The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

  Stupid Vortka, did he think she was stupid, to risk Zandakar’s future by being reckless? She would never risk his precious future. She would do anything to keep him safe.

  She slipped the crystal into her pocket, then closed her fingers about her scorpion amulet, feeling its heat and its promise of power. Feeling again the god within her, as she had felt it in Abajai’s villa.

  I have no choice. The god desires this. Zandakar is its hammer, he must be protected.

  Vortka was staring. “Hekat? Is something wrong?”

  She released the amulet. “No. I am humbled by the god’s great purpose, Vortka, that is all. I will see you in the god’s eye out of the palace, onto the Pinnacle Road. We leave for Mijak’s Heart after newsun sacrifice, I must seek my bed.”

  He nodded. “Of course.”

  She led him from the palace, tugging the scorpion amulet from her neck as she walked. Safely beyond the palace gates she stopped and faced him. “So now we part.”

  He smiled at her. “For a short while. I wish you a safe journey to the Heart of Mijak, though perhaps I do not need to. The god will see you, it sees you always.”

  Yes, it does. Vortka, forgive me. You do not need another son in this world. Zandakar is enough son for any man.

  She pressed the scorpion amulet to his cheek.

  Vortka gasped, wide eyes staring, and slowly sank to his knees. His arms fell helplessly by his side, his fingers were lax, he could not stop her. The scorpion rippled, it shivered to life. Its clawed feet clutched him, its tail stung him once, twice, and two more times. It shivered again, and returned to stone.

  She took back the amulet and watched Vortka closely. He swayed in the road, his chest laboring with each harsh breath. Sweat stippled his forehead, his cheeks, his throat. In the godmoon’s pale light it shone like silver. Sweat burst from his body like an underground river, soaking his new godspeaker robe.

  The marks of the scorpion were bright on his skin, as she watched they faded away. A moment later his breathing returned to normal, the sweat dried on his face and the rest of his body. He pushed to his feet, he turned away from her and began to walk up the road, towards the godhouse. She did not fear his discovery, the god walked with him in his bones.

  She watched him until he was swallowed by the night, then returned to the palace and her bed, empty of Raklion.

  It is done, now. It is the god’s will. Let the god’s sun rise and set, let the seasons come and let them go. Zandakar is safe. Let him grow to glory, the god’s smiting hammer, Mijak’s warlord for the god.

  After solemn newsun sacrifice on the warhost field, with the warhost as witness, Hekat prepared to ride with Raklion, Nagarak and the ten chosen warriors out of Et-Raklion to Mijak’s sacred heart. Zandakar stood beside Hanochek, who was tasked by Raklion with her son’s safekeeping. She could see from his face Zandakar wanted to weep, she warned him with her eyes that he would sin if he did.

  He obeyed her warning, he did not weep.

  Raklion embraced Hanochek first, he held him hard and close. “The god see you, warleader. Keep my warhost in the palm of your hand until I return, the warlord of Mijak.”

  “Warlord, I will,” said Hanochek thickly. “I will keep your son, also. His heart beats within me. His life is safe in my hands.”

  Next Raklion dropped to his knees and rested his hands on Zandakar’s shoulders. “You will heed the warleader. He speaks with my voice. You will be my proud son, we will rejoice upon my return.”

  Zandakar nodded. “Yes, warlord.”

  As Raklion stood, Hekat smiled at her son who would be warlord of Mijak. “You know what you must do while I am gone, Zandakar. Tell me.”

  He straightened his spine. “Yuma, I must study my reading and writing three fingers every day. I must dance with my snakeblade four fingers every day. I must obey Hanochek warleader when he gives me other training tasks. I must kneel before the altar in Et-Raklion’s godhouse every newsun, so Peklia godspeaker might sacrifice for the god and the warlord in the Heart of Mijak.”

  Nagarak said, “Your duty to the god should have been spoken of first.”

  “He is to be warlord, not a godspeaker,” Hekat replied, as Zandakar blinked, trying so hard not to show his fright. She had no fear of Nagarak, he was only a man, he did not dance in the god’s eye.

  Nagarak’s lips pinched tight, aieee, how much he hated her, he had no power over her. It made her smile, that he had no power. Raklion said, “My son knows his duty to the god, I am sure. It is time to leave Et-Raklion, high godspeaker.”

  Nagarak nodded curtly and turned away. Raklion bent low and embraced Zandakar. Hekat looked at Hanochek. “Keep him safe, warleader.” Her voice was a threat, she made sure he heard it.

  Raklion heard it, he released Zandakar. “He will be safe in my knife-brother’s eye. Come, Hekat. The god’s purpose awaits.”

  They mounted their horses, they rode with the chosen warriors from the warhost field. The gathered warhost cheered them loudly, Zandakar cheered but there were tears in his eyes. Hekat frowned.

  Silly boy. What have you to weep for? When Raklion is Mijak’s warlord, how much closer are you to your glory?

  She rode away from her solemn-faced son, she looked to their future, she did not look back.

  Mijak’s Heart was neutral ground, owned not by one single warlord but by all. It was a place where the seven warlords might thrash out their differences without bloodshed. It was rarely visited, warlords liked their skirmishing ways. What use were warriors who never drew blood? They were like trained sandcats, easily distracted into mischief and strife if not regularly sated with a hunt, a kill.

  Hekat rode a red mare, gifted by Raklion, who rode a blue-striped stallion by her side. At his left hand Nagarak rode a black stallion, grimly determined on the god’s business. Behind them rode the ten chosen warriors, proud men and women with death in their hands. They rode swiftly through the lands of Et-Raklion, highsun after highsun, living off their fat green bounty, easily finding abundant water and well-fed game. Before this day’s lowsun they would cross the border into Et-Tebek, and twelve highsuns after that into Et-Banotaj. Then their living would grow much harsher, the other lands of Mijak struggled mightily in the god’s displeasure.

  After fingers of silence, Raklion glanced at Nagarak and said, “You sent word to the warlords and their high godspeakers. Are you certain they all will come?”

  Nagarak wore tanned leather leggings and his scorpion pectoral. His chiming godbraids, choked with amulets, dangled down his back and covered his shoulders. At Raklion’s question his face closed tight. “No summoned warlord can refuse the call to Mijak’s Heart without earning the god’s unstinting wrath. I have read the omens, warlord, they will come. If you doubt me we stand in shadow.”

  “I do not doubt you, Nagarak. I doubt my sinning warlord brothers.”

  Nagarak’s deep eyes blinked, like a snake before its striking. “No. You doubt the god.”

  “He does not,” said Hekat, before Raklion could answer. “You should not say so.”

  Nagarak said nothing, since leaving Et-Raklion he had not spoken to her once. She shed no tears for his stubborn silence.

  I am Hekat, godtouched and precious. What do I care if he speaks to me or not?

  His expression uneasy, Raklion said, “Hekat—”

  Ignoring Raklion, she stared at Nagarak. “Raklion knows the warlords are flesh and blood, he questions their obedience. High godspeakers are not perfect, they stray, they dissemble. They guide their warlords into waterless deserts. Why else has the god decided Raklion must rule them? They have offended the god, not him. Raklion warlord is seen in its eye.”

  She and Raklion rode so close together he could reach out and touch her knee. He touched her now, half-frowning, half-smiling, he was pleased that she had come. The first night of the journey, as they lay under the star-filled sky, he had told her. Then he had fucked her, he still hoped for a second son.

  He said now, maki
ng peace, “I do not doubt the god, Nagarak, I do not doubt you. I am a foolish warlord, chattering like a child.”

  Nagarak snorted. “Then bite off your tongue. The god does not care for chattering and neither do I.”

  Hekat hid her own smile. Raklion is pleased I ride with him, but Nagarak is sour grapes on the vine. Tcha. His feelings are hurt, I do not care .

  Silence returned. They rode until the light began to dwindle, then made camp by one of Et-Tebek’s mean, trickling streams. They had brought no godhouse doves or lambs for sacrifice, Nagarak shed his own blood for the god without flinching, and afterwards healed the deep cut with his godstone.

  After sacrifice, six warriors departed to hunt what meat could be found for their dinner. Nagarak lost himself in prayer. Hekat took her other, dirtied tunic to the stream to clean. No slave rode with them, it was a task she must perform herself. She did not mind, it was something to do.

  Raklion joined her at the stream’s muddy edge and watched her work. Behind them the other four warriors played chance with their godbones, laughing at each poor toss and guess. Feeling Raklion’s eyes on her, Hekat looked up. The sinking sunlight gilded his dark face, his eyes were shadowed, he did not smile. “You are so beautiful.” He sounded sad. “I wish you would let me dress you in riches, you deserve every bright color and all Mijak’s gold.”

  She pulled a face. “Tcha. I am a warrior, I need nothing but my training tunic and leggings when we ride. Raklion, you are troubled. Was Nagarak right? Do you doubt the god?”

  He looked away. “No.”

  “Then what is it?” she demanded, straightening. “You cannot lie, you know I see you.”

  He tried to smile, as though afraid of frightening her. “Yes. You see me. And I see you, I see more than that. I am uneasy, Hekat. There is a worm within my gut, it feasts on fears, it is growing fat.”

  Her tunic was clean. She spread it to dry on the tangled brown grass, then dried her fingers on her leggings. “Speak plainly, warlord. You are fearful of meeting with the others? Why?”

  He did not wear a training tunic, his tall, broad frame was covered in light wool and leather, the snake of Et-Raklion coiled on his chest. His snakeblade sat quietly in its jeweled sheath. He was splendid, if she was not a woman consumed by the god, a woman who had no time for men, she might lose her breath at the sight of him.

  He said, lightly frowning, “Since leaving Et-Raklion I have had dreams.”

  “All men dream, warlord,” she told him. “If those dreams came true we would live in a strange world.”

  He reached for her, and pulled her close. “I dream of crows’ wings blotting out the sun. I sink into shadows, I see, I hear, I cannot move.”

  His heart beat strongly beneath her cheek. “Have you told Nagarak of these dreams?”

  He shook his head. “In Nagarak’s mind this journey is the outward expression of an inner truth. The god has told him I am Mijak’s warlord, and so I am. Sometimes I think he does not understand. We ride to turn the warlords’ world upside down, to throw them in the dust, to press their necks beneath my heel. These are proud men, will they kneel meekly like lambs, will they accept the slaughter of their ambitions without protest? The god has said it must be, so Nagarak thinks they will. I think he might be wrong.”

  “He is not wrong,” she said. “They will submit to the god or they will die. This is the god’s desiring. Nagarak is right. They must accept you as their warlord or be cast into hell and devoured by demons.”

  Raklion tipped her face to look into his. “You are as bad as Nagarak. Can you not see how this might end in bloodshed?”

  “Tcha! What I see is a warlord uncertain of his worthiness,” said Hekat, impatient. “You fear for no reason, Raklion, you have been tested and tested, you spent three highsuns on the scorpion wheel, you did not break, you bared your body for smiting and your godspark to the god. It ate your cries, it drank your tears. Whatever imperfections led you to that humbling, they are burned away now. You insult the god if you insist you are not worthy.”

  He kissed her. “No. I question my good fortune.”

  “Then question it no further!” she snapped, and yanked hard on his silvered godbraids. “The warlords will submit.”

  He would have said something else then, found more words for the feeding of his doubts, but the hunting party returned and it was time to eat, and sleep.

  After the newsun sacrifice their journey continued through brown Et-Tebek. Game grew scarce, they ate more dried corn from their saddle-bags than fresh-caught meat. They rode beneath the hot sun along the border between Et-Tebek and Et-Banotaj, crossing over it not far from the place where it met with the border of Et-Mamiklia. In those highsuns of riding they saw no enemy warriors, they did not meet with the other warlords.

  Forty-six highsuns after leaving Et-Raklion they reached the sacred Heart of Mijak, where the godforsaken warlords of Mijak were waiting.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Mijak’s Heart was an enormous crater in the middle of a barren red plain where the borders of Et-Mamiklia, Et-Takona and Et-Banotaj converged. The crater’s rim was bound by seven black stone godposts evenly spaced, each carved in the shape of a scorpion and topped with a warlord’s traditional sigil; though a warlord’s territory changed name to echo his own, the land’s symbol remained unchanging. A steep pathway descended from the base of each godpost to the floor of the crater. Waves of heat rose from the bare red rock, shiny like glass from its creation: it was a cauldron, an anvil, where potential futures were mixed and measured and beaten into history. Raklion led his ten warriors to the godpost marked with a striking snake and halted.

  “How did you ensure we would be last to arrive?” Hekat murmured.

  “The god told Nagarak how we should travel at last lowsun’s divining,” Raklion replied, just as softly. “He told me at newsun which path we should ride.”

  She had not been told this, she felt her teeth clench. Nagarak was attempting to exclude her, that was something she could not allow.

  One by one she stared at the other godposts, at the warlords and warriors gathered in their proper places. They could not go down into Mijak’s Heart until the summoning warlord had bared his godspark to the god in their witnessing presence. If the god did not smite him for a wicked summoning, then could their meeting proceed.

  The silence in this place was oppressive, immense. There was the sky, there was the sun, there was the crater where the god’s hammered fist had punched into the earth. The warlords and their warriors sat their horses and did not speak, even their godbells were muted, muffled.

  Raklion swung down from his stallion. Nagarak followed and untied the robe strapped to his horse. Hekat slid from her saddle. Her joints jarred sharply as she struck the bare ground, the heat striking fiercely through her sandaled feet.

  When they looked at her, surprised, she lifted her chin. “I come with you into Mijak’s Heart. I am Zandakar’s mother, the warlords must know me.”

  “No. You stay behind with the other warriors,” said Nagarak, pulling on his high godspeaker robe. “When the god’s will is made known they will be told who you are. Know your place, woman. You are not the warlord.”

  She had never shown him her scorpion amulet. She showed him now, and smiled to see the arrogance drain from his face. He could feel its power without even touching it, he saw her for the first time, chosen by the god.

  “I am Hekat, who swam with scorpions. I am the mother of Mijak’s future. I am here by the god’s desiring, born to its purpose as is my son. You are high godspeaker, Nagarak, you have your place here. Do not think to unseat me from mine.”

  Nagarak’s robe was plain, and dirty. Dust stained it, and horse-sweat, and traces of blood, he looked like some poor village godspeaker forgotten by the god. He stared at her with eyes full of angry questions and pointed at her scorpion amulet.

  “That is carved from sacred stone, it is not for a common warrior to possess!”

  “Try an
d take it from me,” she invited. “Touch it and see your hand shrivel to dust. The god gave me this amulet, Nagarak. You may not have it.”

  Nagarak glared at Raklion. “You knew she had this?”

  Raklion nodded. “I did.”

  “Tcha!” spat Nagarak. “You sinful man! Why did you not tell me this was in her possession? She is not bound to the god, she is untested, she cannot—”

  “She survived your scorpions and bore me a son, that is test enough,” said Raklion, removing his sheathed snakeblade from his belt and tucking it for safekeeping beneath his saddle’s sheepskin cover. “Why do we bicker about an amulet when the warlords have gathered to hear the god’s desire? Let us go down into the Heart of Mijak, the god has waited long enough.”

  Hekat saw in Nagarak’s eyes how he wanted to argue, his arrogance was returned as strong as ever. He was a man grown complacent in the god’s eye. Tcha . She had no time for him.

  With a glance at Raklion she started down the stone path leading to the floor of the crater. Raklion followed her, and then came Nagarak. He was not happy, she could feel his rage. On the crater’s rim above them Et-Raklion’s warriors drummed their knife-hilts on their pommels, to show their loyalty and their love. Raklion smiled up at them, he punched his fist in the air, pressed it hard against his heart. A warlord’s salute.

  Safely at last on the crater’s bare floor, its scorching air searing, sucking them dry, Nagarak drew Hekat sharply aside. Raklion walked to the crater’s center, raised his arms to shoulder height, dropped to his knees and tipped his face to the sun.

  “ I am here, god, Raklion of Et-Raklion! I call warlord council at Mijak’s Heart! Before my brother warlords I kneel before you, my godspark bared to your seeing eye! Smite me to ashes if my cause is not just!”

  His words thrummed and bounced and shivered round the crater, doubled and redoubled into thundering echoes.