The Godspeaker Trilogy (40 page)

That would not be a bad thing. Raklion did not question Zandakar was his, he was besotted, he was good to the boy. That suited her purpose. Vortka and Zandakar together in the world’s eye, that did not suit her purpose. It must be avoided.

“Zandakar,” she said, as the warhost field came in sight, overlaid with shadows as the sun slid down the sky. “Is the warlord returned to Et-Raklion?”

“No, Yuma,” he said, jogging neatly on his pony. “Nagarak says he will return soon, he says the omens say it.”

Aieee, but did the omens also say he must be warlord of Mijak? It was time they said it, she had waited long enough. For Zandakar to be Mijak’s warlord first Raklion must lay claim to that name. He was an old man, growing older. Every battle might be his last. All very well to pray to the god to protect him, demons sought to thwart the god. If they could kill Raklion before Mijak was made obedient her son would be threatened. It had come time to act.

Around her neck the scorpion amulet throbbed with power. The god agreed with her. It would see she got her way.

She rode with Zandakar onto the warhost field where her three thousand warriors and the godspeakers waited, ready for sacrifice.

“ Hekat !” the warhost shouted as they saw her riding. “ Hekat the knife-dancer, Bajadek’s doom !”

In their border skirmishing they had killed eight hundred of Tebek’s inferior knives. It was a good slaughter, the new warriors she trained had not disgraced her or the god. She laid her fist above her heart, acknowledging their greeting.

“ Zandakar, the warlord’s son !” they shouted next. There was love in their faces, he was their own son, their little brother, the child of their hearts.

“See the warhost, Zandakar,” she told him. “It is your warhost, you will lead it one day.”

It was the same thing she always told him, from his days in the cradle she made sure he knew who he was.

Zandakar’s fist against his heart was small, but steady. It would be a big fist when he was a man. He would grasp the whole warhost in it, Et-Raklion’s warriors would sleep in his palm.

Hekat smiled and smiled as she rode with her son.

One finger before newsun Vortka woke in his small, solitary chamber to the tolling of the godhouse bell and a hand on his shoulder.

“It is time, novice,” said Brikin novice-master. Salakij was two seasons dead, Brikin had been chosen his successor. Vortka hardly knew him, the last two seasons of his novitiate had been spent away from Et-Raklion and the godhouse. It was strange to be back within its stark stone walls after so long worshipping under the sun. Strange to think that not far away, his son was sleeping.

Don’t think of Zandakar. He is not your son, Vortka. Best to think of him as dead.

Except that was impossible. The previous highsun, toiling up the Pinnacle Road to the godhouse, threading his way between the other travelers, as he passed the palace he felt his heart tug him sideways, urge him to leave the road, abandon duty and obedience, make up a reason to visit Hekat and their child. He had resisted. He was a novice at the testing time, what hope for him if he could not resist this temptation?

Then, in the godhouse, he had seen his small son Zandakar, giggling, chattering, lit up with excitement because Hekat would soon be home from war. His wayward heart had nearly stopped altogether, seeing that small boy, hearing Nagarak speak his name. Aieee, how tall and strong he was, how much he looked like his mother. A handful of times had he seen the child since his birth, each greedy glance pain and pleasure combined. And with every glance a vivid memory, how Zandakar was made, that plunging ecstasy, that exquisite throbbing of the flesh. Hekat hot upon him, her eyes filled with the god. He missed her too, though he tried hard to forget.

In the end it was a relief to be sent away for service.

“Vortka!” said Brikin, and shook him less gently. “Are you listening? You must go at once to the godpool. Would you keep the high godspeaker waiting?”

No! No, he would not. He sat up, wincing, his flesh smarting, sore from the previous day’s severe tasking. It was the custom, he had known what he faced when the summons came from the godhouse. His testing was upon him, he must face the god and show it his heart, first in the godhouse and then in the wilderness. But before that he must kneel on the floor of the cold tasking chamber and shout his contrition with every blow of the cane. It was the same for all novices about to be tested. He could not complain.

“The god see you, novice,” said Brikin, and stepped back. He had younger novices to chivvy, his task here was done. “If it pleases, we will meet again.”

“If it pleases,” Vortka echoed, as the door closed behind the novice-master. Moving cautiously, he eased himself off his sleep-mat, pulled on his robe, then left the chamber. At the first privy alcove he emptied his bladder. Like every godspeaker in the godhouse he’d long ago learned to discipline his body, make it wait to pish till after newsun sacrifice. He did not wait now, bad enough he would soon be swimming in blood, no need to swim in blood and urine.

After relieving himself he padded through the unsleeping godhouse to the godpool chamber, where Nagarak was waiting.

“Enter novice, and disrobe,” said the high godspeaker. “Here is the beginning of your beginning, or the beginning of your end.”

The godpool chamber was small and silent, its cold air laced with the iron tang of fresh blood. No other novices were present, it must mean his was the only testing. Was that significant? He did not know. He stepped over the threshold, removed his robe and all his amulets.

Nagarak looked him up and down. “I remember you, novice. Vortka, chosen by the god to witness my testing. I have a question.”

Surprised, wary, Vortka bowed his head. “I am yours to examine, high godspeaker.”

“Why did you smile in the scorpion chamber, when you heard the god declare its desire: one warlord for Mijak, one high godspeaker at his side.”

I smiled ? thought Vortka. I don’t remember. How stupid of me if I did . He looked up. “Forgive me, high godspeaker. It was long ago, I cannot recall.”

Nagarak’s eyes were narrow. “I saw your face yesterday, when you saw the warlord’s son. What is that child to you, for you to smile again?”

Aieee, god, his stupid face, betraying him! Nagarak could not know the truth, he could not know. “High godspeaker . . .” He looked at the floor, it was the safest place. His heart was beating at a painful speed. “The warlord’s son is a beautiful child. It was a joy to see him, that is why I smiled.”

“You are a novice, your eyes should see the god and nothing else.”

“Yes, high godspeaker. I do see the god.”

“Tcha!” spat Nagarak, he was not appeased. “What matters here is if the god sees you.” He stepped close. “I think you are not as humble as you seem, Vortka novice. I think you hide secrets in your heart. If I plucked it out I could read them, Vortka. Return from the wilderness and I will. Beneath the sun there is the god, and there is me. Get into the godpool. Your testing time is come.”

Torchlight played on the pool’s still, red surface, lending it warmth and an echo of life. Here was the first obstacle a novice must face in the quest to become a godspeaker in the god’s eye. Bathed in blood, novices bared their godsparks for inspection by the high godspeaker and if they possessed even the slightest flaw it would be revealed in the sacred godpool. Denied the last rite of the wilderness they would be cast out from Et-Raklion’s godhouse and into the sprawling city below, where they would live the remainder of their lives as lowly citizens, forever cut off from close communion with the god. The merest thought of such a disaster could make a novice weep.

Vortka stared at the godpool, abruptly aware of sweat and fear. What if Nagarak can read my mind? A man’s mind is opened in the godpool. Zandakar floats there like froth on sadsa, he fills my eyes, he is my heart’s greatest secret, if Nagarak sees him . . .

Such a thing was beyond his control. He must not worry. He was given by the god to create that child. The god would not abandon him now.

As Nagarak began to circle the godpool, his scorpion pectoral glowing with reflected red, Vortka trod the descending stone steps one by one until the waiting blood closed over his head. Blood swiftly soaked its way through his godbraids, his head was heavy, his godbells clogged. He felt his body dragged down to the bottom, felt the god heavy in his flesh and bones. On his hands and knees he started crawling, as the cold blood grew warm, then warmer, then hot. In the red darkness he thought he felt Nagarak, the power in him questing and cruel.

No. Not cruel. He is the high godspeaker, he serves the god even if it keeps secrets from him.

Nagarak pushed harder, seeking to read him. The god would not allow that, it pushed Nagarak aside. Still crawling, on fire with the god’s power, Vortka bumped into the stone wall of the godpool, turned, kept on crawling, bumped again. Blood sloshed against his naked skin, slapped against the godpool walls, rushed into his open nostrils. He tried not to sneeze, his lungs were bursting, he had to breathe or die untested in a scarlet drowning. His head broke the surface of the godpool and he gasped for air in a heaving rush.

“Come out now,” said Nagarak, curtly. If he was disappointed he did not show it. “The god sees you, Vortka. You are sent into the wilderness.”

On trembling legs Vortka climbed from the godpool, sank to his knees on the chamber floor, dazed and shivering and sticky with blood. Nagarak ignored him, he pulled a godstone from his robe pocket and passed it across a blue crystal set in the wall. There came the sound of stone grinding against stone, followed by sloshing as the godpool drained of its sacred blood. When it was empty he passed the godstone over the same place and Vortka heard stone grinding to its accustomed place. Next Nagarak passed the godstone over a black crystal, and water began gushing into the godpool.

As it filled, Nagarak passed the godstone over a green crystal in the wall. A stone block shifted, and he withdrew from the space behind it a pair of shears and a plain linen bag. With the shears he cut the bloodsoaked godbraids from Vortka’s head, he clipped him like a sheep. The severed godbells rang in mourning. Nagarak put the sundered godbraids into the linen bag and held it out. Vortka took the bag numbly, he felt unnatural, too light, he felt like weeping, his godbraids with their singing godbells were gone, they were gone.

“You will take your godbraids into the wilderness,” Nagarak told him. “You will burn them for the god, you will breathe deep of that sacrificial smoke, and the god shall work its will on you.”

The godpool was almost full of water. Nagarak turned off the flow with his godstone and pointed. “Cleanse yourself, Vortka. Your novice robes and amulets are forever discarded, other clothing will be brought to you here. If it is the god’s desire, you and I will meet again in this godhouse after your testing in the wilderness.”

He left the chamber. Vortka eased himself into the water, it was bitterly cold, it stole his breath and pained him to the bone. As he sloshed the cold water over his skin, sluicing away the tacky blood, exploring the strange shape of his stubbled skull, a godspeaker entered with a pile of clothing and a folded rough towel.

“Dry and dress yourself,” he said. “Brikin novice-master awaits you in the novices’ sacrifice chamber.”

Clothing and towel were dropped on the floor. Without a backwards glance the godspeaker picked up Vortka’s discarded belongings and left the chamber.

My amulets , thought Vortka, but he did not protest. Dripping, he trod the stone steps out of the godpool.

His testing time had come at last.

“Kneel, Vortka,” said Brikin, standing before the plain black novices’ altar. His face was stern and self-contained, sacrifice was a solemn business.

Vortka knelt and bowed his head. After so long in godspeaker robes, to be kneeling barefoot in leggings and tunic felt strange, almost as strange as the lack of godbraids down his back. His shoulders felt cold without them, his ears were bereft of their amulet piercings, his chest naked without its snake-eye charm. He held his godbraids in the linen bag, clinging to the past like a child to its mother’s hand.

Three doves waited in a wicker cage. One by one Brikin gave them to the god, he plucked out their small hearts and read the blood patterns on the altar. On the floor beside him was a pile of goatskin satchels. After the third divination Brikin hesitated, frowning, then selected a satchel from the pile and held it out.

“Here is food and here is water. Enough to last you till you reach the wilderness. A strikestone, that you might make a fire. Here too is a godstone decided for you by the god, that will guide you to where it desires you to go. Place the godstone round your neck. While it is warm you tread the proper path. If the godstone cools, you face the wrong direction. If it grows completely cold you are lost, and the god no longer sees you in its eye. When the godstone drops to the ground of its own accord, there you must wait for the god to instruct you.”

Vortka took the offered satchel and rummaged within. Hard cheese, dried goat meat, four flat rounds of bread and a stoppered flask. Greed would see him hollow with hunger long before he reached the wilderness. The sliver of strikestone was sharp, it cut him. The lump of godstone, small as a peach pit and threaded on a leather thong, felt warm in his hand. He tugged it over his head, then stuffed his blood-damp linen bag of godbraids into the satchel.

Brikin looked at him, unsmiling. “Go now, Vortka. Be guided by the god, may it see you in its eye.”

On the steps outside Et-Raklion’s godhouse Vortka took a moment to breathe deeply of the unbloodied air. Standing so high he could see into the distant barracks, where the warriors seethed and teemed. A rising breeze carried the faint sounds of voices shouting, of horses calling, of bleating goats and bellowing cattle. Smoke flavored the air, and the ripe scents of many animals gathered close. He could see into the palace gardens, too, but no-one stirred there. He could not see Hekat, or their son.

Godhouse business roiled around him. He was not part of it. He had to go.