he cuffed her smartly on the back of the head. “That is not a weed , fool, that is a seedling ! Do you desire your fellow novices to starve to death? Ten stripes in the tasking house for not paying attention! Go now! Run! Come back when you are smitten and can tell the difference between liver -rot and car -rot!”

Fighting tears, the sinning novice ran. Brikin continued to rant at his charges, Vortka withdrew quietly and presented himself to the godhouse provisioner, who made no comment on his newly won status, just handed him a robe, new sandals and an untied loincloth.

The bath-house water was hot and welcome. He eased himself into the communal stone tub and let the dirt and dried blood soak free of his weathered skin. The several godspeakers bathing at the same time nodded politely, they did not address him. They did not know each other, and idle chatter was strictly discouraged.

Alone with his thoughts, he considered what it meant, that he was back in the godhouse possessed of strange knowledge and those stranger crystals. Well, possessed of one. He had not brought the large crystal back to the godhouse with him, he had buried it in woodland beyond the Pinnacle’s base, where it would remain hidden until the god desired its unearthing. The small crystal was wrapped safe in the pocket of his gifted clothes, he would carry that with him, it seemed to him safest.

I must show it to Hekat, the god will tell her for what purpose it must be used.

It had not told him. That was the only thing about the crystal the god had not shared in the wilderness.

His aching body eased a little, Vortka found a brush and scrubbed himself to respectability. Clean and refreshed, he climbed from the bath and dressed like a godspeaker. The small crystal he slid discrectly into his robe pocket, the gifted clothes he bundled for burning, they could not be salvaged even by Oolikai.

I will make a sacrifice for the family who gave me them, I could have walked naked all the way here but I am glad I did not have to. Even though it means I must suffer in the tasking house.

He had no choice in that. Godspeakers did not possess money, they could not purchase a godhouse sacrifice. All he possessed in this life was his body, the only thing he could give the god in thanks for that family’s kindness was his pain.

So I will give the god my pain, and pray it gives them good fortune in return.

They had fed him, too, those traveling villagers who took pity on him, the poor naked godspeaker stumbling out of the wilderness. He had lost his strikestone and could not start a fire. After highsuns of raw meat and bird eggs and gnawed sour roots, their dry bread and old cheese had seemed a feast fit for a warlord.

Warlord.

Raklion and Nagarak rode to Mijak’s Heart at newsun. Only the gravest of matters could prompt such an action. Was it chance that had him tested at this time, sent into the wilderness to find the red crystals, just as Nagarak and Raklion were bent upon some great and secret task?

I do not think so. I think I am part of the god’s plan, as they are, and Hekat. I think change is upon us, I feel its winds blow.

His heart was racing. It was a fearsome thing, to be so deeply enmeshed in the god’s great workings.

As he left the bath-house and made his way to Peklia in the Sacrifice chamber he heard a hushed, familiar voice. Zandakar . He turned, and saw his son walking at Hekat’s side, barely six paces away, towards one of the four great entrances into the godhouse.

“I wish I was riding with you and the warlord. I wish I did not have to stay behind.” Zandakar sounded disconsolate, his beautiful face set in lines of sorrow.

“Tcha,” said Hekat. In the busy godhouse’s dim lighting her scars shone muted silver. “Mijak’s Heart is no place for you. We ride there on warlord’s business, you are not the warlord yet.”

Halted, Vortka stared. Hekat was riding to Mijak’s Heart with Raklion and Nagarak? As though the thought were a shout her gaze slid sideways. Their eyes met, hers narrowed, her lips tightened and then relaxed. Was she pleased to see him? He could not tell.

Hekat, I must speak with you. Hekat, we must meet.

She heard his thought, or read it in his face. One eyebrow lifted in agreement. Vortka nodded, the smallest gesture. Walking slowly now she flicked a careless finger towards him, then tapped it casually over her breast. He could read her easily too, even though they had spent so little time together. She meant, come to me . He nodded again, then turned away before one of the other godspeakers or novices noticed their exchange.

Zandakar had not noticed him. It was better that way.

Banishing all thought of his son he hurried to Peklia.

Et-Raklion’s godhouse was a place of constant sacrifice. From newsun to lowsun, sacrifices were made at all the godhouse altars for as many reasons as there were people with needs to be seen to, questions that sought an answer, sins that required a swift forgiveness. A fee was paid, a devotion offered, a godspeaker killed a cockerel or a lamb for the godspark of the supplicant. It was the main business of Et-Raklion’s godhouse, and the meat not consumed by the rites of supplication and divination fed the godspeakers and the novices.

Novice godspeakers prepared the chosen animals, they cleaned the altars, washed blood from the floors, fetched fresh robes for the sacrificing godspeakers and sharpened their knives, loaded the unconsumed carcasses into wooden barrows and wheeled them to the godhouse kitchens where more novices toiled alongside slaves in heat and fatty smoke. All the menial tasks, the novices did. Vortka had done them himself, for more godmoons than he cared to remember, as he studied in the godhouse.

Novices did not make the sacrifice themselves. That task was reserved for tested, godseen godspeakers.

The Sacrifice chamber was not the same as the altar alcoves that littered the godhouse, where city supplicants washed away their sins with purchased blood. In this place were the great sacrifices offered, for the warlord and his offspring, to bring victory in war, success in treaties, the approval of the god that life might continue safe and prosperous in the warlord’s lands. It was a large stone room, it stank of blood, it echoed with death. Its walls were blank, there were no windows. Fat candles in iron holders were fastened to the walls, they shed thin light on the floor, and the blood. The animals for sacrifice were penned and tied and caged along one wall. Dominating the chamber’s center, the altar of black stone was carved with snakes, lizards and scorpions, and banded by centipedes. The god’s presence was strong, it silenced the sacrifices and the novices alike. The god’s work was done here, in profound awareness of its might.

Peklia godspeaker ruled the chamber. Next to Nagarak she was the most senior, most revered godspeaker in the godhouse. She was also the largest, strongest woman Vortka had ever seen, she could sacrifice a bull-calf on her own. She glanced at Vortka once as he entered her domain but did not pause as she plunged her long knife into a black goatkid’s throat, expertly slicing through the large vessels under its jaws. Blood flowed, a novice caught the hot gush in a bronze basin. As the sacrifice died Peklia held a snake-eye amulet over the goatkid’s warm body, guiding its godspark to the god. Emptied, the goatkid’s carcass shrank, it shriveled, it fell to dust.

All sacrifice here was consumed by the god.

Peklia wiped her blade on her red-soaked robe and turned. “You are Vortka, returned from the wilderness. Tested by the god and seen in its eye. I remember you from your novice time.”

He bowed to her, still missing the musical swing of his burned godbraids. After so many highsuns his head still felt too light. “Peklia godspeaker, I am Vortka. I remember you, of course, I learned much here in your service.”

She snorted. “In the god’s service. I am its instrument, we are all of us its instruments. You are sent to me to learn the way of proper sacrifice?”

“Peklia, I am.”

“You will learn quickly, Vortka, we sacrifice as fast as animals are brought in from the farms. Do you know why?”

“For Raklion warlord and Nagarak high godspeaker,” he said, without thinking. “At newsun they travel to the Heart of Mijak.”

Peklia godspeaker’s thick eyebrows rose. “This is true. You know of their journey?”

He shook his head. “Peklia, I do not, beyond that they go.”

To his disappointment she did not enlighten him. “So, Vortka godspeaker. You are pleased to learn my business? Not all godspeakers have the knack of sacrifice. They serve better in other ways.”

He bowed again. “I am pleased if it pleases you.”

“Pleasing the god is what matters, Vortka,” she replied. “Come.”

As two of the attending novices began the arduous task of cleaning the altar he followed Peklia through a narrow door into a smaller chamber, where fresh robes and sharpstones and cleaning tools and the blood basins were kept. She went to a cupboard at the rear of the chamber and withdrew from it a long wooden box. Jutting from its top were the hilts of thirty knives, each one fashioned with a different grip and patterning. She put the box on the bench in the middle of the chamber and stood back.

“One of those knives is the sacrificial blade the god desires you to take as your own,” she said. “Open your heart, Vortka, let the god guide your choice.”

Vortka stepped close and held out his hand, fingers spread, above the jutting knife-hilts. Not one of them called to him. Instead he was tugged to the chamber’s cupboard, to a shelf within it, to a leather-bound case wrapped in a square of red wool. He withdrew it, and looked at Peklia.

Her face was set in a puzzled frown. “This is unusual,” she said, her eyebrows pulled low. “This knife is one of two that were offered to Nagarak after the god chose him as the next high godspeaker. He did not take it, the knife did not call to him.”

Vortka dropped the case onto the bench. “Forgive me, Peklia, I did not know. I will choose again, I—”

“No,” said Peklia, and held up her hand. “The god is here, you found the knife it wants you to have.” She picked up the case, unwrapped its red wool covering, unlaced its fastening and raised its lid.

Shivering with uncertainty, Vortka stepped close so he might look inside. “This knife is beautiful,” he whispered. “Too beautiful for me.”

“Tcha!” said Peklia, and thrust the case at him. “The god does not think so, do you tell the god no?”

Not if he wished to stay in its eye. He took the knife. As his fingers closed round its hilt, bone carved into a scorpion and black with age, its blue-sheened blade the shape of a snake’s flickering tongue, a jolt of power shuddered through him, reminiscent of the power he’d felt in the strange red crystal.

Peklia must have caught its echo. She dropped the case, gasping. “This is strange, the god stirs in that knife!”

Vortka looked at her. “Peklia, what do you know of it, what can you tell me?”

“It is old,” she murmured. “As old as Mijak. It was forged in the dead past, it belonged to the first high godspeaker chosen in the land.”

“And you keep it in a cupboard ?”

“Things are things, Vortka, we dress in plain robes, we keep knives in boxes, those boxes in cupboards. This knife is offered to high godspeakers, and then put away.”

He felt his heart beat against his ribs. “Offered only to high godspeakers?”

“So I was told.”

And yet the god had guided him to it. The hilt fit his hand like skin, like the flesh that clasped his bones. He loved this knife. It belonged to him.

If Nagarak discovers this knife has chosen me I will be in danger. No-one can tell him . . . he must never know it is mine. No-one can know. Not even Hekat.

“Who was the last person to use it?” he asked, as the knife’s power caressed his bones.

“I do not recall,” said Peklia, shaking her head. “A godspeaker long dead, that much I can tell you. Vortka godspeaker, I will open my heart. This choosing disturbs me. I think it an omen. A portent. But of what, I cannot say.”