The Godspeaker Trilogy (147 page)

She did not want to be moved by his hand on her face, she resented all human touching, all gestures of warmth. Her cold eyes showed him her resentment, showed him how she fought not to be moved by his touch. It made his heart ache.

Hekat, Hekat, will you die if I touch you? I am Vortka, you are safe with me.

She stepped back. “Why do your godspeakers die, Vortka? What have you done wrong?”

“Nothing,” he told her. “I have told you already, what you ask for is difficult.”

“The god asks for this,” she said, her eyes slitted. “The god asks, you obey.”

Aieee, the god see him. When would she listen? “Hekat, if the warhost's horses are to survive in the boats, if they are to leap strong and angry from the boats to dry land, then my godspeakers and I must change them from within. Do you think this is simple?”

“I think this is what the god desires you to do!”

“And I strive to do it, Hekat. But I am a man, I am only flesh and blood. The god's power is mighty, when it thunders in the blood a man's bones might melt. A godspeaker might melt, Hekat. I might melt.”

“Tcha! This cannot be a concern to you, Vortka. You are high godspeaker.”

Now he smiled at her. “And still I am a man.”

“A stupid man,” she muttered, temper easing at last. “I am the god's empress, how can I help you if you do not tell me what you do?”

How can you help me when you cannot help yourself? But he kept that thought close, frail or not she would strike him to the ground if he spoke those terrible words aloud.

“I do not think there is a way for you to help me,” he said carefully. “You are a warrior, you are not a healer. This is godspeaker business.”

Hekat's blue eyes widened. “And I breathe for the god.” She snatched her snakeblade from her hip and slashed it through her forearm. “I bleed for the god. When you could not break that desert, Vortka, I broke it. I conquered the scorpion pit. I defeated Nagarak. I gave the god two warlords, two hammers for its fist. I am Hekat, Empress of Mijak . The world is my business, I give the world to the god.”

Her blood was dripping to the blue marble floor. The cut in her arm must hurt her, she did not show her pain. Vortka sighed. “You think the god wants this, Hekat? I think it does not.”

“The god wants Mijak in Ethrea, Vortka, it wants Mijak in Keldrave, in Barbruish, in Haisun. It wants Mijak in Arbenia and in Harbisland and Tzhung-tzhungchai. Where there are men in the world the god wants them kneeling before it. Godposts on every street, godhouses on every hill. The valleys must run with blood until the god is everywhere.”

“But not your blood!” he retorted. He slid his healing crystal from its pouch, took hold of her wrist and tugged her to him. “Stupid Hekat, do you need to convince me you are chosen by the god? I think you do not. I think I knew it before you did.”

“Tcha,” she said, scornful, but did not pull away.

The god's power filled him as he healed the wound in her flesh. She still held her snakeblade, he had no fear of that. She might strike him, she might scourge him with her tongue, she would never touch him with her snakeblade. He belonged to the god as much as she, never would she tempt its smiting by harming him.

When she was whole again she looked up, grudgingly thankful. “Be as skilful with the horses, Vortka, and the god will be pleased.”

“The god is already pleased,” he said. “It sees how I am working for it and knows I am obedient.”

“And it knows Hekat can do things that Vortka cannot,” she replied, pushing her snakeblade into its sheath. “You and your godspeakers need help to change the horses. You need more power, I know where power lies.”

He felt his skin chill to coldness. “No, Hekat. We need slaves as much as warriors and godspeakers.”

She grimaced. “Not old ones. Not crippled ones. Not slaves that spread disease. Those slaves have one purpose, to give their blood to the god.”

“Hekat…” He turned away from her and walked to the balcony, let the clean ocean air whip his godbells into song. “That power is unclean.”

“Unclean? You can say so? Vortka, you are stupid. That power broke the desert!”

And I think it broke you, too. Ever since those thousands of dead slaves, dead by your hand, you have been different, as though something within you drowned in those wet red sands.

Another thought he must keep to himself. He had tried and tried, she would not listen when he counselled caution in this.

I think I would rather that desert had defeated us, we crossed that desert and left something precious behind.

“The god has said no human blood for sacrifice.”

“No human blood for the trade winds,” Hekat retorted. “I have obeyed, I do not summon the trade winds. I wait and I wait, while the trade winds do not come. This blood is for the horses, the god does not say no to that.”

Vortka ground his teeth. Hekat made words a game, she made them say what she desired. If he argued with her she would close her heart to him.

I need her heart open or else I cannot help.

Hekat joined him on the balcony and tugged him round to face her. Her fingers tapped lightly on his cheek. “I am the god's chosen, I know what you need. Come. We will walk to the slave pens, I will give you hot blood and with its power you will change the warhost's horses.”

“Walk?” He shook his head. “Hekat—”

“Tcha!” she said, frowning. “I have eaten meat and fruit, I am strong for the god.”

He did not argue this either, she would never listen. She stood defiant before him, dressed in an old linen training tunic, pretending she was still the Hekat who danced with her snakeblade. It was true, she did dance, some newsuns here and there, when she was not quite so frail.

But you are not invincible, Hekat. Aieee, god, help me to help her see it.

Together they walked from her small palace into the hot and blinding sun.

The slave pens were down at the harbour. Before Jatharuj fell to Mijak, they were pens for livestock. Before Mijak, the people of Jatharuj had bred goats with long curly coats, the hair was shorn for wool and sold to other godless nations and the goats were sold too. Not any more. Those goats belonged to the godhouse now, they birthed more goats for sacrifice, not wool, and the pens by the harbour held discarded human slaves.

The streets of Jatharuj were almost empty. Jatharuj slept in this hot time before lowsun, and woke to bustling and business as dusk cooled the air. There were godspeakers seeing to the god's wants, collecting coins and lesser offerings from the godbowls, making certain slaves who had permission to be outdoors did not attempt a blasphemy or dally in gossip. Three thousand Mijakis from Et-Raklion had made the long journey to Jatharuj. It was their city now, the Icthians who had owned it were dead or made slaves. Jatharuj was all Mijak, it was too important a place to be anything else. Other capitulated cities had been permitted to live in the god's eye, but not Jatharuj. Nearly all of its houses were made barracks for the warhost, most of its resources were given over to Mijak's warriors.

So many warriors, they would conquer the world.

The slaves who did walk the streets fell to the ground as Hekat approached, their scarlet godbraids bright in the sun. If they did not they were nailed to a godpost, it had only taken a handful of nailings for the slaves of Jatharuj to understand their place. The walking godspeakers did not fall to the ground, they bowed to their empress and their high godspeaker. They did not speak unless spoken to first.

Hekat was in no mood for speaking.

On the wide harbour the warhost continued to dance hotas with its boats. Walking with Hekat, aware of her every sharp breath, every hitch in her stride, Vortka rested his gaze upon them and marvelled at the skill.

“Dmitrak trains the warhost well,” he said. “He does not let them sit idle, he does not say ‘this is enough’. Look at the warships dancing, Hekat. Who would think your warriors had so lately learned to sail?”

She grunted. “Dmitrak does what he is told to do.”

“He serves the god, he is fierce in his service. If you do not acknowledge that you make him weak before his warriors, Hekat.”

“ My warriors,” she said, glaring sideways. “The warhost is mine, it has been mine since Raklion stumbled. If I told it to kill him, Dmitrak would be dead.”

Aieee, god, it was true. They obeyed Dmitrak, it was their blood and breath to obey, but it was Hekat they screamed for when she rallied them to war.

“He is a good warlord.”

Another sideways look. “You do not love Dmitrak, why do you pour honey on him? Do you think he will be sweet to me with your honeyed words?”

“I think he is your warlord, empress.”

Her face tightened, the old scars twisting. “He is Nagarak's spawn. He is nothing of mine.”

They had reached the harbour and its closed city gates. The warriors on guard there bowed to their high godspeaker, then pressed their fists to their chests, smiling to see their mighty empress.

“The god sees you, Empress Hekat,” the taller woman said. “The god sees you in its conquering eye.”

“It sees you also, Nedajik,” said Hekat. She nodded at the other guard. “It sees you, Yogili.”

“It sees you, Empress Hekat,” said the shorter, younger guard. “How do we serve you?”

Hekat's teeth bared. “You stand aside. The god sends us to make sacrifice.”

The guard Nedajik frowned. “Sacrifice, Empress?”

“Are you stupid?” said Hekat, staring. “Sacrifice, Nedajik. Blood for the god.”

Flinching, the guard Nedajik shook her head. Silver godbells sounded her dismay. “Empress, there is no blood here.”

“There is blood. There are slaves, discarded for age and other reasons. You stand aside, Nedajik, or Vortka high godspeaker will give you a slave braid.”

Vortka watched the warriors exchange anguished glances. Touching his fingertips to Hekat's arm, he met her sharp look calmly. Then he turned to the guards.

“What has happened to the blood?”

“It is spilled, Vortka high godspeaker,” the guard Yogili whispered.

“ Spilled ?” Hekat seized the warrior's face between her fingers. “How is it spilled? I am the empress, I spill blood in Mijak. Speak !”

“Dmitrak warlord,” whispered Yogili. “He trains his warriors, he says blood must be spilled for a blade to stay sharp.”

Vortka closed his eyes briefly. Dmitrak, stupid boy, do you seek confrontation? Did your mother not tell you never again take her slaves without asking? He could feel his heart pound behind his scorpion pectoral.

“Dmitrak warlord,” said Hekat. Her voice was stony. Grating. She released her cruel hold of the warrior's face. “You Nedajik, you Yogili. Did your snakeblades drink the blood of these slaves?”

Yogili shook her head. “No, Empress. Dmitrak warlord ordered the shell-leaders to draw lots, only those warriors in the god's eye drank the slaves' blood.”

Pressing her fist to her chest again, Nedajik bowed. “Empress, the warriors chosen did not know the slaves were yours.” It was the closest she would tread to laying blame at Dmitrak's feet.

“Tcha!” spat Hekat. “ All slaves are mine!” And then she relented, and Vortka relaxed. She would not smite her warriors, she knew they were not to blame for this. He felt a wicked sense of relief. If the useless slaves were dead already, Hekat could not stain herself by spilling their blood.

“Stand aside,” said Hekat, so frail, so furious. “I will see for myself what the warlord has done.”

Vortka followed her as she discarded her warrior guards and walked more quickly than was wise to the pens put aside for those old sick slaves who must be kept separate.

They were empty.

Breathing harshly, Hekat looked at the pens where the slaves should be. Vortka looked too and read the story of that place. Shackles were there, abandoned like dead snakes. Emptied waste troughs were there, and troughs for the slaves' food. The salt breeze was fresh, only a faint hint of human remained where the slaves had been. Other slaves had cleaned away their memories, doubtless glad for the task. Better to clean than be cleaned up after.

“Dmitrak has done this to anger me, Vortka,” said Hekat, her jaw clenched. “He is Nagarak's son, he seeks to slay me with anger.”

She was so harsh, she would not be soft with this son. “Hekat, Dmitrak is the warlord. He trains his warhost as he sees fit. When you were warlord you gave your warriors slaves and criminals for their snakeblades to drink, why should Dmitrak believe this is denied him?”

“He should believe because I told him it was so! The last time he killed slaves without my permission, I told him.”

He sighed. “Nearly a fat godmoon has passed since then.”

“Does that matter, Vortka? I think it does not,” said Hekat, stabbing him with a hot blue glare. “If I did not spend my time in that palace, away from the warhost, resting by your want, this would not have happened . I spend my time in that palace, the world does not see my face. Dmitrak does not see my shadow, he forgets I exist. I exist, Vortka . And I have rested in that palace long enough. Jatharuj is not the world. The god desires the world and I will deliver it.”

Aieee, god, the iron in her voice. Vortka felt her words like fisted blows. “Yes, you will, Empress, when the time is ripe.”

“Ripe?” She laughed, a bitter sound. “Vortka, it is rotten. And we will rot with it if we stay here another godmoon.”

Aieee, the god see him. The trade winds again. Can she not think of anything else ? “We will stay here as long as the god desires our staying.”

“The god?” She clenched a fist. “Are we penned in this harbour like slaves by the god? I do not think so. I think we are penned in Jatharuj by demons. They must be broken. This is the desert again, Vortka, can you not see it?”

“The god has not said so.”

She stared. “It has said so to me. And it looks to me to break these demons. You did not break those demons in the sand, I broke them.” She pointed at the harbour before them, where the warhost's boats no longer danced but turned at last towards the shore. “The ocean beyond the harbour, that is another desert. It is a desert of water and I must break it.”

“Not with slaves' blood, Hekat.”