The Godspeaker Trilogy (26 page)

Nagarak said, “At the next fat godmoon we must ride to meet with the warlords at Mijak’s Heart. You must prepare your warriors, Raklion. I will send word to Mijak’s other godhouses, that their small high godspeakers might instruct the lesser warlords of where and when we must meet for the god.”

“You are high godspeaker,” said Raklion, humbled. “You are the god’s voice and I am its fist. Between us we will see Mijak reborn.”

He walked alone and slowly to the palace, surprised to see the sun close to the horizon. Had he been so long within the godhouse? He must have, but it did not matter. Time meant nothing to the god.

Slaves hurried to greet him as he entered his warm halls, he waved them away, they could wait and so could his bath. He found Hekat and Zandakar in her private garden, they were knife-dancing together, slicing the lowsun to ribbons with their blades. He stood in the shadowed doorway and watched them, joy washing away his dirt and weariness.

She loved his son, he loved her for that. He loved her for many reasons, but that most of all. He wished he could breed another son on her—he tried and he tried, his seed would not take root. It made him weep, sometimes, although Hekat told him to be patient.

When the god desires a brother for Zandakar, the god will give him one. Till then, warlord, be content.

So Hekat told him, it was wise advice.

Watching her and Zandakar knife-dance together, it was like watching the god and its shadow. Her form was perfect, his echoed hers completely.

Aieee, what a warrior his son would make. What a warrior was his beloved Hekat, she led warhosts for him as fiercely as Hano, she was without mercy on the battlefield. The warriors gladly died for her, the god had blessed him, he would never forget it.

The final hota glided into stillness. Hekat and Zandakar stood perfectly poised, immaculately balanced, their snakeblades flashing in the sun’s dying light. He could wait no longer, he stepped out of the shadows and onto the grass.

“Aieee, you are beautiful, you honor the god!”

“Warlord!” cried Zandakar. “Did you see me dancing? I danced with Yuma, soon I will dance with a proper snakeblade!”

His knife was child-sized, crafted to fit a small fist. Since he could talk he’d asked, Where is my proper snakeblade ? He was born a warrior in his bones.

Hekat tugged his godbraids. “Sheathe your blade and embrace the warlord, Zandakar, then go to your bath. We will eat together when you are clean.”

Raklion folded his arms about the boy, marveling as always at the sweetness of him against his chest.

I never thought to hold my living son. I am blessed, god, you see I am blessed.

Zandakar wriggled free and ran into the palace. Hekat sheathed her snakeblade and came to him for kissing, he drank deeply of her sweet-tasting mouth.

“You were victorious on the border?” he asked her, his fingers fisted in her godbraids.

“Tcha!” she said, and pulled a face. “I am always victorious, that is my purpose. A slave told me you did not ride into the barracks, you ran to the godhouse.”

Of course a slave told her. She knew everything that happened in the barracks, she was his eyes and his ears and his swift smiting fist, even more than Hano, sometimes. He released her godbraids and kissed the tip of her nose. “That is so.”

She stared into his face, her eyes were blue flames. “Shall I tell you what Nagarak wanted? He wanted you to know the god has spoken. Your time is come, warlord. You will be warlord of Mijak.”

For the longest moment he could not speak. How did she know these things? How did she hear the god so clearly, no need for sacrifice and omens, no searching for answers in a circle of sacred sand?

“Yes, Hekat,” he said at last. “That is what Nagarak wanted to say.”

Her shrug was careless, she turned away. “You should ask me, warlord. I will tell you, I will not make you beg. Nagarak likes your begging, it makes him feel big.”

Aieee, the god see her. So certain, so proud, she would never change. He leapt to catch her as she left the garden. “You should not speak of Nagarak like that,” he chided as they walked the corridors together to join their son in the bath. “He is in the god’s eye.”

“Not as deeply as I am, warlord,” she said. “Remember that.”

He would never forget it. She was Hekat, godtouched and precious, mother of his beautiful son.

Much later, in the cool night, after bathing and eating and fucking with Hekat, he sprawled on the bed beside her, flickered by lamplight, his appetites sated, comfortably tired. She had wanted to talk more of warlord business, he did not want to think of it. He preferred to think of other things.

I am happy. I was never happy before. There is little pleasure in being a warlord, there is only pain and pressure and sleepless nights. Here is a better reason to be sleepless.

“Are you happy, Hekat?” he asked her. It was suddenly important, that she be happy. That she find pleasure in him, as he did in her. She was not talkative, she rarely opened her heart. She was carefree only in Zandakar’s company, then he saw her face unguarded, then she laughed, then she looked young. He was old enough to have sired her, to have sired the man who did sire her, yet so often, so often, she made him feel young.

“I am happy if you are happy,” she said, sounding drowsy. He could not see her face.

“That is no answer,” he said, and tugged her godbraids till she was looking at him. “Hekat, tell me truly. Are you happy?”

Her eyes were half-lidded, they gleamed like a cat’s. “I am Zandakar’s mother.”

He smiled. “You are a good mother. You are the mother he deserves. Is that all you need to make you happy?”

Her eyelids lowered even further, her lashes cast shadows upon her cheeks. “Why does it matter if I am happy? I am here by the god’s will, I do its bidding. The god does not care if I am happy, it cares only if I do its will.”

He rolled towards her and nuzzled her breast. “I am a man, I am not the god. Men care if the women they love are happy.”

She did not believe him, he could see that in her face. She said, “Did you care if the Daughter was happy?”

Et-Nogolor’s Daughter, dead on her bed . The old image stabbed him, he pushed it away. “Do not speak to me of her,” he said harshly, rolling over. “She was a mistake, I should have given her to Bajadek with my blessing.”

“Tcha,” said Hekat, and poked him with her elbow. “There are no mistakes, warlord. There is only the god and its desirings. She served a purpose, she unmasked Bajadek that I might kill him in the god’s eye. I am known in Et-Raklion as Bajadek’s doom, the god desires I am known by that name. Bajadek’s doom birthed Zandakar warlord. That is his bloodline, it is pleasing to the god. You raised me above the other warriors, they would dislike that if not for Bajadek.”

Aieee, she had such power to surprise him . . . “How are you so wise, and still so young?”

She sat up, and set her godbells singing. “When I was a she-brat, then I was young. I am Zandakar’s mother now, old as Mijak.”

She would never tell him truly if she was happy. She would leave him wondering, he would have to hope. He pressed his lips against her spine, her flesh was sweetness on his tongue. He starved for her body, every day on the borders he pined, and pined.

“I love you, Hekat,” he said against her warm, moist skin. Say you love me. Say it. Say it .

She lay herself down on his sheets of blue silk. “Fuck me, warlord. Raklion, fuck me.”

It was not the same thing . . . it was better than silence.

He took her, groaning, and prayed to the god.

When Hekat woke two fingers past newsun she was alone in the bed she shared with Raklion. Her body was mildly sore, he always fucked hard when he came back from fighting. One day he might not come back, and she would be spared his breathless gruntings.

Still he hopes for another son, it will not happen. The god has sealed my womb, it will not quicken for him. What need have I for any other child? I have Zandakar, he is all I need.

She rose from the bed, bathed in warm water, dressed in her training tunic, frayed at the hem. Her snakeblade she belted round her waist. She went to Zandakar in his chamber and there found Raklion also, playing trap-warrior with her son.

Zandakar was winning.

With a look and a nod she dismissed his attending slaves. “My son, have you eaten breakfast?”

“Yes, Yuma.”

“Then leave your game, you may finish it later. I will have words with the warlord, go to the stable and saddle your pony. When I come we will ride out hunting.”

“We will all ride out hunting,” said Raklion, and kissed her son. “It is a good day to go riding together.”

Zandakar slid off his chair, bowed to the warlord and rushed past her, out the door. Raklion laughed, then ruefully considered the trap-warrior board and the many pieces he had lost in the game.

“He plays like a grown man. He is a constant amazement.”

“Yes,” she said. “Raklion, we must speak more of this warlord business. Do you think to lead the warhost against the warhosts of those other, godforsaken warlords, so they might fall before you on the field of war?”

Raklion shook his head. “No. We will meet in peace at the Heart of Mijak. Nagarak is sending to the other godhouses, the warlords cannot refuse the call.”

She was not pleased. “No, not the call. But they can refuse to see you warlord of Mijak. You can take no warhost to that sacred place, you must go there almost undefended. If you tell them the god’s desire, that you will be their warlord, and they refuse to hear the god’s words, then are they forewarned of your intentions. They are godless, they might raise a knife to you there or hurry back to their lands and send their warhosts against you.”

Raklion smiled. “Precious Hekat, you think of me always. Do not be afraid. Warlords are forbidden knives in Mijak’s Heart and Nagarak will be with me. In the god’s eye, he will keep me safe.”

Tcha. Nagarak. “Raklion, hear me. I must ride with you to Mijak’s Heart.”

“You do not need to,” said Raklion, rising. “Hanochek is my warleader, he will ride with me, you will watch over my warhost here, you—”

“Yes, I need to!” she shouted. He was stupid. Around her neck, the scorpion amulet burned. “I am Zandakar’s mother, I am Bajadek’s doom. The warlords must know I am with you, they must see I am the snakeblade belted at your hip. If you should die before Zandakar is a man I must ride at the head of your warhost. The warlords must see me, they must learn to fear.”

Astonished, he stared. “I will not die before Zandakar is a man. I am in the god’s eye, Hekat. It sees me, I am blessed. It will make me warlord of Mijak, and I will rule Mijak for seasons to come. That is the omen, do you say it is not?”

She stepped towards him. “Will you listen if I say what I say? You are a man dogged by demons all his life. Raklion, you dwell in their envious eyes. You would have died on the Plain of Drokar, warlord. You would be dead now, if not for me. I slew wicked Bajadek, I killed him and you live. I tell you truly: I must ride to Mijak’s Heart .”

He stood before her in silence, he breathed in and out. “You are Hekat, godtouched and precious,” he murmured. “You are Zandakar’s mother and Bajadek’s doom. You are in the god’s eye, I cannot deny it. The god whispers to you, is this the god’s whisper?”

Of course it was. Her amulet burned, her heart burned with it. The god’s want was in her, using her tongue. “Yes.”

He sighed, and nodded. “Then you will ride with me to the Heart of Mijak.”

T
he stench of bloodsoaked burning godbraids poisoned the unstirring air. Choking, Vortka fought the urge to smother his nose and mouth, he must breathe the smoke, the smoke would guide him to the god and its desiring.

Naked, he sat cross-legged before the fire, deep within Et-Raklion’s harshest wilderness, the cruellest crucible for testing, where no godspark could hide itself from the god. The landscape here was twisted, tortured, barren rock and stone-turned tree. Only the god’s creatures thrived in this place, lizards, snakes, centipedes and scorpions. Nothing green here, nothing scented, nothing soft. The rocks were red and yellow and orange, striped with black, spattered with brown. Whipped by the wind, scoured into fevered nightmarish shapes, into looming spindle spires and giant godbones scattered by a madman’s hand, they cast irregular shadows, promising shelter they could not provide.

The god withheld its water here, the underground rivers did not flow. This was a hot place, a parched place, the air panted, the blue sky rarely wept rain. His food was eaten, his water drunk. His clothes he’d had to use as tinder so his godbraids could be burned. He had nothing.

I am nothing. Only what the god makes me. If Zandakar was my single purpose, then I will die here alone and unnoticed. The god will not see me. My bones will be lost.

The fire was melting his silver godbells. He felt a small grief for that, he’d loved his godbells, always singing to the god. His godbraids burned with a steady flame, years of his life reducing to ash. He breathed in, he breathed out, his tongue was coated with the stink. His mind was melting with his godbells, the world was dimming, he was floating away . . .

Dreamlike, suspended, he felt his legs unfold themselves, he felt himself stand beneath the burning sun. The god’s voice was calling, it whispered, it beckoned. He followed it stumbling, shrouded in smoke. His bare feet clung to the sun-scorched rocks, if he was not careful he would drift from their surface, he would spiral like smoke into the sky.

Deeper and deeper he walked into the wilderness. His eyes were open but he was blind to the world, deaf to all sound save the voice of the god. He left the fire fat behind him but its smoke was in him, it guided his steps. The smoke was the god’s breath, breathing for him. He grew tired, muscles aching, he kept on walking. Sweat slicked his skin, stones like snakeblades sliced his feet, a sandcat could track him by the scent of his blood. Hunger plagued him, thirst shriveled his mouth, he kept on walking, following the god.

Without any warning the ground gaped wide beneath him. With a cry he fell, and knew no more.

When consciousness returned it was the deep of night. At first he thought the fall had blinded him, but after long panicked moments he looked up and saw a brief scatter of stars. He frowned, relief surrendering to confusion. What had happened to the rest? Nights in Et-Raklion meant a ceiling of stars watching the godmoon and his wife stride through the sky. He could see hardly any, it was as though some malicious demon had extinguished all save a small child’s handful.

Then fresh air stirred against his skin and he realized he had fallen into a cave where the fat godmoon’s light could not reach him. He was looking at stars through a ragged hole in its roof.

Not dead, not blind. Trapped.

It was cold. He hurt. Tentative exploration told him no bones were broken, the god had spared him that much, but his shorn head was battered, his flesh was split, he was bruised and bloody. His groping fingers felt rough walls, a rough floor, loose rocks. He sat up, slowly, but encountered no obstacle, there was empty space between himself and the cave’s rock ceiling.

He looked again at the hole through which he had fallen. Through which the god had led him to fall.

Why am I here, god? What is your desiring?

The god did not answer, its voice was silent and its smoke disappeared. He breathed alone now, his wits were his own.

The cave’s darkness was oppressive. It swaddled him like a baby’s blanket, crushed him to the floor. He lay down again, skinned knees tucked against his bare chest, forehead resting on them. He was bewildered, he tasted sour fear. When the sun rose again, letting light into this place, what would he learn? That he was trapped here forever, rejected, discarded by the god, his purpose achieved, destined to die starving and maddened by thirst?

God, god, is that your desiring? Am I now punished for my doubts?

He steadied his breathing, imagined himself still, like stone, so he might hear the god’s answer.

For a second time it did not come.

Fear overwhelmed him. Seasons of study in the godhouse meant nothing, all the times he’d given his body to the taskmaster, trusting that pain would drive out his sinful doubts, but he’d suffered for nothing, doubt was in him, it raged within him like the god’s wrath, unstoppable.

I think I wish I had stayed a slave.

Control deserted him, then, along with his faith in the god. Shouting, cursing, he waved his arms in the air, drummed his heels on the ground even though they were bloody. Blind in the cave’s dark, pale starlight, with no comfort, he groped for little rocks to throw, found them and snatched them and laughed wildly as they smashed to pieces against the walls.

His fingers closed on a rock that felt different. Heat flared in his loins and the pitch-black cave blossomed with light. His mind came alive with godsense unleashed.

“ Aieee !” He dropped the rock. His loins cooled. The light vanished, extinguished like a pinched-out candle.

Heart frantic, breath strangled in his throat, he sat in the dark and wondered if he dreamed. If he was fevered and raving on the brink of ugly death.

If I am dying, god, let me die in peace I beg you. Do not torment me with such terror. Do not take my mind from me.

The god was everywhere but in this cave. Unanswered a third time, Vortka felt his fingers reaching, as his heart pounded he felt them grope in the darkness for that strange rock. If light came again, if his godsense stirred, it might prove he was not raving. That this was real and not a dream. He could see where he had fallen. Perhaps even find a way out before he starved.

A pebble—nothing. A shard of stoneglass that cut his fingers—blood, but no light. A gritty, grainy chunk of sandrock—more darkness.

Something smooth and cold and briefly familiar—

“ Aieee !” he cried out, in the new light, in the roaring of his power. In the heat that was like fucking Hekat.

He clutched a crystal in his hand. It was dark red, but the light it emitted was purest white. Power pulsed within it and it pulsed in him, his eyes were burning, his flesh was on fire. He looked around him, saw another red crystal, this one as large as a man’s head. He had never seen crystal like it before. Never heard it mentioned, or found reference to it in the godhouse library.

Is this why I am brought here, god?

Despite the light and power, the dark red crystal was cool against his skin. The heat was in him, pouring out of him and through its rough-hewn facets. He remembered his testing in the slave pens of Et-Nogolor, how it felt when he took hold of the godstone and power woke within him for the first time in his life.

That was water. This was blood.

More time passed and he felt himself grow dizzy. He uncrooked his clutching fingers, let the crystal tumble to the gritty ground. This time the heat and light faded slowly, as though the crystal were a goblet with a hole punched in it and his godsense was rich wine trickling out.

Darkness returned, not as an enemy but as a friend, a refuge. Somewhere to hide while he struggled to make sense of the crystal, the light, the stirred power within him.

Not one godspeaker in Et-Raklion’s godhouse, not even Nagarak high godspeaker himself, had sensed this potential in their novice.

I am godchosen, like Hekat I hide in the god’s secret eye.

If only he understood what that meant. Understood what he was meant for, besides the siring of a child.

This dark red crystal that seemed to channel his godsense, did Nagarak know of its existence? Was it kept a terrible high godspeaker secret? If so, what might happen if Nagarak learned a newly tested novice had held it in his hand? Or was Nagarak ignorant, kept unknowing by the god? If that was so, then did he have a duty to tell the high godspeaker of his discovery? Surely not. If the god wanted Nagarak to know, he would know. If he told Nagarak when the god wished it secret, what dread retribution might he invite?

Questions scuttled round the bowl of his skull like rats in a dry well, he could not catch them, they would drive him mad. The god sent him no answers. It had brought him here, the smoke from his godbraids had led him to this place. There was a purpose to this discovery, he was sure of that much. As for the rest . . .

Hekat will know how to learn what this means. The god speaks to her when it will not speak to me. I must return to Et-Raklion. Hekat will know what to make of this mystery.

There was a measure of comfort in that, at least.

Exhaustion overcame him, then. He was so weary the cold meant nothing, his scrapes and bruises meant nothing, his clamoring belly and sand-dry throat, they also meant nothing. His bones were chalk, his muscles turned to sadsa dregs.

He stretched out on the ground, and slept.

When he woke again, filtering sunlight lifted the cave out of deep shadow. For a moment he thought again of dreams, of fevered ravings, but the dark red crystals were no dream. With the newsun’s help he searched the cave to see if there were more. He could not find any. One large crystal and one much smaller, that was all.

Squatting on his battered haunches, he looked at the large lump of dark red rock. He was afraid to touch it. Holding the small crystal had woken such power, what might happen if he roused the larger crystal to life?

He did not know. Turning aside from that thorny problem, he distracted himself with another no less uncomfortable.

How to get himself out of the cave.

But there, the god saw him, it answered his pleas. Exploration showed him the cave was a kind of bubble blown into solid rock. The hole in the roof, too high for him to reach, no rocks to help him upwards, was one breach; a narrow passageway behind some tumbled boulders was another. Whether it led all the way to the outside world he could not see, or even guess. The only way to learn that was to traverse it. He had no hope of walking upright in the passage, he had to lie on his back and shuffle his way along the ground like some crippled snake, like a lizard with no legs. It was a harsh tasking, he could feel his naked skin tearing, the solid rock pressed upon him, there was air but he could not breathe.

He thought of Zandakar, and throttled his fear.

The passageway ended just as he imagined, despairingly, he would never see the sky again. With a grunt he wriggled free of the oppressive crawlspace and regained his feet with great effort, shaking and mucky with dirt, blood and sweat. Aieee, had any novice before him endured such a testing?

He stood in the shadow of a crumbling rock cliff. As his harsh breathing eased and the thundering blood in his ears slowed to silence, he heard another, welcome sound. Running water, near at hand.

Vortka staggered towards that godsent flowing, to the fringe of green lining a rocky depression off to the right. It was an oasis, a grudging trickle of water from deep underground that fed into a shallow basin. Laughing weakly he thrust his face into it and drank, drank till his belly distended and threatened to burst. Then he wept, in fear and gratitude. The night’s doubts shamed him now, safe in sunlight, he knew the god would not abandon him but even so, he’d felt abandoned. He saw a brown lizard, torpid and sluggish, and killed it with a loose rock before it could escape. Ravenous, he devoured it raw.

After that he bathed his body as best he could, inspecting himself for wounds less than superficial. He had lost much skin, scored grooves, punched holes, but in truth the damage was no more dangerous than any brute strapping he’d received in the godhouse.

He would survive.

Letting unshaded sunshine dry him, he wondered what he must do about the crystals. Where he stood was a featureless plain, he saw no tree or outcropping he could recognize. He realized then he had no recollection of how he found this place. His last clear memory was setting fire to his godbraids. After that, it was smoke and wonder.

God, you must guide me. If this is my testing and I have passed, show me how to get home to Et-Raklion, to Hekat and our Zandakar. Tell me what you desire I do next.

His godsense stirred then, and he turned from the oasis to tread further across the stony plain. He walked until the god told him to stop, then dropped to the hard ground and lay on his back beneath the sun. The rock was burning, it woke all his small hurts and made them larger. The light dazzled his eyes, he closed them and was lost in blood-red shadows. His skull was vulnerable, pillowed on rock.

Here I am, god, at your mercy. Write your desires in my naked flesh.

The surrounding silence was vast and deep. But then something broke it, a skittering sound, faint at first but growing louder. He opened his eyes and turned his head.

Scorpions were coming.

Called by the god, whispered to its service, they covered the rocks in a carapace carpet, black and brown and red and ochre. Not the lovingly bred monsters from the godhouse, larger than a large man’s hand spread full wide, these were creatures of the wilderness, small and agile, bred to survive all of nature’s casual cruelties.

Vortka’s heart faltered, he felt it stop. Every muscle, every sinew, screamed at him to leap up and run. Run before the scorpions reached him, run before that first kiss of venom, run before it was too late.

If I run now, it has all been for nothing.

When his father died, he’d thought he knew fear. When his mother re-married, then he thought he understood it. When the slave chains closed about his wrists, his ankles, he was certain at last he grasped its meaning.

Now he knew those times were but seedlings, shy suggestions of what was to come.