by Karen Miller
I think this is too much for me. I think I am a humble man. In my heart I remain a potsmith.
He did not like walking Et-Raklion’s streets in the quiet time, seeking out sinners. The first time he found a man breaking the law, the first time he smote someone with his bare hand, he had fallen to his knees after and vomited in the road. He thought the god would strike him dead for that, how could he be a proper godspeaker and have no heart for the smiting of sinners?
The god had not struck him dead, it did not smite him at all. Perhaps it was busy and had not noticed his weakness.
He did not vomit again after that first time, but he still heard the smitten screams in his uneasy sleep. Hekat was right, people were stupid. They knew the godspeakers walked the streets in the quiet time, they knew if they were found sinning they would pay a heavy price. And yet they took that chance, they risked the god’s wrath. With Raklion’s elevation to warlord of Mijak it seemed many folk had lost their wits.
They think because Raklion is godchosen, then they are too. They think the god’s laws can be broken because their warlord is special. When will they learn? No man can break the god’s law and escape unpunished. Not even a warlord.
The warhost was leaving by the main city gates, as Vortka climbed up the Pinnacle Road to the godhouse that newsun he had left hundreds gathering in the streets to praise it and cheer. He thought Hekat would like that, hundreds of people, perhaps thousands by now, waving and cheering as she rode to war for the god.
And may the god help those foolish warriors in the city of Et-Banotaj. If they do not throw down their snakeblades at the sight of her eyes she will slay every one of them, she will drink all their blood. Then Nagarak will scorch their godsparks, together they will send those sinners to hell.
Vortka shuddered. At first he’d been sorry Nagarak had not chosen him among the three hundred godspeakers to ride with the warhost in the smiting of Et-Banotaj. Now he was relieved, not only because it gave him time free of the high godspeaker’s merciless scrutiny, but also because he had no stomach for slaughter. Even the slaughter of sinners. It just made him sad.
Another yawn overcame him, weariness was in his bones. He would sleep for three fingers, then rise to serve in the library. Or kneel before a taskmaster, Nagarak would be certain to discover if he had done so and punish him personally if he had not.
Aieee, god. It is not easy, serving Nagarak. I know he has his purpose, I know he is in your eye. I just wish, sometimes, I was not in his.
It was so early the shrine garden should be empty. He turned away from the sight of Hekat’s warhost, departing, and slipped between the high hedges that turned the open ground into many small, private sanctuaries. First he inspected the half-dead tree where his proper sacrifice knife slept. It was still there, safe and undiscovered. Then, acutely aware of every rustle in the trees, every stirring in the godhouse, he sought the place where he had buried the large crystal, that would one day, somehow, be a weapon for the god.
The ground in that sanctuary remained undisturbed. He had buried the crystal beside the shrine’s godpost, certain the god would keep it safe. This was the third time he had risked coming to see its hiding place, he felt light-headed knowing he had not failed.
You see it, god, the crystal lives in your eye. Let it remain there, let your powers thwart demons who would pluck it from your sight.
His knife was safe, the crystal was safe. Now he could sleep, he was desperate for bed.
As he turned to leave the shrine garden he heard a sob, coming from the other side of its hedge. He stopped. A heartbeat’s silence, then another sob, anguished and incompletely stifled. He frowned.
I know that voice, I know the sound of those tears . . .
“Zandakar!” he said, standing in the hedge’s narrow opening. “Zandakar, what is it?”
His son knelt before the sanctuary shrine, it was a carved scarlet scorpion with a raised, stinging tail. At the sound of his name Zandakar wrenched around and nearly fell. His expression was shamed, his face was wet. His beautiful eyes were full of woe. “Vortka godspeaker! I am sorry, I am sorry.”
“No!” he said, and stepped further in. “Do not be sorry, tell me why you weep. Tell me why you are here , so early in the shrine garden. Does your mother know you pray here at this time?”
Zandakar dragged his forearm over his face, the rough movement made his godbells shiver, a muted chime. “Yuma sends me, it is my penance for sinning. I have prayed here four days with only flatbread and water, godspeaker. After today my penance is done.”
“I see,” said Vortka. He had not known. She had not told him, though there had been the chance. She guards him so jealously. There is no need . “And you weep because you sinned against the god?” Zandakar hesitated. “You can tell me, Zandakar. I am a godspeaker, what you tell me is private.”
Zandakar looked down, he smoothed a hand over his blue-striped horsehide leggings as though they were warm living skin. “It is nothing, godspeaker,” he whispered, brokenly. “I am sorry, I must pray to the god.”
“ Zandakar . . .” Vortka moved closer, he dropped to one knee. “You are too young to weep like a man. Let me help you.” Let me help you, my son .
Zandakar’s breath caught in his throat, he could not stop fresh tears from falling. “I lo— loved Didij—ik,” he said, almost incoherent. “I did not mean—mean to hurt him, I did not think it was a—a sin to ride like a warrior. I wish Yuma had told the taskmaster to whi—whip me ten times. He could have whipped me till I bled on the scorpion wheel, I—I would not care.” He sucked in a shuddering breath. “But she gave me these leggings and I have to wear them.”
The leggings. Blue-striped horsehide. Newly tanned, they had lost none of their color. Vortka felt his belly lurch, saw a beautiful pony in his mind’s eye. “ Didijik ?” he whispered, incredulous.
Zandakar nodded. “Yuma said now I will never forget.”
Never forget? Their son would be scarred for life, like her knife-slashed face this memory would sear him forever.
Hekat, how could you? You make him wear the hide of his beloved dead pony? You had him whipped on the scorpion wheel? He is only a child, how could you do that?
He remembered, aching, his own happy childhood, his ordinary life before the god intervened. He had loved his father and loved his mother, they expected obedience but he was never whipped . Never starved of food, never forced to pray. He remembered laughter, he remembered joy, he remembered games and tickling and praise and forgiveness. They were strict, they were never harsh, harshness had come only once his father was dead.
What do you remember, Hekat, that you could so punish our precious boy?
“Zandakar,” he said, and though it was dangerous, forbidden, he pressed his palm to his small son’s cheek. He had no choice, his child was suffering. He would have done it if smiting Nagarak were in the godhouse. “Hekat warleader is a fierce, proud woman. She burns in the god’s eye, she is unique. She loves you as she loves the god, whatever she does is because she believes it is right. When you fell and hurt yourself, you frightened her badly. She is trying to make sure it never happens again. You must wear the horsehide leggings, do not wear them with pain. Didijik was always going to die before you, you lost him a little sooner but the loss was waiting. When you wear your blue-striped leggings, Zandakar, do not think of it as punishment. Wear them with love, remember your pony. Show the world his beauty, and do not weep.”
Zandakar’s eyes were wide, and surprised. After a moment he nodded, slowly. “Yes, Vortka godspeaker. I did not think of it like that. I will do what you say. When I wear these leggings I will think of all the times we galloped together, me and Didijik. I will not weep. I will thank the god I had such a pony.”
Vortka kissed him on the brow. “Good. That is good. Zandakar . . .”
Trusting, so trusting, Zandakar looked at him. “Godspeaker?”
He lowered his voice. “I must tell you, we are not supposed to speak together. I am a godspeaker, my
duties are in the godhouse. You will be the warlord, your world is in the palace. If someone asks you, you must not lie. But if nobody asks, it would be better if you do not mention our meeting here.”
“If nobody asks, I will not tell,” said solemn Zandakar. Then he smiled, unexpectedly, he was so beautiful. “We have a secret, Vortka godspeaker. Secrets are what friends have. Does this mean we are friends?”
Aieee, god , thought Vortka. He could have wept. “Yes, Zandakar,” he whispered. “We are friends. If you are ever in trouble, you can come to me. I want you to know that. You can come to me.”
Zandakar nodded. “You are not so thin now,” he said, considering. “But your hair is still fuzzy. When will the god give you back your godbraids?”
“I do not know,” he said, his voice uneven.
“Perhaps the god likes them so much it keeps them for itself.”
“Perhaps,” he agreed, and for the second time—most likely the last—he kissed his son, and held him close. “I must go, I have duties. And you have prayers. Be in the god’s eye, Zandakar. Be a good boy. Grow a strong man. You will not see me, I will be watching you.”
The god saw him safely out of the shrine garden, safely into the godhouse and up to his cell. He closed the door, he lay down on his mattress. He covered his face and cried till he slept.
Hekat led her warhost to Et-Banotaj. Nagarak rode beside her, they rarely spoke. The chastened warlords rode behind her, she felt their gazes on her back, she never looked at them. Like Hanochek, they were unknown.
After each day’s riding the warhost stopped for lowsun sacrifice. When it was done, as the slaves cooked the night’s meal, she danced with her warriors under the sky. She danced to remind them she was their warleader, she danced to remind the fallen warlords that she was with them, and watching. If once the warlords forgot who she was, what she had done, if they forgot she had danced two warlords to death, they might also forget to be afraid.
Her warriors were beautiful, dancing with their snakeblades in the god’s eye. The ground drummed with the sound of their disciplined feet, they trampled the grass and summoned the stars.
See your warriors, god, see them knife-dancing for you. See me dancing, I am your slave. Will you send me a man for fucking soon? If he does not come soon, does it mean you will not send him? Does it mean Zandakar is safe from demons until he dies an old man?
The god did not answer, it was silent in her heart, it slept in her amulet. She clutched the stone scorpion till her fingers hurt.
I wish you would answer, god. I grow weary of waiting.
The journey to Et-Banotaj continued. When the warhost reached the border godposts on the main road to the city Nagarak sacrificed two grown bulls, one black, one white. Their gushing blood dyed the brown soil red. Their heads were left at the base of the godposts, the god ate the bodies’ flesh so the bloody bones could be piled as a warning.
Two fingers’ riding from the city the warhost caught sight of Et-Banotaj warriors, galloping ahead as though demons snapped at their heels. Hekat let them go, she did not send warriors in pursuit. It was not possible to hide her warhost, and she did not want to.
Let them know we are coming. Let them tremble on their feet and in their sinning hearts.
Dead Banotaj’s defiant warhost rode out from its barracks to meet the warriors of Et-Raklion on the open land before the city. Hekat met three of its shell-leaders in the middle ground with Arakun beside her, and one of Et-Banotaj’s warriors taken at the Heart of Mijak.
“Surrender,” she said, staring into the shell-leaders’ faces. “Banotaj is dead, I killed him with my snakeblade. He was a sinning man, he burns in hell. Raklion warlord is your warlord now, he is warlord of Mijak. You will kneel to him. You will kneel to me , I speak with his voice. I am Hekat warleader, warleader of Mijak. Bajadek’s doom and the doom of his son. I will smite you to death if you do not kneel.”
One of the Et-Banotaj shell-leaders, a grizzled woman missing an ear, spat on the brown grass and sneered. “You are a liar.”
“No,” said the taken Et-Banotaj warrior. “Hestria shell-leader, she tells the truth. Banotaj is dead, we saw him die. Hekat warleader killed him in Mijak’s Heart. The other warlords are fallen, their high godspeakers are struck dead by the god. Raklion is the warlord of Mijak. It is the god’s will, you must accept it.”
Hestria shell-leader spat again. “She is a liar, and you are a traitor.” Her snakeblade took him through the throat. He died with a gurgle, his body toppled to the ground.
Hekat did not look at him. She looked at Hestria, she bared her teeth. “You stupid woman. You will join that man soon.”
She and Arakun spun their horses and galloped back to the warhost. The dead warrior’s horse galloped beside them. “Well?” said Nagarak sourly, waiting with his three hundred godspeakers.
“They reject the god, they reject Raklion warlord,” she told him. “They must die, Nagarak. I cannot let them live.”
Nagarak nodded. “The god see you, warleader. Slaughter those sinners, send their demon-tainted godsparks to hell.”
She smiled, it was another rare moment when they both agreed. She raised her hand, Arakun summoned the shell-leaders. “Prepare yourselves,” Hekat told them. “The warhost rides to war.”
Nagarak and his godspeakers and the fallen warlords withdrew, to witness and pray. Hekat led her warhost against the warhost of Et-Banotaj. It was a mighty smiting, the god was in every Et-Raklion heart. The sinning warriors of Et-Banotaj had no hope of victory, they died in their thousands, they died in their blood. They died with their demons, every last warrior cast down. The god gave Hekat the greatest victory, not a single Et-Raklion warrior was lost.
When it was over the bodies of Et-Banotaj’s warhost were not burned, they were left to rot. Nagarak cursed the ground they died on, every living thing of Et-Banotaj in that place died, the grass, the flowers, the trees, the insects, the burrowing creatures beneath the earth. Even the crows dropped dead from the sky. Nothing would live or grow there till the end of the world.
Hekat led her warhost on to the city, and its godhouse.
The godspeakers of Et-Banotaj shouted their defiance. They refused Nagarak’s authority, they begged the god to strike him dead, to strike Raklion dead and Hekat with him. They begged the god to kill Zandakar.
Nagarak’s stone pectoral again came to life. He smote all the godspeakers. All the godspeakers died. The godhouse tumbled to stone and dust. The ground opened beneath it and swallowed it whole.
The city of Et-Banotaj surrendered.
“You see the god here,” Hekat told the fallen warlords, as they stared with wide, frightened eyes where the godhouse had stood. “Remember its wrath. When you return to your cities, when the people who live there ask what you have seen, tell them of Et-Banotaj. When demons crawl on your pillows at night, whispering their promises into your hearts, remember this city. Remember how its godspeakers died, and its warriors. Remember how its warlord died, and your high godspeakers, for that is how every wicked sinner will die. Slain by my snakeblade, thrown down by the god. I am Hekat knife-dancer, warleader of Mijak. I speak for the warlord, I speak with his voice. Remember this place, or face its fate.”
Subdued and godsmitten, Et-Banotaj city was handed over to one thousand warriors and Nagarak’s godspeakers, that it might remain obedient and learn the new laws.
Hekat renamed it Zandakar .
Raklion wept when Hekat brought the warhost home. “You are the god’s greatest warrior,” he told her, astride his stallion at the barracks’ main gates with jubilant Zandakar at his side. “You are Hekat knife-dancer, you dance for the god.”
Zandakar had been given a new pony, it was plain black, not blue-striped. He wore the blue-striped leggings. The pony wore the silver and lapis bridle. “The god see you, Yuma!” he said, his fist on his heart. “I prayed for you, it heard my prayers!”
She smiled at her beautiful son, she nodded at the warlord. “The god w
as in me. What sinner could prevail?”
They rode together to the warhost field, at the head of her glorious warhost. There were prayers and sacrifice, there was praise and laughter. The warhost was exultant, it was the warhost of Mijak. It had witnessed the god’s glory, it had thrown down many demons.
Et-Raklion city sacrificed and feasted six highsuns without ceasing, to celebrate the victory over Et-Banotaj. Before each highsun’s bloody offering Raklion, Hekat and Zandakar rode through the streets, Mijak’s warlord, its warleader, its beautiful son.
When he was not performing the important sacrifices at newsun, highsun and lowsun Nagarak remained in the godhouse, he worked without sleeping. With Et-Banotaj laid low it was time to subdue the rest of Mijak. He examined the names of Et-Raklion’s godspeakers, he drew up lists of those who would be sent to serve the god in other cities.
The first name on the first list he wrote with a smile.
Vortka godspeaker.
When he learned he was to be sent far away from Et-Raklion, to serve in the godhouse of Takona city, Vortka was not surprised. Nagarak cannot prove anything against me, he gets rid of me the best way he can . The face he showed to Farhja godspeaker, who gave him the news, was perfectly accepting. In his heart, he wept. I must leave Zandakar. I must leave Hekat .
He must also leave the great crystal in her keeping, it could not stay in the godhouse if he was not there to protect it. Somehow he must get it to Hekat before he was sent away, Farhja had said he would be leaving soon. To do that he must see her, speak with her, if only for a moment.
Aieee, god, I need your help. Nagarak watches me, he sets other godspeakers to watch me. Speaking with Hekat will be no easy feat.
The god answered his prayer, it always did. The following newsun, as he returned to the godhouse from walking the city streets in the quiet time, he recognized Hekat, slender and linen-clad, slipping like a knife’s shadow towards the godhouse shrine garden. It was so early few godspeakers were about in the godhouse grounds, and not one had noticed him.