The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

  The god see you always, my beautiful, brave warriors. The god see you dancing in its eye.

  Alone at last, he braced his elbows on his knees and let his head drop into his hands. His godbraids swung round his face in a curtain, shielding the world from the sight of his tears. As he wept he heard the first crows gather for their feasting, eager cawings and the flapping of black wings.

  You test me, god. How you test me. I am naked before you, see me naked in your eye. When will you tell Nagarak I must unite this nation? The warlords have stolen all they can from each other, they dare now to challenge me. My warhost has grown from ten thousand to twenty but still they challenge. Their fear makes them desperate. My fat green lands taunt them, they cannot help but attack. With Nogolor dead I am truly alone. Tebek and Banotaj eat their meat at one table, I cannot hold my borders against them forever. I cannot be sure to defeat two treatied warlords, I will never defeat six if they stand shoulder to shoulder.

  If I am to be the warlord of Mijak, god, it must be soon. Am I a young man, with a long road before me? I think I am not. I think you forget that.

  He held his breath then, expecting the god to smite him for his thoughts. He was not smitten, all he heard was the crows, stripping flesh. All he felt was the sun on his skin.

  Aieee, he missed Hekat. He wished she was with him, dancing with her snakeblade beside him in battle. Holding him in the night-time, easing his body, soothing his mind. When doubt assailed him she was always there, her strength had no limits, she was strong in the god.

  I am Hekat knife-dancer, Bajadek’s doom, mother of Zandakar, seen by the god. You will be the warlord. The god has said it.

  So said Hekat, whenever he fretted. It would ease his heart to hear her say so now but she was far away, she led three thousand warriors in a dance along the furthest end of the Et-Tebek border. His warriors loved her, she led them bravely with blood in her eye. He longed to see her, and Zandakar his perfect son.

  Let me go home now, god. Let me ride to Et-Raklion. The warlords are chastened, let me go home.

  Smudging the tears across his face he stood and stretched his aching back. The bold crows did not cease their gobbling, he bent again and picked up stones to chase them from the corpses of his own people. He threw the stones, the crows swore at him and would not leave.

  They are bold, as warlords are bold. They seize what they want and do not let go.

  Like the crows and the warlords he must seize his own heart’s desire or see it slip through his fingers. If the godspeaker’s omen said he could take his warhost home he would ride to the doors of Nagarak’s godhouse and demand the high godspeaker make sacrifice for war. The god had told him after the scorpion wheel that he would be Mijak’s warlord. Let that be his omen. He would not seek another.

  Resolute and sorrowful he moved among his fallen warriors, kissing those who could not be saved and killing them with his gentle snakeblade. Then he climbed out of the ravine as his warhost’s godspeakers appeared at its lip, ready to give aid to the living and gather the dead for their last dance on the pyre.

  I have waited long enough, god. I will be Mijak’s one true warlord. I will make of Mijak a gift for my son.

  “Yuma! Yuma! See me, Yuma!”

  The sound of that beloved voice, shrill with excitement, turned Hekat’s head as she led her warhost through the wide open gates and into Et-Raklion’s vastly expanded barracks. All her weariness fell away, her body’s aches deserted her. She forgot her knife-cuts and her strained muscles. Here was Zandakar, her heart in the world, trotting towards her on his blue-striped pony. Warriors and slaves stepped hastily aside, smiling, laughing, calling his name. Head high, shoulders wide, he rode between the smithies and the armorers’ booths and the leatherworkers’ tents and past the pedlars’ stands as though they were his, as though he owned them.

  And so he does, my son, my little warlord.

  “Take the warhost to the stables, Arakun,” she ordered the warrior who once had ordered her. “I will join you on the warhost field for sacrifice in a small time.” She tossed him a coin-purse. “This is for the godbowl.”

  Arakun caught the purse and pressed his fist to his breast. Unlike Tajria, who was dead now for disobeying Hekat’s want, Arakun never complained that she was above him. He led the warhost on to the stables, she slid from her saddle and waited for Zandakar to reach her.

  “Yuma!” he shouted, and threw himself into her outstretched arms. “The god told me you were coming, it told me you were safe.”

  His godbraids printed patterns in her cheek, she held him so hard his godbells were silenced. “Did it, my son?” she murmured. Aieee, how she loved him. He owned her heart, let him eat it like cornmush. “The god sees us both, we are safe in its eye.” Releasing him, she stepped back. “Let me look at you!”

  Past four seasons old, he was growing so tall. His godbraids brushed his shoulders, his horsehide leggings were almost too tight. She’d been gone to the border one godmoon, twelve highsuns, not long. Yet he seemed changed in her eyes, he looked more like a man. His eyes were blue, like hers, his cheekbones high, his nose narrow and straight. His lips were beautiful, curved always in a smile. He was a child still but his body had muscles, he would be strong as a sandcat when he was truly a man.

  “Yuma, Yuma, did you smite the wicked warriors?” he asked, then giggled as his pony lipped at his neck. He loved the stupid creature, he did not get that from her.

  She pulled a fierce face at him, to make him giggle louder. “Yes, I smote them! Am I not Hekat, the god’s knife-dancer? Did I not slay Bajadek, who dared defy the god? Were you my good son while I was away, Zandakar? Did you study your hotas , did you practice with your bow?”

  He nodded vigorously, now his godbells sang. “I did, I did, Yuma. I am your good son.”

  “And did you do your duty to the god?”

  He lowered his eyelids, his lashes brushed his cheeks. “Yes, Yuma,” he murmured. “I prayed with Nagarak.”

  He did not like Nagarak, she could not blame him, but he also disliked sacrifice and that she would not excuse. His heart was too soft when it was a question of creatures, he was sorry to see the lambs’ throats cut. He did not like to drink their sacrificed blood but she had only needed to punish him once for betraying that. He drank the blood now, he knew better than to cry.

  “Then you are my good son,” she praised him. “Ride with me to the warhost field, I must attend sacrifice for our successful smiting. You can show the god what a good boy you are.”

  He leapt on his pony, she mounted her horse, side by side they rode through the barracks to the warhost field. Every busy warrior and slave stopped to watch them, called out a greeting, asked the god to see them always. They loved her son, they loved her because of him, for herself alone she frightened them. She did not care. They were obedient, they died at her word. That was important, the rest was nothing.

  As she rode she gazed upon her son. He chuckled and waved, called to warriors by name. Aieee, she was his mother. It still amazed her. If she closed her eyes she could see him a baby, gnawing on his snake-rattle, plump and naked on the grass in her private palace garden, playing with his wooden chariot and horse, reaching for her snakeblade, laughing in the sun. The time had flown swiftly, blink twice more he would be a man grown, the warlord of Mijak, with Raklion dead, a memory in the sand.

  When she looked at Zandakar she could see Vortka in him, the angle of his jaw, the tilt of his eyes. It was a good thing, then, that Vortka served beyond the city. So long since she had seen him, perhaps in making Zandakar his service to the god was done. Perhaps once he was tested and proven a godspeaker in the bone Nagarak would send him away forever, to serve in some village and never come back. She would not see him again, then, and neither would Zandakar come to know him.

  That would not be a bad thing. Raklion did not question Zandakar was his, he was besotted, he was good to the boy. That suited her purpose. Vortka and Zandakar together in the world’s eye, t
hat did not suit her purpose. It must be avoided.

  “Zandakar,” she said, as the warhost field came in sight, overlaid with shadows as the sun slid down the sky. “Is the warlord returned to Et-Raklion?”

  “No, Yuma,” he said, jogging neatly on his pony. “Nagarak says he will return soon, he says the omens say it.”

  Aieee, but did the omens also say he must be warlord of Mijak? It was time they said it, she had waited long enough. For Zandakar to be Mijak’s warlord first Raklion must lay claim to that name. He was an old man, growing older. Every battle might be his last. All very well to pray to the god to protect him, demons sought to thwart the god. If they could kill Raklion before Mijak was made obedient her son would be threatened. It had come time to act.

  Around her neck the scorpion amulet throbbed with power. The god agreed with her. It would see she got her way.

  She rode with Zandakar onto the warhost field where her three thousand warriors and the godspeakers waited, ready for sacrifice.

  “ Hekat !” the warhost shouted as they saw her riding. “ Hekat the knife-dancer, Bajadek’s doom !”

  In their border skirmishing they had killed eight hundred of Tebek’s inferior knives. It was a good slaughter, the new warriors she trained had not disgraced her or the god. She laid her fist above her heart, acknowledging their greeting.

  “ Zandakar, the warlord’s son !” they shouted next. There was love in their faces, he was their own son, their little brother, the child of their hearts.

  “See the warhost, Zandakar,” she told him. “It is your warhost, you will lead it one day.”

  It was the same thing she always told him, from his days in the cradle she made sure he knew who he was.

  Zandakar’s fist against his heart was small, but steady. It would be a big fist when he was a man. He would grasp the whole warhost in it, Et-Raklion’s warriors would sleep in his palm.

  Hekat smiled and smiled as she rode with her son.

  One finger before newsun Vortka woke in his small, solitary chamber to the tolling of the godhouse bell and a hand on his shoulder.

  “It is time, novice,” said Brikin novice-master. Salakij was two seasons dead, Brikin had been chosen his successor. Vortka hardly knew him, the last two seasons of his novitiate had been spent away from Et-Raklion and the godhouse. It was strange to be back within its stark stone walls after so long worshipping under the sun. Strange to think that not far away, his son was sleeping.

  Don’t think of Zandakar. He is not your son, Vortka. Best to think of him as dead.

  Except that was impossible. The previous highsun, toiling up the Pinnacle Road to the godhouse, threading his way between the other travelers, as he passed the palace he felt his heart tug him sideways, urge him to leave the road, abandon duty and obedience, make up a reason to visit Hekat and their child. He had resisted. He was a novice at the testing time, what hope for him if he could not resist this temptation?

  Then, in the godhouse, he had seen his small son Zandakar, giggling, chattering, lit up with excitement because Hekat would soon be home from war. His wayward heart had nearly stopped altogether, seeing that small boy, hearing Nagarak speak his name. Aieee, how tall and strong he was, how much he looked like his mother. A handful of times had he seen the child since his birth, each greedy glance pain and pleasure combined. And with every glance a vivid memory, how Zandakar was made, that plunging ecstasy, that exquisite throbbing of the flesh. Hekat hot upon him, her eyes filled with the god. He missed her too, though he tried hard to forget.

  In the end it was a relief to be sent away for service.

  “Vortka!” said Brikin, and shook him less gently. “Are you listening? You must go at once to the godpool. Would you keep the high godspeaker waiting?”

  No! No, he would not. He sat up, wincing, his flesh smarting, sore from the previous day’s severe tasking. It was the custom, he had known what he faced when the summons came from the godhouse. His testing was upon him, he must face the god and show it his heart, first in the godhouse and then in the wilderness. But before that he must kneel on the floor of the cold tasking chamber and shout his contrition with every blow of the cane. It was the same for all novices about to be tested. He could not complain.

  “The god see you, novice,” said Brikin, and stepped back. He had younger novices to chivvy, his task here was done. “If it pleases, we will meet again.”

  “If it pleases,” Vortka echoed, as the door closed behind the novice-master. Moving cautiously, he eased himself off his sleep-mat, pulled on his robe, then left the chamber. At the first privy alcove he emptied his bladder. Like every godspeaker in the godhouse he’d long ago learned to discipline his body, make it wait to pish till after newsun sacrifice. He did not wait now, bad enough he would soon be swimming in blood, no need to swim in blood and urine.

  After relieving himself he padded through the unsleeping godhouse to the godpool chamber, where Nagarak was waiting.

  “Enter novice, and disrobe,” said the high godspeaker. “Here is the beginning of your beginning, or the beginning of your end.”

  The godpool chamber was small and silent, its cold air laced with the iron tang of fresh blood. No other novices were present, it must mean his was the only testing. Was that significant? He did not know. He stepped over the threshold, removed his robe and all his amulets.

  Nagarak looked him up and down. “I remember you, novice. Vortka, chosen by the god to witness my testing. I have a question.”

  Surprised, wary, Vortka bowed his head. “I am yours to examine, high godspeaker.”

  “Why did you smile in the scorpion chamber, when you heard the god declare its desire: one warlord for Mijak, one high godspeaker at his side.”

  I smiled ? thought Vortka. I don’t remember. How stupid of me if I did . He looked up. “Forgive me, high godspeaker. It was long ago, I cannot recall.”

  Nagarak’s eyes were narrow. “I saw your face yesterday, when you saw the warlord’s son. What is that child to you, for you to smile again?”

  Aieee, god, his stupid face, betraying him! Nagarak could not know the truth, he could not know. “High godspeaker . . .” He looked at the floor, it was the safest place. His heart was beating at a painful speed. “The warlord’s son is a beautiful child. It was a joy to see him, that is why I smiled.”

  “You are a novice, your eyes should see the god and nothing else.”

  “Yes, high godspeaker. I do see the god.”

  “Tcha!” spat Nagarak, he was not appeased. “What matters here is if the god sees you.” He stepped close. “I think you are not as humble as you seem, Vortka novice. I think you hide secrets in your heart. If I plucked it out I could read them, Vortka. Return from the wilderness and I will. Beneath the sun there is the god, and there is me. Get into the godpool. Your testing time is come.”

  Torchlight played on the pool’s still, red surface, lending it warmth and an echo of life. Here was the first obstacle a novice must face in the quest to become a godspeaker in the god’s eye. Bathed in blood, novices bared their godsparks for inspection by the high godspeaker and if they possessed even the slightest flaw it would be revealed in the sacred godpool. Denied the last rite of the wilderness they would be cast out from Et-Raklion’s godhouse and into the sprawling city below, where they would live the remainder of their lives as lowly citizens, forever cut off from close communion with the god. The merest thought of such a disaster could make a novice weep.

  Vortka stared at the godpool, abruptly aware of sweat and fear. What if Nagarak can read my mind? A man’s mind is opened in the godpool. Zandakar floats there like froth on sadsa, he fills my eyes, he is my heart’s greatest secret, if Nagarak sees him . . .

  Such a thing was beyond his control. He must not worry. He was given by the god to create that child. The god would not abandon him now.

  As Nagarak began to circle the godpool, his scorpion pectoral glowing with reflected red, Vortka trod the descending stone steps one by one until the
waiting blood closed over his head. Blood swiftly soaked its way through his godbraids, his head was heavy, his godbells clogged. He felt his body dragged down to the bottom, felt the god heavy in his flesh and bones. On his hands and knees he started crawling, as the cold blood grew warm, then warmer, then hot. In the red darkness he thought he felt Nagarak, the power in him questing and cruel.

  No. Not cruel. He is the high godspeaker, he serves the god even if it keeps secrets from him.

  Nagarak pushed harder, seeking to read him. The god would not allow that, it pushed Nagarak aside. Still crawling, on fire with the god’s power, Vortka bumped into the stone wall of the godpool, turned, kept on crawling, bumped again. Blood sloshed against his naked skin, slapped against the godpool walls, rushed into his open nostrils. He tried not to sneeze, his lungs were bursting, he had to breathe or die untested in a scarlet drowning. His head broke the surface of the godpool and he gasped for air in a heaving rush.

  “Come out now,” said Nagarak, curtly. If he was disappointed he did not show it. “The god sees you, Vortka. You are sent into the wilderness.”

  On trembling legs Vortka climbed from the godpool, sank to his knees on the chamber floor, dazed and shivering and sticky with blood. Nagarak ignored him, he pulled a godstone from his robe pocket and passed it across a blue crystal set in the wall. There came the sound of stone grinding against stone, followed by sloshing as the godpool drained of its sacred blood. When it was empty he passed the godstone over the same place and Vortka heard stone grinding to its accustomed place. Next Nagarak passed the godstone over a black crystal, and water began gushing into the godpool.

  As it filled, Nagarak passed the godstone over a green crystal in the wall. A stone block shifted, and he withdrew from the space behind it a pair of shears and a plain linen bag. With the shears he cut the bloodsoaked godbraids from Vortka’s head, he clipped him like a sheep. The severed godbells rang in mourning. Nagarak put the sundered godbraids into the linen bag and held it out. Vortka took the bag numbly, he felt unnatural, too light, he felt like weeping, his godbraids with their singing godbells were gone, they were gone.