The Godspeaker Trilogy (59 page)

“ The god see me, Hekat, the light of its eye!”

Nagarak’s scorpion pectoral seized his body, it crushed him to stumbling, threw him onto the grass. He lay on his back, tongue protruding, nostrils flaring. The pectoral did not sting him, it only held him tight. He tried to speak, the god had taken his voice.

She looked at Vortka, he was sweating, gasping, he could hardly breathe. “You cannot be here,” she told him softly. “Go into the godhouse. Speak to no-one. I will come to you when I can.”

“Hekat—”

“Go,” she said, and let her voice bite. “What I do now, I must do alone.” Then she felt a sudden stab of guilt. “Vortka, I tell you, I am sorry for the fever. It was the god’s desire, I am its true slave. I do not know why you cannot wake the crystal. The god will tell us, in its time.”

He nodded, his eyes were still unforgiving. “Whatever you do here, Hekat, do it quickly. The godhouse is stirring. You do not have long.”

She did not watch him leave, or look at Nagarak. She pulled her scorpion amulet over her head and pressed it throbbing against her belly. She felt the god’s heat suffuse her, she felt its power, it reached into her center and woke her womb.

Nagarak was panting, his chest heaved within the pectoral’s tight embrace. The scorpion did not sting him, its raised tail hovered above his face, promising swift punishment if he did not lie still.

Hekat stripped off her loincloth and knelt beside him, pulled his robes open and his loincloth down, then pressed her scorpion amulet into his groin. He moaned and twisted as the god poured its power into him. He was helpless before her, she was in the god’s hands. When he was ready she straddled his hips and impaled herself on his blade.

“Do not think,” she said, as she bitterly rode him, “I do this for anyone but the god. Do not think the son you sire will make me happy. This is the god’s want, I am its slave.”

With a silent scream Nagarak poured himself into her. She clamped her thighs on him, she ground herself against his hips. She felt his seed take root within her, the god had made her hot and fertile, nine godmoons from now she would spawn Nagarak’s son.

She lifted herself from the high godspeaker’s limp blade and sat on the grass, willing her racing heart to calm. Held down by his merciless scorpion pectoral, Nagarak stared at her. He seemed overcome. As he stared, the scorpion’s barbed tail struck him hard between his eyes.

She thought he was dead then, but after a moment saw he still breathed. The fresh red welt above the bridge of his nose faded as she watched it, became one more scorpion-mark among so many. She watched his eyes glaze, their horror fade. His taut muscles relaxed and his cramped limbs lost their tension.

His scorpion pectoral returned to stone.

She re-tied her loincloth before he roused fully, found the dropped crystal, slipped it into her pocket, and returned her scorpion amulet to its rightful place. Then she retreated to the sanctuary’s snake-eye shrine. As she knelt beside it, fingers caressing its beauty, the godhouse godbells began to toll.

Nagarak stirred. He stood. In silence he straightened his robes and his loincloth and, unspeaking, unseeing, he walked away.

He was the third dead man walking she had seen.

After consuming breakfast, boiled eggs he could not taste, and too disturbed to sleep, Vortka offered his labor to the godhouse library. With three hundred godspeakers gone to Et-Bano—no, Zandakar now—the library archivists were pleased to have him. They did not ask if Nagarak had sent him, he did not enlighten them. In the godhouse library he would hear any commotion, and while he worked sorting, cleaning and stacking the clay tablets he would have a chance to think.

His night’s duty in the quiet time had left him exhausted. The revelations in the shrine garden had left him numb. Walking away from Nagarak had left him . . .

Aieee, god. God. Is this your purpose? Nagarak is your high godspeaker, you chose him in the scorpion pit. I do not think he will survive Hekat in the sanctuary. I saw her eyes. Is she your chosen? Does she do your will?

Until this moment, he had never doubted. Hekat was godtouched, godchosen, precious. He had seen her work miracles in the god’s eye. He knew she was arrogant, proud, impatient.

I never thought she was evil. Tell me, god, have I been wrong?

If Hekat was evil, what did that make Zandakar?

My son is not evil, god. He is pure. I can sense his godspark, there is no darkness in it. He desires to serve you, as do I.

He wished he knew what the god desired of him. To raise the alarm over Nagarak would be the same as putting a knife through Zandakar’s heart. As killing Hekat. As thwarting the god ? He saw again Nagarak’s living scorpion pectoral, lashing and hissing and crushing him to the ground.

That was the god’s power. That was the god. I am its servant, I must hold my tongue.

And it was not certain Nagarak would die. Hekat hated Nagarak but the god could stay her hand. It might take this newsun from Nagarak’s mind. The high godspeaker would never know what Hekat had done to him, never remember what he’d heard. He might forget about the crystal, and what had happened when he held it.

Aieee, god. The crystal. It was not flawed, the flaw is in me. In burning my seed Hekat damaged my power. Yet I am still a godspeaker, that power remains. What is the difference? Will you not tell me? If I cannot wake the crystal can I still help my son?

A stupid question. Of course he could. He had helped him already, by being his friend. How else he could help him, the god would reveal.

As he worked in the library his thoughts ground on, like oxen yoked to a grindstone they trod around and around.

What is it about me, about Nagarak, that makes us special? What is this power in us that can wake the crystal? We have nothing in common . . . except we are godspeakers. Although Nagarak is high godspeaker and I am only—

Vortka caught his breath. The clay tablet he was stacking nearly slipped from his fingers, he managed to snatch it before it fell.

If Nagarak dies . . . if the god does desire his death . . . then Mijak must have a new high godspeaker. God. God. Do you mean it to be me?

Vortka high godspeaker? He had never dreamed it. Never imagined . . . Was it possible? Was the godspeaker power within a high godspeaker the thing that made the crystal wake? And if his special power was burned out by the fever, would the god even choose him now? In siring Zandakar, was his purpose truly served?

Aieee, god. So many questions. I wish you would answer me, I am lost. Reveal your desires, I will bring them to pass.

The godhouse godbells tolled, startling him. He looked at the library candles, it was highsun. Time for sacrifice. Since he started working there had been no commotion. If Nagarak were dead in the godhouse shrine garden, surely someone would have noticed by now.

He went to the Sacrifice chamber for this highsun ritual, that was where Nagarak sacrificed in public for the god. He could have observed it anywhere in the godhouse but he needed to see the high godspeaker for himself. Nagarak did not appear, Peklia said he was occupied in his chamber, she performed his duty, she did not seem alarmed. Afterwards, Vortka ate a hurried bowl of mutton stew in the kitchens, then returned to his labors in the library.

The day dragged towards lowsun, there was still no commotion. Nagarak lived. Vortka sighed his relief. The high godspeaker did not appear for lowsun sacrifice, Peklia once more wielded the blade. No reason was given, Peklia still was not alarmed. After dinner, Vortka slept for a short while, then took up his godstaff and walked down the Pinnacle Road to the city, praying with every step that its people would respect the god and save him from the distress of smiting.

He kept his eyes on the road as he passed by the palace. If Hekat was in there he did not want to see her.

I am still angry, god. I still have questions. She said she was sorry. Can I trust her? She could have told me the fever was your will. I am your servant, I would have accepted it.

The god could have told him. The god did not, it was another question.

The streets assigned to his authority remained peaceful, he breathed a prayer of heartfelt thanks. Twice he heard distant sounds of smitings, wicked sinners found by other godspeakers. As he walked among the small, humble houses of the Weavers district he thought about the lives of the workers who dwelled within. The life he would have lived, had he remained a potsmith. Simple. Uncomplicated. He sighed, there was no point in regret. As the sky lightened towards newsun he returned to the godhouse.

Its bells were tolling, louder and longer than the call to sacrifice. Nagarak high godspeaker was desperately ill.

“It is the same fever that recently afflicted one other godspeaker, warlord,” the healer Sidik explained in a low voice. “That godspeaker recovered, we must pray Nagarak high godspeaker will recover also.”

Hekat stood with Raklion in the healing room, beside fevered Nagarak in his bed. Raklion was deeply upset, he was stupid wasting water on a man like Nagarak. For herself, she pretended to care.

Raklion turned to her. “You are certain he seemed well when he rode with the warhost to smite Et-Banotaj?”

She met his eyes unflinching. “Warlord, he seemed very well. He threw down that city’s wicked godspeakers, he was mighty in his wrath.”

“Aieee,” said Sidik. “Perhaps he was cursed by those sinning godspeakers, we know that Banotaj consorted with demons.” She frowned. “But I can sense no demon-taint in him.”

“This other godspeaker you say was afflicted,” said Raklion. He could not shift his gaze from Nagarak’s sweating, restless body, he flinched every time the dying man groaned. “Had he traveled to or from Et-Banotaj? Perhaps there is a sickness in their soil, perhaps he—”

“No-one else is fevered, warlord,” said Sidik, regretful. “If that other godspeaker were the cause, I would be fevered. I was the healer who nursed him to health. Many would be ill, we live closely here.”

“Aieee . . .” Raklion pressed a fist to his lips, so deeply moved he could not speak.

Hekat said, “Sidik healer. I wonder if I might ask some small favor. Since I am here, I mean no disrespect to Nagarak.”

The healer bowed. “Of course not. Hekat warleader, you honor me.”

She took a deep breath, let it out. “Would you lay your godstone on my belly? Would you tell me if you sense a new life?”

“Yes,” said the healer, and pressed her godstone deep.

“ Hekat ?” said Raklion, his grief forgotten. “Do you think . . .”

Hekat smiled at him, she knew she had quickened, she knew Nagarak’s spawn seed had taken root within. It was a good thing after all Raklion was strong enough to fuck. “I cannot be certain, warlord, but yes, I hope . . .”

“Your hope is answered,” said the healer, removing her godstone. “Hekat warleader, you are with child. It is a boy, it has a vigorous godspark.”

“ Hekat !” said Raklion, he crushed her to his breast. “Hekat, beloved, you are in the god’s eye! You are in my heart forever, you are the greatest of women!”

As Sidik smiled, and Raklion wept, Hekat rested her gaze on moaning Nagarak, sweating and tossing his way to death.

You stupid man, you did not have to die. Is Vortka dead? I think he is not. You provoked the god when you called me a demon. See how the god has answered you.

Nagarak died two fingers before lowsun. Vortka woke in his cell to the sound of solemn tolling godbells.

He stared blankly at the low stone ceiling. He had been expecting it, but still he was stunned. For some time he lay on his thin pallet and listened to the murmur of agitated voices, the swift shuffling of sandaled feet beyond his closed door. A curious lethargy weighed upon him. Nagarak’s death was a momentous event, he should join the other godspeakers in observing sacrifice for Mijak’s dead high godspeaker. Instead he pillowed his head on his folded arms and tried to calm his troubled mind.

Now there will be a high godspeaker choosing. God, god. Do you mean to choose me?

Someone’s fist battered on the door. “Rise, Vortka, quickly! Have you not heard the news? The god has taken Nagarak from the world! Peklia calls us to sacrifice. Come!”

Vortka sighed, and rolled to his feet.

The god see you, Nagarak. You have served your purpose. The god has used you. It uses us all.

Sacrifice for the high godspeaker went on and on. Every godspeaker in the city had come to the godhouse, and now shed blood for Nagarak’s godspark, their own and that of one sacred beast. Vortka killed a white lamb, he cut open his left arm, he joined the godspeakers who had sacrificed before him and waited for the ritual to end.

When at last the blood stopped flowing, Peklia godspeaker addressed the assembly. “Godspeakers,” she said, her voice loud in every ear. There were thousands of godbraid godbells in this place, not one sounded, nobody moved. “At newsun the god will select Mijak’s next high godspeaker. Et-Raklion godhouse is the god’s godhouse in Mijak, no godspeaker not tested from this place may enter our scorpion pit. If you were tested from this godhouse, and by the god’s desire you are in this place at this solemn time and believe in your heart you are called to serve, present yourself in the Scorpion chamber when next the newsun godbells toll. Know that the god will smite you to death if your belief is proven false.”

Now the thousand of godbells sounded, now a breeze of voices sighed.

“The god see you in its choosing eye, godspeakers. Go to a still place and listen to the god.”

Vortka left the godhouse, quickly, and went to the shrine garden, to the sanctuary where grew the half-dead tree. He reached within its gnarled, knotted trunk and pulled out his godgiven sacrifice knife. When his fingers closed about its hilt it did not wake as it woke before in Peklia’s chamber, proof it did have some strange connection to the red crystal he’d found. Still, in grasping the knife he felt the god’s great presence.

Vortka knew, at last, why the blade had chosen him.

Are you certain, god? I will serve as I must. I do not look for this authority, I never thought it would come to me.