by Karen Miller
Groaning, Nagarak pressed his godstone against Raklion’s breast. The godstone flared into stronger life. Raklion choked back an anguished cry, his face twisted, his harsh breath shuddered in difficult gasps. His body convulsed, his head struck the red glassy crater floor again and again.
“ Aieee !” said Nagarak at last, collapsing onto his meatless haunches. “Warlord, forgive me. I can heal you no further, I have done my best.”
Raklion nodded. “This is the god’s business, Nagarak,” his thin voice whispered. “We are in its eye, what must come will come. Help me to stand, I would speak to the warlords.”
Help him to stand ? Dismayed, Hekat stared at his limp body on the ground.
What is this, god? He is the warlord and he cannot stand? If he cannot stand how can he rule? This is madness, god, what have you done? Why did you not warn Nagarak that wicked Banotaj carried a knife?
It did not smite her for such bold questions, the scorpion amulet round her neck was still and silent.
He is the warlord and he cannot stand. I am Hekat knife-dancer, godtouched and precious. Zandakar’s mother. Bajadek’s doom and the doom of his son. I can stand. I will stand for him. I must stand for him, there is no-one else.
“Leave him, Nagarak,” she said, and squeezed Raklion’s lax hand. “You are weary, warlord. Rest. I will drive these warlords to their knees.”
He smiled at her, a slow curve of his lips. “My own fierce Hekat, in the god’s eye. Two warlords now you have killed for me. Twice my life is in your blade. Speak for me, Hekat. Dress my words in your sweet voice. Nagarak . . .”
“Warlord,” said Nagarak. He sounded almost as weak as Raklion.
“Here is Hekat, my beloved. Her words are my words. She speaks with my tongue.”
Nagarak’s face twisted. Did he also wonder at the god’s strange silence? “She brought a knife into Mijak’s Heart, that is strictly forbidden. She—”
“Forbidden to warlords,” Raklion whispered. “Banotaj broke that law, not Hekat. Without her knife I would lie here dead. Will you smite her, Nagarak, for saving me?”
“Her words are your words, warlord,” said Nagarak, bitter. “She speaks with your tongue.”
Hekat rose to her feet and stalked to the waiting warlords. She showed them her snakeblade, still stained with blood, and scorched them with her burning gaze.
“You are standing, you will kneel!”
Like whipped slaves the warlords dropped.
“I am Hekat knife-dancer, Zandakar’s mother,” she told them. “Bajadek’s doom and the doom of his son. Your days are done, you are no longer warlords. Do you think to deny this?” She pointed her knife at dead Banotaj. “Think again. You have seen my snakeblade, you have seen me dance. Pray to the god I never dance for you.” One by one, she glared into their eyes. “Who is the warlord of Mijak, united? Tell me now or face my wrath!”
One by one, the warlords answered. One by one, they said his name:
“Raklion.”
“Raklion.”
“Raklion.”
“Raklion.”
“Raklion.”
She bared her teeth, it was not a smile. “Raklion is warlord in the land of Mijak. Never forget it, if you wish to live.”
And never forget who stands as you kneel. Hekat stands, she stands as you kneel. I see the god’s purpose. I understand now why Nagarak was not warned. My time is coming, Raklion’s flies past. I am Hekat, the god’s knife-dancer. Mijak will be mine, it will be my son’s.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Vortka sighed, and shifted beneath his blanket in the godhouse sickroom. The worst of the fever was burned from his bones now, all that remained was a strength-sapping lassitude and a vague irritation of his spirits. Through the chamber’s window a small square of blue sky, taunting him with a freedom he was still denied by ill-health.
I am tired of staring at four cold stone walls. I long for fresh air and a breeze in my face. Surely I am well enough now to leave this place and walk under the sun.
The fever had come upon him swiftly, two highsuns after Hekat rode with Raklion and Nagarak to the Heart of Mijak. A pain in his head as he served in the library, a racking shiver that saw a clay tablet slip from his fingers and smash on the floor. Then sweat and heat and countless highsuns of suffering as he moaned and thrashed and begged the god to ease his torment.
The god heard him eventually, he had feared it never would.
Have I displeased you, god, that you would mortify my flesh so hard for so long? Tell me, I beg you, what wrong thing have I done? I will go to the taskmaster as soon as I am able, I will prove on my knees and weeping I am still your true servant.
The god did not answer him, not exactly. But as he prayed he felt a warmth, a wash of calm acceptance. His disquiet eased and he drifted again into sleep.
When he woke it was night, and the sickroom was lit by flickering candles. A bowl of steaming soup sat on the stool nearby, scenting the air with strong garlic fumes, and Sidik healer stood beside his cot, her thin cool fingers pressed against his wrist pulse.
“You are much improved, Vortka,” she said, releasing him. “I think you might leave us, after newsun.”
“Truly?” he said, and felt his face split in a smile. “Aieee, Sidik. You make me a happy man.”
She raised a warning hand. “But you must be careful, you are not at full strength yet. You are able to use your godstone again, but using it will tire you swiftly, Vortka. You must wait for my permission before you heal, or do anything more taxing than organize the archives. I have spoken with Peklia, she says you might serve in the library but for only three fingers between newsun and lowsun until I say otherwise. Other than that you must take gentle exercise to rebuild your lost vitality, and make sure to eat four nourishing meals daily in the godhouse kitchen. I will speak with Neelij cook-master, he will prepare special food for you. You will come to me before each lowsun sacrifice until I am satisfied your recovery is complete. You will be yourself again I promise, Vortka, provided you are sensible and do not run before you can walk.”
He pressed his fist above his heart, the warrior’s salute. “I will obey, healer. My solemn vow. You have been a blessing, the god see you in its eye.”
She nodded. “It already sees you, Vortka. I know many strong men who would not have survived such a fever.”
“I know,” he said soberly, and repressed a shudder. Never to see Hekat again, or beautiful Zandakar. It was a terrible prospect. He knew his life belonged to the god, to keep or take as suited its purpose, but even so . . .
Is it sinful to want to live, god? To want to see my son grow into a strong, proud man? I cannot think so, you must tell me if I am wrong.
The god did not correct him. He smiled again, Sidik thought he smiled at her. She patted his rough-stubbled head and left him to rest and drink his invalid’s broth.
If I am to take gentle exercise each highsun, perhaps I might wander through Raklion’s barracks. That is not so far away. I will not overtire myself, surely. And perhaps I will be granted a glimpse of my son . . .
Broth finished, he slid again beneath his blankets and let that sweet thought lull him to sleep.
It must have been a sweet thought the god found pleasing for he did indeed see Zandakar in the barracks, on the fifth day he took his exercise there. No warrior or slave disturbed his tentative wanderings, he was a godspeaker and not their concern. The barracks godspeakers let him be also, once he met them and explained his presence.
His son trained with the warleader and a half-shell of warriors, they danced with their snakeblades on the warhost field. Vortka watched from beneath a shading tree, unnoticed, torn between pride and terror, as Zandakar challenged grown men and women who had killed with their snakeblades. It eased his fears, if only slightly, to know Hanochek warleader was there to guide and guard his boy. Hanochek’s love for Zandakar shone in his face, he laughed as he taught him, laughed as he praised him, laughed for laughter’s sake, and Zandaka
r laughed with him.
Zandakar leapt and cartwheeled, his godbraids flying, godbells singing his triumph to the sky. He slew a thousand unseen enemies, he looked like Hekat as he danced with his child’s blade. Vortka knew almost nothing of fighting, he could not tell one hota from the next, all he knew was that Zandakar was beautiful, like Hekat his mother, even though she was scarred.
I see nothing of myself in him, we could stand together and no-one would know. This is a good thing, the god protects my secret, but I cannot deceive myself. It does hurt my heart.
The training finished, at last. Hanochek dismissed his sweating, panting warriors with smiling praise, then he and Zandakar stood alone on the warhost field. Zandakar was breathing fast and loud, he was not quite five seasons of age, it was hard work for a child so young.
“Hano, when will Yuma return from Mijak’s Heart?” he asked, sweat trickling down his face.
“The warlord will return when he returns,” said Hanochek. “That is the god’s business, we must leave it alone.”
Zandakar heaved a disconsolate sigh. “Hano, I have been thinking.”
The warleader tugged one of Zandakar’s godbraids, teasing. “Should I be frightened, my little warlord?”
“ Tcha !” said Zandakar, with a grin. Aieee, so like Hekat, he had her voice entirely. “You know I love Didijik, but he is a pony. I am thinking I would like to show Yuma I could ride a proper horse. I am not such a small boy, I have grown a whole hand-span.”
“Zandakar, Zandakar,” said Hanochek, sighing. “You are many seasons from a proper horse.”
Zandakar’s face fell, his lower lip trembled. “But—”
“You listen to me,” said the warleader, and dropped to one knee so he and Zandakar were closer in height. “The warlord will never let you ride a tall horse yet, Zandakar. But if you show him what a skilled warrior you are, perhaps he will let you choose a foal from the next dropping. Then it will be yours to train as it grows, and when you are old enough to ride a horse your colt will be old enough for you to ride it.”
“Aieee!” breathed Zandakar. “Hano, the god see you. Can I really do that? Will you show me proper warrior tricks in the horse-field, so Yuma can see I am worthy of a foal?”
Vortka saw Hanochek’s face tighten. Clearly, he did not like to hear of Hekat. And Zandakar seemed not to care for the warlord’s opinion, his heart was full of Yuma, Yuma .
The warleader nodded. “I will show you a trick or two, Zandakar, so the warlord will be proud and give you a foal.”
Zandakar kissed him soundly on the cheek. “The god see you, Hano! You are my good friend!”
Laughing, Hanochek kissed him back. Vortka felt a cruel pain pierce his heart. My son will never kiss me, he will never know he is my son . Some sound of hurt must have left his lips, Hanochek heard him, he leapt to his feet and lifted his knife.
“You there! In the shadow! Show yourself or die where you stand!”
Cursing, Vortka stepped into the sunlight. “Do not be alarmed, warleader. I merely stopped in the shade to catch my breath.”
“Godspeaker!” Appalled, Hanochek lowered his snakeblade. “Forgive me, I did not realize. It is a grave sin to threaten a man of the god, I—”
Vortka stepped closer, his hands held out. “No, no. It was a simple misunderstanding. Please, do not distress yourself. I overheard a private moment, it is I who should beg forgiveness from you.”
Hanochek blinked. “That . . . is not necessary.”
“I am Vortka godspeaker.” He looked down at his son. “And this is Zandakar, to be warlord of Et-Raklion in the god’s time.” He pressed his palm to his heart. “The god see you in its eye, Zandakar warlord.”
Zandakar considered him critically. “The god see you, Vortka godspeaker. You are very thin, and you have no godbraids.”
Vortka smothered a smile. “I have been ill, Zandakar. I am better now. As for my godbraids, I gave them to the god.” He looked at Hanochek. “I am under healer instruction to walk daily for my health. I like to walk about the barracks, there is much to see and learn. I hope you do not find that unpleasing, warleader.”
“Unpleasing? No,” said Hanochek faintly. “You are a godspeaker, you walk where the god guides you, it is not for me to say.”
“True,” said Vortka. “And it is also true I must leave you, and return to the godhouse.” Again, he pressed his palm to his heart. “I think you looked most impressive, Zandakar, dancing for the god with your snakeblade. Perhaps I will see you dance again.”
“Thank you, godspeaker,” said Zandakar, grinning, and punched his small fist against his breast. “The god see you in its eye. I hope you are well soon, and the god quickly gives you back your godbraids.”
With a nod at Hanochek, Vortka walked away from them. It hurt like fever, but he left his son.
I have seen him dance, we have spoken together. I should not see him or speak with him again. It is too dangerous, and Hekat would be angry. Truly he is her son, he is not mine.
Or so he told himself, to ease the pain. But he did not believe it. And when it came time the next day to walk again for his health, his heart silenced his head and his feet guided him back to the barracks, to the horse-field, where Zandakar raced his blue-striped pony and laughed, and laughed. Again he stood concealed in shadows, he stood and watched, he was filled with joy.
See my son, god. See the son you gave me. He is your glory. He is a happy, carefree boy.
Hekat could easily have wasted water when Et-Raklion city finally came into sight. She would have, if not for Nagarak beside her and the five chastened, fallen warlords riding behind her. If they saw her weeping they would not remain chastened for long.
Raklion warlord was tied to his horse with strips of leather. He was a proud man, a strong man, he would not let them see him slump, but what it cost him etched deeper and deeper into his face with each passing newsun. He was in no danger of death, but his imperfect healing at Mijak’s Heart had left him weakened. Not even Nagarak’s later healings had restored his full strength.
Behind the fallen warlords rode their silenced warriors and dead Banotaj’s men and women too. Raklion’s warriors surrounded them, goatherds to ragged goats. Their days as warriors of those chastised sinners were ended, their allegiance was to Raklion now.
To Raklion, and me. This is the god’s plan, who am I to question it? Raklion is weak, but I am strong. I am strong for a reason. The god sees me in its eye.
Banotaj and the smitten high godspeakers remained in the red rock crater of Mijak’s Heart. Nagarak had decreed it, their impenitent bodies were too wicked for burning, he said. They must lie there forever, to shrivel and bleach, and remind all who came after, what price was paid by those who defied the god.
I would rather we brought back their heads, I would nail them to the gates of Et-Raklion and let their blind eyes shout the god’s warning to the world.
They entered Et-Raklion city by the Warriors’ Gate, it was the warhost roadway that led directly to the barracks. No man or woman from the city was permitted to walk that road, Raklion’s infirmity would not become known.
Vortka waited at the end of the warhost road, between its two imposing godposts. He was some distance ahead, his face was indistinct but she would know him anywhere.
Nagarak straightened in his saddle. Squinting along the roadway he said, “What is this? I know that godspeaker, that is Vortka. He has no godbraids, he is returned from the wilderness. What is he doing, barring our path?”
It was clear from his tone he was deeply displeased, and had not realized Vortka was safely home. “He stands at the Warriors’ Gate, this is warlord’s business,” said Hekat. “I will see what he wants, you stay with Raklion. Do not trot, stay in walk. Make sure the warlord does not fail so close to home.”
Ignoring Nagarak’s furious protest she dug her sandaled heels in her red mare’s dirty flanks. The animal bounded forward, head tossing. Hekat galloped to the godposts and waiting Vortka.
“What has happened?” she demanded, hauling the red mare to a rearing halt. “Why do you stand there? Is it Zandakar? Is he—”
“No,” he said swiftly. “He is not dead. But Hekat, he has been gravely injured.”
Vortka’s face was much thinner than when last she had seen him on the Pinnacle Road, the fever the god put in him had stripped him to the bone. She took deep hard breaths, subduing her terror, it did not help to see the fear in his eyes.
“How injured? What happened? Tell me, Vortka, or I swear by the god I will—”
“He fell from his pony. Split open his head, broke his leg, and his arm. The godhouse healers have mended his body.” Vortka paused, his voice was shaking. With an effort he disciplined himself. “He is in no danger now, he has woken once, the healers are keeping him quiet. He is weak but his wits are intact.”
Even walking slowly, Raklion and the warhost drew inconveniently closer. She pressed one hand hard to her eyes, feeling sick. “You say his wits are undamaged? He is right in his mind?”
“Yes. I promise.”
“And his body? There will be no infirmity, he is not crippled or maimed?”
“No. He is as he was.”
She took her hand from her face. “I do not believe he just fell from his pony . Zandakar rides as though he were born half-horse, this must have been demons, he—”
“No,” said Vortka. “It was an accident, it was no demon mischief.”
She stared. “How would you know?”
“Because I was there in the horse-field, Hekat. I saw it happen.”
“ You saw—” She gritted her teeth. “What were you doing in the barracks horse-field? What were you doing watching Zandakar ride?”
He cast a swift look past her, at approaching Nagarak. “Does that matter? I was there. I tell you Zandakar’s falling was not caused by demons. I am a tested godspeaker and he is my son, I would sense if demons touched him in front of me. Zandakar wanted to impress you on your return, he is eager for a foal from one of the war-horses, that he can raise and train as his own to ride. Hanochek was teaching him a warrior trick, the pony mis-stepped itself and—”