The Godspeaker Trilogy (148 page)

“ Tcha !” she spat. “That is not for you to say! You do not serve the god in this, you do not bring the trade winds, Vortka. You have had many godmoons and still we are here . So I will bring the trade winds to Jatharuj.”

Vortka felt his belly knot with fear. “Hekat, you cannot. The god's words in the godpool—”

“ I am the empress !” Her bird-claw fingers jabbed his scorpion chest. “You do not tell me I cannot .”

Despair was a black tide closing over his head. “Hekat—”

“Dmitrak has wasted the slaves here, but no matter,” she continued, ignoring him. Her silver godbells shone in the sun, the amulets in her godbraids gleamed like fresh blood. “There are always more slaves. Their blood will flow, it will drown those demons. I will summon the trade winds and we will sail from Jatharuj.”

His eyes burned, he could weep. Hekat, Hekat, will you not let me save you?

She turned her fierce face to the open water, rested her eyes on the horizon, so distant. “Dmitrak is right, the warhost needs blood. Like its empress it has rotted here long enough. The warhost was weary, it is weary no more. Now it is hungry, it needs to be fed.”

“And you will feed it in defiance of the god?” Vortka demanded, anger stirring with his fear.

“Nothing I do defies the god, Vortka,” she said, suddenly serene. “I am its chosen, every breath serves it sweetly.”

“Hekat!” If she was not frail he would shake her to pieces. “The god has told you, do not sacrifice more slaves !”

“I have thought on that in my resting, Vortka,” said Hekat, coldly smiling. “I have wondered why the god would say such a thing when it knows the power human blood brings it.”

He could feel his scorpion pectoral thrum in time with his heartbeat. “You think a demon spoke to me, not the god? In the godpool , Hekat?”

She shrugged. “Demons have power.”

“You think I would not know the difference ?”

“I think you are a man and a man may be deceived.”

“And you cannot?”

She laughed again, a soft chiding sound. “I have lived in the god's eye since I was a child, Vortka, I cannot be deceived. I will bring back the trade winds, I will help you change the horses. I will lead my warhost into the world.”

Where they stood, at the slave pens, they could see clearly the warhost's ships ride into their moorings like obedient stallions. They saw Dmitrak leap from the deck to the dock, his scarlet godbraids flaming under the sun. His warriors leapt after him, lithe and lethal, exultant in their skills.

“Hekat,” said Vortka, watching her son, “I know you are certain, does it matter I am not?”

“It matters to you, it does not matter to me,” she said. “You have doubted me often, I have never been wrong. When was I wrong, Vortka? Can you tell me? Tell me once.”

He could not tell her once and she knew it. Aieee, the god see me, she knows I cannot . “You are quick to dismiss me, Hekat, but if I had lost my purpose would the god see me still? I think it would not, I think Vortka would be blind in the god's seeing eye.”

She laid her hand on his arm, he could feel new strength in it. “Of course you have a purpose, but it is not to thwart me. Your purpose was always to serve me, Vortka. When you serve Hekat you serve the god, has that not always been true? From the very beginning, is it not so?”

“Yes,” he whispered…even as he heard his heart cry out no . Heard his heart cry out stop her .

“Good,” she said briskly. “Vortka, this is good. Now let us greet Dmitrak, Mijak's warlord. He must answer to his empress. He has wronged her, and should know.”

They skirted the empty slave pens and walked to the top of the long pier where Dmitrak's warriors clustered round him as they waited for all the returned ships to empty. When the last warrior had joined him Dmitrak turned and led his warhost away from the water. The sliding sun flashed on his gauntlet, gold-and-scarlet in the light.

The warhost saw its empress and stopped in one breath. Fists punched against horsehide chests, in one joyful voice they shouted.

“The god see Hekat! The god see her in its eye!”

Vortka, looking sidelong, saw the warm pleasure flash in Hekat's thin face. Then she settled her blue gaze on Dmitrak and that pleasure plummeted cold.

“Warlord.”

Dmitrak's gauntleted fist at last kissed his breast, lightly. “Empress.”

“We will talk now. Your warriors will leave us.” Her cold gaze warmed again as she smiled at them. “The god sees them, warlord, it sees them in its satisfied eye. Go now,” she told them, raising her voice. “I will see you at sacrifice, we will serve the god together then.”

“ Empress !” shouted the warhost, and continued along the pier without a second look at Dmitrak. They bowed their heads, godbells sighing, as they passed their high godspeaker.

Vortka nodded, he needed no more than that.

The smile Hekat gave her son was full of memories and spite. “They are mine first, Dmitrak, they are mine always. Remember that.”

Whatever dark thoughts curdled behind his eyes, Dmitrak was too canny to let the world see them. Instead he nodded. “You are the empress, you were warlord many seasons.” His gaze shifted. “Vortka high godspeaker.”

“Dmitrak,” he said. “I am no warrior but I think your warships danced their hotas well, to please the god.”

“To please me,” said Dmitrak. “My warriors please me, high godspeaker. After the empress, the claim on them is mine.”

Hekat stepped forward, eye to eye with her son. “There were slaves in the slave pens, warlord. They are not there now.”

Dmitrak shrugged. “Old slaves. Diseased slaves. What is their purpose but training for the warhost?”

“Whatever they are, warlord, is my place to name it. I told you the slaves of Jatharuj belong to me.”

Dmitrak shrugged again, he flirted with insolence. “Empress, you have been long within your palace, we do not see you. Your voice is hushed, it fades with time.”

She looked down. “I see your legs, warlord, the god has not cut them from your body. I hear you speaking, it has not taken your tongue. You could not walk on your legs to my palace, warlord? You could not use your tongue to ask ‘ May I have those slaves ?’”

Now Dmitrak scowled. “If I am the warlord then I am warlord of those slaves, Empress. Whatever my warhost needs it is my purpose to provide it, when I am in the world with my warhost do I ask you before I wield it? Do I send a warrior to ask you ‘ May Dmitrak warlord kill these slaves? ’”

She stepped closer again, and spread her hand on his broad chest. “Your heart beats, Dmitrak. I feel it. You live. You live because I say so. You are warlord by my will.”

Dmitrak's eyes, so like Nagarak's, stared fearless at Hekat. She tried to deny it but he was her son. “And the god's hammer by its making,” he replied softly. “By blood and by its purpose do you and I walk together, Hekat. There is no breaking of us. We are two, and we are one.”

Seabirds cried in the silence that followed. Mooring ropes creaked, wooden hulls groaned, salt water slopped and splashed, a soothing sound.

Hekat smiled. “Until I say we are not.”

Dmitrak glanced away, for a heartbeat. He lowered his head. “Empress, my warriors' snakeblades were thirsty. The warhost is becalmed here, as its warships are becalmed. There is little to do, there is much time to fill. You were once the warlord, you taught me well. Idle warriors are prey to demons.”

Hekat's fingers fisted and punched his chest. “This is true, Dmitrak,” she said, stepping back. “You say a true thing. So I will not smite you for the taking of those slaves. You thought of the warhost, the god sees you in its eye. Vortka—”

“Empress,” he said, not looking away from Dmitrak's dark face. What are you thinking, warlord? Are you pleased or disappointed your mother has spared you? Did you hope to provoke her, or show her your worth? You have done both, do you know it? Was that your desire?

“You have a finger of light till lowsun, perhaps a little more. Take this warlord and with him choose three hundred slaves who will die for the god at sacrifice.”

Again he felt his heart cry out. The god said no, Hekat . “Empress—”

Her back was to him, her clenched fist came up. If she had worn a gauntlet it would spit fire in his face. “You have known me a long time, am I known for my patience? Do I care to repeat myself? I think I do not.”

Dmitrak's nostrils were flared, as though he smelled the fresh human blood already. “You will give the god slaves, Empress?”

“I will give the god trade winds, warlord,” she replied. “And horses that can ride in boats.”

Dmitrak frowned. “Three hundred slaves, Empress? It took thousands to break the desert.”

“I know,” she said. “But Jatharuj is not filled with slaves. There are not thousands here to die in my cause. If I need more, I will send for them.”

“You will not need more, Hekat,” Vortka said swiftly. “We have sacred beasts in Jatharuj, their blood will serve. You will not need more .”

Now Hekat turned and looked at him. “I will need as many as I need. Why do you stand there? Bring me those slaves.”

Vortka swallowed every protesting word he longed to speak. He had no choice, he must leave Hekat standing alone on the pier and do as she told him.

She is chosen by the god.

“Come, warlord,” he said quietly. “The empress has spoken. We will obey.”

Dmitrak fell into step beside him and they made their way back to the township, leaving Hekat behind them in silent communion with the god. With lowsun approaching, the day's heat falling away, Jatharuj was stirring from its slumber.

“I am surprised,” said Dmitrak, after a moment. “I thought the god said—”

“Are you a godspeaker, Dmitrak?” Vortka said, glaring. “I think you are not. Concern yourself with the warhost, that is your purpose.”

Dmitrak sucked in a breath between his teeth, then shrugged. “Yes, high godspeaker.”

“You took those broken slaves to goad her, warlord. You took them because she said you must not.”

“Did I, high godspeaker?” said Dmitrak, glancing sideways.

Vortka snorted. “You know you did.” They were in public, on the streets of Jatharuj, filled now with more godspeakers and warriors and slaves who could well soon die. This was not the place for a scene between them, so he kept his voice steady and did not strike Zandakar's brother, though the temptation was great. “Dmitrak, be careful. Hekat is filled with new purpose, this once she let you be. Has the sun baked your memory, has your childhood turned to dust? You know her, warlord. Will Hekat be thwarted twice?”

Dmitrak smiled, a sardonic curl of his lips. “You are so afraid of her, high godspeaker. Can you hear how you are afraid? I am not. I am the god's hammer, its power is in my blood. Hekat is old, Vortka. Dmitrak is young.”

He swallowed anger, and a sigh. She is old, yes, but she is not stupid. You are stupid, warlord, to speak like this to me . “Why do you say that? Do you think to sway me from her side?”

“Never,” said Dmitrak. “Even if I wanted to, I could not do it. You are the god's chosen, as Hekat is chosen. As I am chosen. All of us chosen, Vortka, for Mijak and the god.”

He was a grown man, and dangerous, and desperate to be seen in his mother's bleak eye.

But she does see you, Dmitrak. That is the problem.

He did not say so, the words would change nothing. He let his hand touch lightly to Dmitrak's shoulder. “I will not tell her what you have said. I know Mijak needs you, I see you in the god's eye. You were born for a purpose, you live that purpose now.”

I wish my knowing and seeing were enough for you.

Dmitrak shrugged irritably. He did not like to be touched. “Can she bring us the trade winds, Vortka? Can she see our horses safe on the warships?”

“I do not know,” he said, but that was a lie. She can but she should not. This is wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong …

“I hope she can,” said Dmitrak, his voice fat with impatience. “I am weary of Jatharuj. I wish to see the world.”

I
n beautiful Tzhung he was called “Child of the Wind.”

Emperor Han, the wind's child, sat cross-legged on the black marble floor of the Sighing Room and strained to understand its whispers. Lost himself in the singing of his witch-men both here and at home, joined in spirit to contain the trade winds and so thwart Mijak.

Beads of sweat trickled down his bare chest and back to soak into his black silk trousers. His hair, unbound, stirred around his face, alive in the gusts and eddies of air swirling within the Sighing Room's crimson-walled silence. Candle-shadows dipped and danced.

It was a fearsome thing, to hold back the trade winds. Indeed, it pressed the witch-men of Tzhung-tzhungchai to their limits. Once, it had seemed, there were no limits for witch-men.

But that was before Mijak.

He had brought with him to Ethrea two witch-men, and Sun-dao. Sun-dao was a witch-man, but so much more than that. His friend. His conscience. His brother-in-blood. The only man living who could call him by name.

After that first confrontation with Zandakar in the castle, and the questionings that had followed it, the two witch-men and Sun-dao had not left Ambassador Lai's residence. They lived here, unseen by the common world, and poured their strength and power into the fight against Mijak. In far away beautiful Tzhung-tzhungchai, the witch-men of the empire fought too. Tzhung-tzhungchai was neglected, they fought only this battle.

In that twilight realm of the spirit where the witch-men dwelled, where physical distance meant nothing, where all witch-men were one, Han rallied his witch-brothers. They were weary, he could feel it. He could feel their bitter, unrelenting pain. Mijak was a cruel foe.

And then, like a lightning strike, he felt a whiplash of black power sear through the souls of his witch-men. Sear through his own soul, so he cried out aloud. Echoing in his mind, the cries of his witch-men.

Mijak had spilled human blood, again.

Doubled over, his nerves screaming, Han struggled for control. Tears filled his eyes, overflowed down his cheeks. The wind's pain was in him, its grief howling through his bones. Tzhung's witch-men howled too, on the edge of his hearing. In distant Tzhung-tzhungchai they howled, and here in Ambassador Lai's Ethrean residence, in the witch-garden, where they battled their enemy.