The Godspeaker Trilogy (52 page)

“If he does not say it, warlord, then he thinks it!” said Hekat, quickly. “He has never accepted me, he hates me for saving your life with my blade, if he cannot save you he wishes nobody could!”

Aieee, and there was truth in that . Raklion saw it, he saw the truth of her words in Hanochek’s face. The wicked warleader faltered, his tongue stumbled to silence.

“Oh, Hano. Hano ,” Raklion whispered. Tears filled his eyes, they spilled down his cheeks. “I thought we were brothers.”

The chamber door swung open then, to admit Nagarak. “Warlord,” he said, entering the room. “I have seen your son with my own eyes, I have poured the god into him with my godstone. He is well, he may leave the godhouse. You may not. You must remain here for healing, you must recover your strength. Mijak needs its warlord, Mijak will have him.”

Raklion nodded, wiping the water from his face with the palm of his hand. “Yes.”

“What is this?” said Nagarak, frowning. He looked at each of them in turn, his displeasure deepening. “What goes on here?”

“The warlord sends Hanochek from Et-Raklion,” said Hekat. Raklion could not bring himself to speak. “He is no longer warleader, he is a sinning man with hate in his heart. He is no longer welcome, the warlord does not know his name.”

Almost, Nagarak hid his surprise. “Warlord? This is true? You banish Hanochek?”

“Yes,” said Raklion. His face twisted with grief, his fingers clenched to fists. “Hanochek has failed me, he has failed my son. He insults my son’s mother, he insults his warlord and the god. He is not welcome here, I do not know his name.”

“Who then will be warleader?” said Nagarak, his gaze resting on defeated Hanochek and his tears.

Hekat felt a surge of hot pleasure, she felt her scorpion amulet burn. “I will be warleader, Nagarak high godspeaker. I will lead Raklion’s warhost against the god’s enemies.”

“ You ?” said Nagarak, disbelieving. “Tcha. You are a woman.”

Aieee, god. How many times must she tell this stupid man who she was? “I am no woman, Nagarak. I am Hekat knife-dancer, Bajadek’s doom and the doom of his son. I am the god’s knife-dancer, I am Zandakar’s mother. I swam with scorpions, at Mijak’s Heart the god saw me with its eye. It did not smite me, it has raised me high.”

“ Warlord ?” said Nagarak. He could not prevent this, it was warlord’s business. He only protested because he was jealous, like defeated Hanochek he was jealous of her.

Beware, Nagarak. I have beaten Hanochek, I will beat you also. When will you learn I am in the god’s eye?

“Hekat is my warleader,” said Raklion, faintly. He swayed where he stood, threw his hand against the wall. “Did I not tell you, Nagarak, that she speaks with my voice?”

Aieee, the god see him. Here was Raklion’s purpose, to see her with power, so she might make of Zandakar the greatest warlord in the world.

So long as demons do not claim him. Provided he grows to be a man.

The thought was knife-sharp, slicing through her unready heart. Where did it come from?

God . . . is that you?

The god did not answer. She pushed the pain away, and the cruel thought with it. Later she would pray in solitude; later she would examine that thought.

Nagarak said, “Hekat is warleader, you are the warlord, she speaks with your voice. What of this other man, whose name is unknown to you?”

Raklion could not remain standing. Unsteadily he returned to the straight-backed chair, he lowered himself into it. He looked an old and tired man. Hekat went to him, she touched her fingers to his wrist.

“I will do this, Raklion,” she whispered. “Let me do this, you are burdened enough.”

His pained eyes softened with a smile. “You are Hekat, godtouched and precious. You are Zandakar’s mother, I owe you my life. Take this burden from me, I would count it a blessing.”

“I will,” she said, and gestured Nagarak aside. “This unknown man should be sent to a godhouse in a city far from here,” she told him, her voice almost a whisper so Raklion would not hear. “Send him in secret to the godhouse of Et-Jokriel, high godspeaker. The lands of Et-Jokriel are dry and distant, let him sweat there for the god until he dies. Let him never see Et-Raklion again.”

Not Et-Raklion, or Raklion warlord. Not Zandakar, my precious son. They are dead to you, wicked Hanochek. You are dead to me. I have killed you in my eye.

Nagarak looked at her, then glanced at Raklion, so still and quiet. “The warlord says you speak with his voice. So I take this as his decree. At newsun this unknown man shall be taken by godspeakers from the city. He will die in a strange place. He will never return.”

“ Good ,” she said, no need for more words.

Hanochek said nothing, he did not protest. His eyes would not meet hers, he knew she had won. He stood like a whipped slave, like a man made of water.

She wanted to laugh, it would not be wise. “Nagarak high godspeaker, you are the god’s voice. If it is permitted I will withdraw to my son. You say he may leave his sickroom? I will take him away.”

Raklion stirred and lifted his head. “No, do not take him. I desire to see him, I—”

“Raklion, see him later, when you are well and strong again,” she said firmly. “You are weary now, you are not yourself. I fear you will frighten him. You cannot desire that.”

Inside his warlord wool and leather Raklion was shrunken, his flesh had reduced. Losing Hanochek had weakened him further, his eyes were unfocused and sheened with tears. “No. No, I do not desire it. You go to him, Hekat. Tell him I will see him soon. Tell him he is forgiven, I know he repents.”

She nodded. “I will tell him. Nagarak—”

“Hekat?” he said, his eyebrows lifted.

“What has become of the fallen warlords?”

Nagarak’s smile was cold. “They pray on their knees in this godhouse, warleader. Surrounded by godspeakers, they pray for their sins. They beg the god not to smite them, they will pray a long, long time.”

Good. Let them pray till their teeth fall out . “When I have finished with my son, high godspeaker,” she said, “I must tell the warhost I am their warleader. When those tasks are completed, I would consult with you on what must happen next in Mijak. I do not think it wise to wait until Raklion is himself again, we must—”

“Insolent woman!” said Nagarak, offended. “He named you warleader, not warlord. Do not over-reach yourself, I—”

“She is right,” said Raklion. His voice was only a thread of sound. “Nagarak, she is right. Mijak’s Heart was the god’s beginning, it is not the end. The warlords’ cities must be dealt with. There is much to do. Hekat understands. You must take Mijak in your tight fist, you must close your fingers upon every godspark in the land.”

Nagarak’s palms flattened against his scorpion pectoral, he released a slow, hot sigh. “You are the warlord. Hekat, we will speak.”

She nodded to Raklion, and to Nagarak. She did not look at Hanochek. She went to her son.

“Yuma!” He wriggled upright in his sickroom bed. “The high godspeaker came to see me, he said I was healed, I can ride again.” His smile faded. “When I have a new pony.”

She did not sit beside him, she stood at the door. “It will be some time before you are trusted with a pony, Zandakar. You say you are healed. Can you stand upon your feet?”

Zandakar nodded. “Yes, Yuma,” he whispered. “I can stand.”

“Show me.”

He kicked the light blanket aside and slid off the low bed onto the stone floor. His tunic and leggings had been taken, he wore only his loincloth. She inspected his limbs for any sign of their wounds and was pleased to find none. His broken bones were knit clean again. Vortka had not lied, he was neither crippled nor maimed. He was beautiful, and perfect, and precious in her eye.

“Come,” she told him, she was not smiling. “The god desires a conversation with you.”

He followed her from the sickroom and through the busy godhouse. No godspeaker stared, but supplicants from the city did. She ignored them, they did not breathe. She led her son to the tasking chambers and stood outside them in silence, Zandakar mute by her side. From behind closed doors came sounds of suffering and regret. Zandakar’s eyes widened, he shrank against the wall.

She did not comfort him, he was not here to be comforted.

Soon a tasking godspeaker approached. He was younger than Raklion, older than herself. His godbraids reached below his waist. He wore a plain robe, he carried a cane, his eyes were pale brown and serene. “Hekat knife-dancer.”

“No,” she told him. “I am Hekat warleader.” She heard Zandakar gasp, she did not acknowledge it.

“Hekat warleader,” said the taskmaster, and nodded, respectful. “The god sees you in the godhouse. How may I serve?”

“Taskmaster, here is Mijak’s son, its future warlord, Zandakar. He has sinned and much displeased the god. He must be chastised, he must wash clean his sin with water from his eyes. He must do so on the scorpion wheel.”

The taskmaster frowned. “You desire me to—”

“Yes.”

“On the scorpion wheel ?”

“Has the god struck you deaf? Yes, the scorpion wheel.”

“Hekat warleader, you are in the god’s eye,” he said with care. “But this is Zandakar, the warlord’s son. It is custom that Nagarak—”

She dismissed his objection with a flick of her fingers. “Nagarak high godspeaker has healing business with the warlord. As Zandakar’s mother and the warlord’s voice I bring him to you.”

“And I receive him,” said the godspeaker. “But warleader, forgive me. He will one day be warlord, today he is a child. The scorpion wheel—”

“You talk of custom? Is it not true that custom says a warlord’s contrition is shown upon the scorpion wheel?”

Reluctantly, the taskmaster nodded. “Yes. It is true.”

“It is also true he will be the warlord. He is not too young to learn what that means. Take us to the wheel, taskmaster, and help my son appease the god.”

Zandakar swallowed, there were tears in his eyes. His bottom lip trembled, his fingers fisted at his sides. Hekat’s heart broke for him, that could not matter. He was old enough to make decisions, he was old enough to pay their price.

She followed the taskmaster to the scorpion wheel tasking room, trembling Zandakar by her side. She heard his breath catch in his throat at the sight of the cruel iron scorpion wheel.

The taskmaster fetched leather bindings from a box, then looked at her. “How angry has he made the god?”

She looked at Zandakar’s perfect body, so recently broken, so newly healed. “Five strokes should appease it, taskmaster. And do not be gentle. In the god’s time my son will rule Mijak, he must know how to be obedient so others might obey him.”

Zandakar whimpered softly as he was bound to the wheel. She forced herself to watch as the taskmaster took up his cane and raised five welts upon Zandakar’s flesh, she made herself listen to her precious son’s cries. His golden godbells cried out with him, he was a small and penitent boy.

When the tasking was over, she said, her voice hard, “Remember this moment, Zandakar. No man, however great, can thwart the god and remain unchastised. You will go into the godhouse shrine garden, now. You will kneel before a godpost unmoving until lowsun. A godspeaker will take you to the palace then, you will fast until newsun, you will speak no words unless you speak them to the god. At newsun a godspeaker will fetch you from the palace, you will pray alone in the shrine garden till lowsun, when the godspeaker will return you to the palace. You will do this every day for five days. By then your godspark should be purged of sin.” She looked at the taskmaster. “You will arrange this, taskmaster. I have business to attend.”

The taskmaster bowed. “Yes, Hekat warleader.”

She did not smile at her son, or kiss him, or touch him. She turned on her heel and walked away.

She fetched her red mare from the godhouse stables and rode it to the barracks. The constant stream of supplicants and penitents, godspeakers and novices, trudging up and trudging down, crowded around her on the Pinnacle Road. It was difficult not to trample them, she wished she could trample them, they were in her way.

They are stupid, they do not know who I am. But in the god’s time they will know. They will know better than to crowd me.

Hiklia and Gret, the warriors on duty at the barracks’ main gates, pressed their fists to their hearts when she rode in. She did not stop to talk to them, she kept her red mare walking. As she passed the godpost and godbowl she tossed in a single gold coin, it was a mean offering but it was all she could give.

I will give more, god. You know what I will give you.

She jog-trotted through the barracks, past curing fresh horsehides, their tails still attached, and three tall warriors arguing coin with an amulet-seller come to ply her wares, and another slave threading war-charms on the reins of a bridle. Neatly side-stepping a slave pushing a cart piled high with new-sewn tunics, she headed more deeply into her warrior city.

After so long away, returning to the barracks was a physical pleasure. Whenever she left it, to go border skirmishing or on missions like riding to the Heart of Mijak, she missed its rough and violent charm. She did not miss the palace, that place was rich and scented with flowers, soft floor rugs underfoot, honey-sweet pastries in a green glass dish. There she had only to raise one eyebrow, lift a finger, and slaves fell to their knees begging to serve her. They fanned her with feathers, they lulled her with lutes, they dulled her sharp edges with comfort and smiles. She found it distasteful. Knife-dancers needed regular whetting if they wished to stay alive.

Sometimes, wallowing in her palace bath, she thought if she wasn’t careful she might melt completely, turn into soap. Barracks life was robust, it was muscular. There were slaves in the barracks but their service served the warlord, they pampered no-one. Barracks slaves shouted, they argued, they laughed at the warriors, they knew their value and were not afraid. The air here stank of horse shit, of sheep pish, of smoky fires and heated iron, of butchered goats and roasting fowls. Music was made by hammers on anvils, by the chanting of warriors as they danced their hotas , the rattle of chariot wheels as the horses trotted by. This was a real place, the palace was a rancid dream, life in it rotted by not enough strife.