The Godspeaker Trilogy (36 page)

“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.

In his heart the god said, Serve .

He took the knife with him, back to the godhouse.

At newsun, naked, he stood in the cool, bare Scorpion chamber as the godhouse godbells tolled the new day. He was the first godspeaker to arrive for the choosing. Peklia’s eyes widened when she saw him, but she did not comment on his youth, his inexperience or the short time that had passed since he was tested in the wilderness.

“Vortka godspeaker,” she said. “You hear the god’s voice in your heart?”

He nodded. “Peklia godspeaker, I do.”

“And you are sure you desire to test the god’s scorpions?”

“Peklia godspeaker, I am sure.”

“Then take your place by the scorpion pit, Vortka. And may the god see you safely in its eye.”

She was not the only other person in the chamber. Also present were Raklion warlord, and Hekat, and Zandakar.

Vortka took his place by the scorpion pit, his heart stuttering as he looked at his son. Zandakar was dressed in blue-striped horsehide and bright light wools, greens and golds and deep blood reds. His godbraids were newly strung with snake-eyes and lizard-feet and scorpion amulets. Golden godbells caught the light.

Aieee, beautiful. So beautiful. Zandakar, my beautiful boy.

He was very good, and except for one bored glance he did not look at Vortka, his secret friend. Raklion, beside him, stared into the air, he seemed overcome. Grief-struck. Together he and Nagarak had remade Mijak. Vortka had only ever felt fear for the high godspeaker, but it was good to know one man felt honest pain for his passing. How sad it would be if nobody mourned.

Hekat’s eyes were downcast, her face showed nothing. Her hands rested gently against her belly. She flicked him a single look, he knew what that meant.

Nagarak will have a son in the world, breathing while he is a pile of ash.

He could not help wondering, was she surprised to see him here? As though reading his thought she raised her eyes to his.

No , her face told him. Stupid Vortka, I am not surprised .

Aieee, god, Hekat. She would never change.

Before the godbells ceased their tolling four more naked godspeakers joined them, three men, one woman. Vortka thought the woman was foolish, in the history of Mijak there had never been a female high godspeaker. All four supplicants were much older than himself, he was seasons younger than Nagarak had been when he was chosen the god’s high godspeaker. The other godspeakers stared, they were shocked to see him. Their eyes showed anger, their faces were calm. Peklia asked them the ritual questions, they replied with the ritual answers.

“May the god see you, godspeakers,” she told them, gravely. “Take your places at the scorpion pit.”

The pit was filled already with fat, venomous godhouse scorpions. They rattled and hissed, they seethed for the god. Vortka felt no fear, he had worn live scorpions before, and he was here by the god’s desire. He was chosen before setting one foot in the pit. At Peklia’s signal he and the others trod the stone steps down to the scorpions.

One by one the others died, lied to by demons, enticed to their doom. Vortka heard them screaming, he heard their laments. He felt a passing sorrow, that godspeakers could be so blind to the god.

Not a single scorpion stung him. Instead he heard the god’s voice in his heart.

You are Vortka, godchosen and precious. You have a purpose, it is not fulfilled. Mijak’s high godspeaker, Zandakar’s savior, the doom of demons, the god’s instrument in the world.

Humbled almost to weeping, he surged to his feet. The scorpions parted for him, he walked from the pit. Peklia stared, robbed of speech. It was a wonder her eyeballs stayed in her skull.

Raklion said, “The god see you, Vortka. My chosen high godspeaker.” He frowned. “Vortka. Why do I know that name?”

“Warlord, he is the godspeaker who helped me when I fell in the horse-field,” said Zandakar. His eyes were bright, and proudly shining.

“Yes,” said Raklion. “I recall. I thank you for—”

“Warlord.” Vortka pressed his fist to his heart. “Thank the god, I was its servant that day.”

Hekat looked at him. “Vortka high godspeaker. The god sees you in its excellent eye.”

She was its instrument, as he was its instrument, they were yoked together also, two oxen for the god.

I think I begin to understand the god’s purpose in this. I think it desires me to keep Hekat steady and walking the path it has chosen for her. She can be proud, she must also be sensible.

Again, he pressed his fist to his heart. “Hekat warleader, in the god’s watching eye. I will serve you, I will serve your son. The god has chosen me, it has its reasons.”

With a shuddering breath, Peklia found her voice. “Vortka, the god’s chosen. If you would come with me.” She led the way from the Scorpion chamber, he followed her without a word, the warlord and his family followed him.

As they emerged from the Scorpion chamber the godhouse godbells sounded, the godspeakers waiting for the god’s decision flowed like water into the large godspeaker hall. With them came the fallen warlords, to witness the god’s choice of Mijak’s high godspeaker.

Peklia led him to the altar, on which sat the stone scorpion pectoral of Et-Raklion’s godhouse, and newly made brown high godspeaker robes. Raklion, Hekat and Zandakar stood to one side, their presence was important but they were not the purpose here. Vortka stood naked and unstung beside Peklia, letting his gaze sweep the assembly. Not one of the gathered godspeakers expected to see him, each of their faces was a riot of surprise.

“Godspeakers of Mijak, the god has chosen,” Peklia said. “Here is Vortka, Mijak’s high godspeaker.”

“ The god see Vortka ,” said the gathered godspeakers, with only a brief hesitation. “ High godspeaker of Mijak .”

Peklia turned to him. “Where is the knife? You know the one of which I speak.”

“In my cell, Peklia. Under my pillow.”

“Brikin, you arrange the sleeping assignments,” she said, nodding at the novice-master. “Go to the cell that was Vortka godspeaker’s. Bring me the knife you will find under his pillow.”

Brikin departed, returning swiftly with the sacrifice knife, wrapped in its protecting square of woven red wool. Peklia let the cloth fall and held the knife high so all could see.

“This sacrifice knife is offered to all new high godspeakers! It is ancient, and touched by the god. It rejected Nagarak but chose Vortka when he was newly tested in the wilderness. I know this, I was present. I stand as witness. Truly, the god sees Vortka in its eye.”

Peklia cut him with the knife, he let the blood flow, and then the god healed him. She strapped the scorpion pectoral onto his body. Vortka held his breath as she fastened its buckles, but stone remained stone, it did not come to life. Then she dressed him in the high godspeaker robes. When that was done, she took a step back.

Vortka looked at his gathered godspeakers. “The god sees you before me, godspeakers of Mijak.”

“ The god sees you, Vortka, Mijak’s high godspeaker ,” they chanted. “ The god sees you in its choosing eye .”

The stone scorpion pectoral was heavy, he had to brace his ribs and spine against its solid, imposing weight. How much heavier would it grow as the seasons passed? I cannot think of that. I am chosen, I must wear it . “Godspeakers,” he said to the men and women before him, whose lives he now commanded, who knelt at his whim. “The god has seen me, I am its servant. We are all the god’s servants, we serve in our way.” He turned to Peklia. “Where are those warlords cast down by the god?”

Peklia snapped her fingers and the five fallen warlords were chivvied before him by ten guarding godspeakers with godstaffs in their hands. He looked into the warlords’ faces, he had never seen them before. He did not know which man was which, that did not matter.

They now knew him.

“You are men who fell prey to demons,” he told them. “Now demons might say to you: Nagarak is dead. Who is this Vortka, so young, with no godbraids? Mijak does not know him. Why should you fear ?” He smiled. “Here is your answer, warlords. I am the god’s chosen . Its power is in me. Thwart me, and you will face the god’s smiting wrath. Thwart me, warlords, and you will die.”

He raised his arms, he reached for the god. He felt the god’s power surge through the stone scorpion pectoral. Strapped to his body, it came to life.

God. God. How much honor you do me. I cannot wake the crystal, I can still be your voice.

The fallen warlords cried out, they threw themselves facedown on the floor. Every godspeaker gasped, even Peklia was shocked. Vortka breathed out slowly, he breathed out the god. The scorpion pectoral returned to stone. He slid his gaze sideways, he looked at Hekat. She looked back at him, there was laughter in her eyes. He shook his head, she was impossible.

Aieee, god, god. What a yoke-mate you have given me!

“Godspeakers,” he said. “Nagarak’s pyre awaits. Let us give him to the god, and do its will in the world.”

T
cha!” said Hekat, and slapped her hand on her knee. “Stupid Raklion! Of course I will ride to Mijak’s cities, I am pregnant . I am not dying .”

Raklion frowned. “Hekat—”

She turned to Vortka, behind the desk that had belonged to Nagarak. “Vortka high godspeaker, what does the god say? Does it say I am too weak to do my duty? Does it say I cannot ride with Zandakar and the warlord as they show their faces to the world? I am Mijak’s warleader, I am Zandakar’s mother. Mijak must see me, it must know who I am!”

“Warlord,” said Vortka, “if you fear the journey might harm Hekat’s unborn son, you fear without reason. The god has decreed this child will be born, it will be born if Hekat rides with you or not.”

“So I will ride with you, Raklion,” she said, and smiled, triumphant. “Warlord, you are foolish to fear for me. I am Hekat, I am in the god’s eye. You ride to Mijak’s cities not only to assert your own authority but to show them Zandakar, who will be warlord after you. This journey will take six or seven godmoons. I am Zandakar’s mother, we cannot be parted for so long. I will ride with you, Raklion. It is the god’s desire.”

“You are certain of this?” said Raklion, looking at Vortka. “The god desires Hekat to ride with the warhost? My unborn son will be unharmed, there is no danger from demons?”

Vortka nodded. “Warlord, I am certain. I will of course take omens before you depart, but I say again: the child will be born unharmed.”

“If there is any worry, Raklion,” she added, “it is for you. When Banotaj struck you with his blade, he—”

“ Did not kill me , Hekat,” said Raklion, coldly. “I am the warlord while I breathe. You need have no fear for me.”

He said the words, did he truly believe them? When he looked in a mirror, was he blind to his own face? She thought he must be. Eyes and cheeks sunken, deep lines carved round his mouth. His body still fleshless, a tremor in his hands. His endurance was failing, would he survive six godmoons in the saddle?

Do I care? Do I want him to? I think I do not.

She said, “If we ride, Raklion, we must ride well within the godmoon, before the cities’ warhosts are stirred to war. Before their warleaders declare themselves warlords and in their arrogant pride challenge the god’s will.”

“Agreed,” said Raklion. “High godspeaker, how stands godhouse business in Mijak?”

Hekat looked at Vortka. Aieee, god, he wore the scorpion pectoral! He was high godspeaker, she could still feel surprise. The god had not told her that was Vortka’s purpose. It had not told her he could wake the scorpion pectoral. She had been pleased to see it, pleased to know the fever had not killed him to the god.

I still do not know why you made me fuck Nagarak. His spawn squirms in my belly, in my sleep I can feel it. Is it a smiting, for killing Vortka’s seed? If it is, you are unjust, god. You know I thought that was your desire.

“Warlord,” said Vortka. “Before the god took him, Nagarak high godspeaker was working to see Et-Raklion’s godhouse the godhouse of Mijak. He left notes, he left lists. In the god’s eye, I continue his plan. When the warhost rides to discipline your cities my godspeakers will ride with you, they will see the godhouses disciplined, also.”

“High godspeaker, perhaps you should ride with us,” said Raklion. “The sight of your stone scorpion, hissing . . . it will make any sinner kneel.”

Hekat looked at Vortka. That must not happen. Zandakar and Vortka riding together? Demons could make mischief . “Warlord—” she began, but Vortka raised his hand.

“That is not possible, warlord,” he said, with regret. “Mijak’s high godspeaker must remain in Et-Raklion. There is much work to do here, as the greatest city in Mijak Et-Raklion will soon grow fat. We will provide a temptation to demons. And the godspeakers from the other godhouses will need strict discipline, they might not readily accept the god’s desire.” He smiled. “The fury of your warhost will chasten any sinners. And I will send Peklia with you, she is a mighty godspeaker. The god’s power is in her, warlord. You need not fear.”

“That is true,” said Hekat. “And the fallen warlords will ride with us, Raklion. They will bear witness to the fate of demonstruck men.”

Nodding, Raklion stood. “High godspeaker, you have spoken. I am warlord, I must ride. As you say, there is much work to do. You will read the omens, tell me when the god desires us to leave?”

“I will read them at lowsun, warlord,” said Vortka. “I will tell you after what the god says.”

Raklion pressed his fist to his breast. “The god see you, high godspeaker. If you have need of me, I will be in the barracks. Hekat—”

“Warlord, I will join you there. I would have words with the high godspeaker, concerning . . .” She folded her hands across her belly. “A woman’s fears. I seek guidance from the god.”

His grave expression softened into a smile. Bending down, he kissed her lips. “I will be in the warlodge, consulting with our shell-leaders. Come to me there as soon as you can.”

“Aieee,” she said, after Raklion had left them. “Vortka high godspeaker, three highsuns after choosing. Has your life grown tedious yet?”

“Tedious?” said Vortka, and pressed his hands to his face. “Aieee, Hekat, I think the god has gone mad.”

“ Vortka !” She straightened. “You sinning man to say so!”

Vortka lowered his hands and looked round the chamber, cold and spare, no trace of Nagarak at all. Were it not for the squirming in her belly, how easy to think he had never lived. “You did not feel doubt when you were made warleader?” he said. “You did not wonder if you would fail?”

She looked at him, incredulous. “I think you are mad. Whatever we are, Vortka, the god has made us. Do you think the god makes mistakes ?”

“No,” he said, after a moment. “It is men who are fallible. The god is the god.”

Tcha. He wanted her to admit she was wrong in giving him that fever. “Vortka, I have no power but what the god gives me. I am its slave, how often must you hear it? The god killed your seed, it has its reasons. It will tell us its purpose, in its time.” She frowned. “Or do you still think a demon made me do it?”

He would not look at her, he turned in his stone seat to stare through the window. “No. Of course not.”

He might not think it, but he was still angry. Stupid Vortka, his feelings were hurt. She said, “I will be gone a long time, riding through Mijak. While I am riding, there is something you must do.”

With a frustrated snort he swung round to face her. “Hekat, while you are riding there are many things I must do! When I was a godspeaker I thought my days were full, I toiled for the god from newsun to lowsun, my idle moments were rare. I never wondered what Nagarak did, how he led this godhouse for the god.” He pointed to a long, low cupboard. “That is full of tablets, godspeaker histories, meant for high godspeaker eyes alone. I must read them, I do not know when. As the high godspeaker I am responsible for every godspeaker and novice in Et-Raklion, soon in all Mijak. It is a large place! I condemn criminals, I assess taxes, I approve travel for Traders, I oversee the breeding programs on the godhouse sacrifice farms and work with the other godhouses to see the bloodlines do not become stale. I examine novices, I sacrifice thrice daily, I read the warlord’s omens, I pray for the warlord’s son.” He stopped, his eyes suddenly smiling. “My son,” he said softly. “I pray for Zandakar. That is no hardship, I pray for him in my sleep.” He sighed. “Hekat, there is no end to the many things I must do, now the god has made me high godspeaker in Mijak.”

“Tcha,” she said, and waved her hand. “I do not ask for many things, Vortka, I ask for one thing. It is not so hard. While I ride with the warhost through Mijak, in the center of the city I wish there to be built a great open godtheater. Zandakar will be warlord of Mijak, there must be a place where he can be seen and admired, where the people can kneel to him and show him their obeisance. Where sacrifice can be made for him, before his people, and sinning criminals can be publicly chastised for thwarting his desires. The god has the godhouse. Zandakar must have this.”

Vortka stared. “And where exactly do you think such a godtheater can be built, Hekat? Perhaps it is some time since you walked through the city. If you walked through the city you would see there is no open place large enough for your vision of this godtheater .”

“Then make one, Vortka,” she said, blankly. “What else are slaves and criminals for?”

He rubbed his chin. “And the buildings already standing where your godtheater would be?”

“Pull them down. Destroy them. This is for Zandakar .” She stood. “I will send a slave, I have drawings on clay tablets. I do not expect you to oversee the god-theater’s building yourself. You are the high godspeaker, Vortka. You will simply see it is done.”

He sat back. “Yes, Hekat. I will . . . see it is done.” His eyes narrowed. “Does the warlord know of this god-theater for Zandakar? Perhaps he might think it should be for Raklion.”

She shrugged. “He can make use of it, he will not need it long. Have you not noticed? He is an old, failing man.” She looked once more around the cheerless room and then at Vortka, in his robes and scorpion pectoral. “The god sees you, high godspeaker. It works its will upon the world.”

She left him thoughtful in his godhouse and walked to the barracks, where preparations were under way for the mightiest warhost Mijak had ever seen.

He did not ask about Nagarak’s ending. He did not ask about the spawn in my belly. That is good, I would not have answered. I will not speak of it. What is done, is done.

Twelve highsuns later, after sacrifices and omens and a public celebration for the warlord’s unborn son, Raklion, Hekat, Zandakar, fifteen thousand warriors and one thousand Et-Raklion godspeakers rode out of Et-Raklion to tame sprawling Mijak to their fists. The fallen warlords rode with them in plain linen, they knew their duty, they knew better than to fail.

The memory of Et-Banotaj and Vortka’s hissing stone scorpion pectoral rode with them in their eyes.

First the warhost reached the city Tebek. Confronted by Et-Raklion’s fierce warhost, Tebek’s vastly outnumbered warriors still wanted to fight. With Raklion and Zandakar silently watching, Hekat brought before them their fallen warlord. With tears in his eyes Tebek ordered them to kneel. Stunned at such a bloodless defeat, his weeping warhost knelt and surrendered.

In Vortka’s name Peklia disciplined the city’s unruly godhouse, placing one hundred Et-Raklion godspeakers in authority there. The Tebek godspeakers she thought most troublesome she sent back to Vortka. With them rode all of the fallen warlord’s family, they would live in Et-Raklion where they might cause no dismay. Also returned to Et-Raklion was Tebek’s capitulated warhost. Stripped of their sigiled breastplates they rode in plain linen to Et-Raklion’s barracks, escorted by five shells of Raklion’s blood-hungry warriors and godspeakers who would smite them if they rebelled.

Tebek city was tamed.

In Tebek’s godhouse its fallen warlord swore obedience to Raklion and after him to Zandakar, on his knees he swore in the god’s eye to keep the warlord’s peace in Tebek and all its villages, or die smitten by the god. Raklion accepted his godsworn oath, Zandakar accepted it, Hekat smiled, and the warhost rode away to the sound of Tebek’s walls falling down.

One by one, in the same fashion, Mijak’s other cities were tamed. Mamiklia, Takona, Zyden and Jokriel, they had no choice, the god’s will was its will. Their chastened warlords swore obedience to Raklion and Zandakar and promised to die if they broke their oaths. The cities were easy conquests, Mijak’s browning had brought them to their knees. The promise of bounty from fat, green Et-Raklion came as the god’s blessing. Some people wept openly, they were so relieved.

City by city, godmoon by godmoon, Hekat’s belly swelled. She did not look at it, she looked only at Zandakar. He rode like a warlord, he heard the oaths like a man. As each highsun saw Raklion grow smaller, more weary, Zandakar excelled in the god’s proud eye. He outgrew all his clothing, she had more made for him. He outgrew his pony, she gave him a horse.

Every day they knife-danced together, they galloped their horses, they gloried in the sun. Every night beside his campbed she whispered: This is Mijak, Zandakar warlord. It is the god’s great gift to you .

And he would shift, and sigh, and smile in his sleep.

The warhost rode no further than dispirited Jokriel. “Beyond here, warlord, is the savage north,” Hekat told Raklion, seated together in their warhost tent. “A rock place, a dry place, forgotten by everyone, even the god, full of lice-ridden goats and a few dry men. We could ride for five godmoons and never see one. There is nothing there, and no need for you to see it.” No need for her to see it, she had left that place behind.

To her surprise, Raklion agreed, he put his hand on her distended belly. “I am tired, Hekat. I want to go home. I want to be with you when my second son is born.”

She kissed him gently, it did not hurt her. Aieee, god. He had grown so old. When first she knew him he would have scorned her suggestion, he would have taken his warhost into the savage north and torn it to pieces like the wildest sandcat.

In that time, he was the warlord. Truly, he is not a warlord anymore.

“Then when Jokriel is tamed, Raklion, we will go home.”

Before they left the city she spoke secretly in the godhouse with a Jokriel godspeaker. She asked after Hanochek, who had not been seen.

The godspeaker sighed, and looked at the floor. “Ah, warleader. A sad story. He was crushed to death when a dry wall collapsed.”

Dead? Dead? Wicked Hanochek was dead? She swallowed her laughter, she kept her face still. “I see. Yes, that is sad. Make sure not to mention it to the warlord or my son. Hanochek’s death is better unremarked.”

After next newsun’s sacrifice they left Jokriel. Hekat rode with her warhost until they reached Tebek city, then was forced to lay in a padded cart, her belly enormous, her feet swollen and sore. Raklion sat with her, he said to keep her company, but he was worn out, a man of skin with bones beneath it. Zandakar stayed in the saddle, he rode his red horse, he led the remaining warriors in the warhost. He made the seasoned knife-dancers laugh.