by Karen Miller
He felt his skin chill to coldness. “No, Hekat. We need slaves as much as warriors and godspeakers.”
She grimaced. “Not old ones. Not crippled ones. Not slaves that spread disease. Those slaves have one purpose, to give their blood to the god.”
“Hekat…” He turned away from her and walked to the balcony, let the clean ocean air whip his godbells into song. “That power is unclean.”
“Unclean? You can say so? Vortka, you are stupid. That power broke the desert!”
And I think it broke you, too. Ever since those thousands of dead slaves, dead by your hand, you have been different, as though something within you drowned in those wet red sands.
Another thought he must keep to himself. He had tried and tried, she would not listen when he counselled caution in this.
I think I would rather that desert had defeated us, we crossed that desert and left something precious behind.
“The god has said no human blood for sacrifice.”
“No human blood for the trade winds,” Hekat retorted. “I have obeyed, I do not summon the trade winds. I wait and I wait, while the trade winds do not come. This blood is for the horses, the god does not say no to that.”
Vortka ground his teeth. Hekat made words a game, she made them say what she desired. If he argued with her she would close her heart to him.
I need her heart open or else I cannot help.
Hekat joined him on the balcony and tugged him round to face her. Her fingers tapped lightly on his cheek. “I am the god's chosen, I know what you need. Come. We will walk to the slave pens, I will give you hot blood and with its power you will change the warhost's horses.”
“Walk?” He shook his head. “Hekat—”
“Tcha!” she said, frowning. “I have eaten meat and fruit, I am strong for the god.”
He did not argue this either, she would never listen. She stood defiant before him, dressed in an old linen training tunic, pretending she was still the Hekat who danced with her snakeblade. It was true, she did dance, some newsuns here and there, when she was not quite so frail.
But you are not invincible, Hekat. Aieee, god, help me to help her see it.
Together they walked from her small palace into the hot and blinding sun.
The slave pens were down at the harbour. Before Jatharuj fell to Mijak, they were pens for livestock. Before Mijak, the people of Jatharuj had bred goats with long curly coats, the hair was shorn for wool and sold to other godless nations and the goats were sold too. Not any more. Those goats belonged to the godhouse now, they birthed more goats for sacrifice, not wool, and the pens by the harbour held discarded human slaves.
The streets of Jatharuj were almost empty. Jatharuj slept in this hot time before lowsun, and woke to bustling and business as dusk cooled the air. There were godspeakers seeing to the god's wants, collecting coins and lesser offerings from the godbowls, making certain slaves who had permission to be outdoors did not attempt a blasphemy or dally in gossip. Three thousand Mijakis from Et-Raklion had made the long journey to Jatharuj. It was their city now, the Icthians who had owned it were dead or made slaves. Jatharuj was all Mijak, it was too important a place to be anything else. Other capitulated cities had been permitted to live in the god's eye, but not Jatharuj. Nearly all of its houses were made barracks for the warhost, most of its resources were given over to Mijak's warriors.
So many warriors, they would conquer the world.
The slaves who did walk the streets fell to the ground as Hekat approached, their scarlet godbraids bright in the sun. If they did not they were nailed to a godpost, it had only taken a handful of nailings for the slaves of Jatharuj to understand their place. The walking godspeakers did not fall to the ground, they bowed to their empress and their high godspeaker. They did not speak unless spoken to first.
Hekat was in no mood for speaking.
On the wide harbour the warhost continued to dance hotas with its boats. Walking with Hekat, aware of her every sharp breath, every hitch in her stride, Vortka rested his gaze upon them and marvelled at the skill.
“Dmitrak trains the warhost well,” he said. “He does not let them sit idle, he does not say ‘this is enough’. Look at the warships dancing, Hekat. Who would think your warriors had so lately learned to sail?”
She grunted. “Dmitrak does what he is told to do.”
“He serves the god, he is fierce in his service. If you do not acknowledge that you make him weak before his warriors, Hekat.”
“ My warriors,” she said, glaring sideways. “The warhost is mine, it has been mine since Raklion stumbled. If I told it to kill him, Dmitrak would be dead.”
Aieee, god, it was true. They obeyed Dmitrak, it was their blood and breath to obey, but it was Hekat they screamed for when she rallied them to war.
“He is a good warlord.”
Another sideways look. “You do not love Dmitrak, why do you pour honey on him? Do you think he will be sweet to me with your honeyed words?”
“I think he is your warlord, empress.”
Her face tightened, the old scars twisting. “He is Nagarak's spawn. He is nothing of mine.”
They had reached the harbour and its closed city gates. The warriors on guard there bowed to their high godspeaker, then pressed their fists to their chests, smiling to see their mighty empress.
“The god sees you, Empress Hekat,” the taller woman said. “The god sees you in its conquering eye.”
“It sees you also, Nedajik,” said Hekat. She nodded at the other guard. “It sees you, Yogili.”
“It sees you, Empress Hekat,” said the shorter, younger guard. “How do we serve you?”
Hekat's teeth bared. “You stand aside. The god sends us to make sacrifice.”
The guard Nedajik frowned. “Sacrifice, Empress?”
“Are you stupid?” said Hekat, staring. “Sacrifice, Nedajik. Blood for the god.”
Flinching, the guard Nedajik shook her head. Silver godbells sounded her dismay. “Empress, there is no blood here.”
“There is blood. There are slaves, discarded for age and other reasons. You stand aside, Nedajik, or Vortka high godspeaker will give you a slave braid.”
Vortka watched the warriors exchange anguished glances. Touching his fingertips to Hekat's arm, he met her sharp look calmly. Then he turned to the guards.
“What has happened to the blood?”
“It is spilled, Vortka high godspeaker,” the guard Yogili whispered.
“ Spilled ?” Hekat seized the warrior's face between her fingers. “How is it spilled? I am the empress, I spill blood in Mijak. Speak !”
“Dmitrak warlord,” whispered Yogili. “He trains his warriors, he says blood must be spilled for a blade to stay sharp.”
Vortka closed his eyes briefly. Dmitrak, stupid boy, do you seek confrontation? Did your mother not tell you never again take her slaves without asking? He could feel his heart pound behind his scorpion pectoral.
“Dmitrak warlord,” said Hekat. Her voice was stony. Grating. She released her cruel hold of the warrior's face. “You Nedajik, you Yogili. Did your snakeblades drink the blood of these slaves?”
Yogili shook her head. “No, Empress. Dmitrak warlord ordered the shell-leaders to draw lots, only those warriors in the god's eye drank the slaves' blood.”
Pressing her fist to her chest again, Nedajik bowed. “Empress, the warriors chosen did not know the slaves were yours.” It was the closest she would tread to laying blame at Dmitrak's feet.
“Tcha!” spat Hekat. “ All slaves are mine!” And then she relented, and Vortka relaxed. She would not smite her warriors, she knew they were not to blame for this. He felt a wicked sense of relief. If the useless slaves were dead already, Hekat could not stain herself by spilling their blood.
“Stand aside,” said Hekat, so frail, so furious. “I will see for myself what the warlord has done.”
Vortka followed her as she discarded her warrior guards and walked more quickly than was wis
e to the pens put aside for those old sick slaves who must be kept separate.
They were empty.
Breathing harshly, Hekat looked at the pens where the slaves should be. Vortka looked too and read the story of that place. Shackles were there, abandoned like dead snakes. Emptied waste troughs were there, and troughs for the slaves' food. The salt breeze was fresh, only a faint hint of human remained where the slaves had been. Other slaves had cleaned away their memories, doubtless glad for the task. Better to clean than be cleaned up after.
“Dmitrak has done this to anger me, Vortka,” said Hekat, her jaw clenched. “He is Nagarak's son, he seeks to slay me with anger.”
She was so harsh, she would not be soft with this son. “Hekat, Dmitrak is the warlord. He trains his warhost as he sees fit. When you were warlord you gave your warriors slaves and criminals for their snakeblades to drink, why should Dmitrak believe this is denied him?”
“He should believe because I told him it was so! The last time he killed slaves without my permission, I told him.”
He sighed. “Nearly a fat godmoon has passed since then.”
“Does that matter, Vortka? I think it does not,” said Hekat, stabbing him with a hot blue glare. “If I did not spend my time in that palace, away from the warhost, resting by your want, this would not have happened . I spend my time in that palace, the world does not see my face. Dmitrak does not see my shadow, he forgets I exist. I exist, Vortka . And I have rested in that palace long enough. Jatharuj is not the world. The god desires the world and I will deliver it.”
Aieee, god, the iron in her voice. Vortka felt her words like fisted blows. “Yes, you will, Empress, when the time is ripe.”
“Ripe?” She laughed, a bitter sound. “Vortka, it is rotten. And we will rot with it if we stay here another godmoon.”
Aieee, the god see him. The trade winds again. Can she not think of anything else ? “We will stay here as long as the god desires our staying.”
“The god?” She clenched a fist. “Are we penned in this harbour like slaves by the god? I do not think so. I think we are penned in Jatharuj by demons. They must be broken. This is the desert again, Vortka, can you not see it?”
“The god has not said so.”
She stared. “It has said so to me. And it looks to me to break these demons. You did not break those demons in the sand, I broke them.” She pointed at the harbour before them, where the warhost's boats no longer danced but turned at last towards the shore. “The ocean beyond the harbour, that is another desert. It is a desert of water and I must break it.”
“Not with slaves' blood, Hekat.”
“ Tcha !” she spat. “That is not for you to say! You do not serve the god in this, you do not bring the trade winds, Vortka. You have had many godmoons and still we are here . So I will bring the trade winds to Jatharuj.”
Vortka felt his belly knot with fear. “Hekat, you cannot. The god's words in the godpool—”
“ I am the empress !” Her bird-claw fingers jabbed his scorpion chest. “You do not tell me I cannot .”
Despair was a black tide closing over his head. “Hekat—”
“Dmitrak has wasted the slaves here, but no matter,” she continued, ignoring him. Her silver godbells shone in the sun, the amulets in her godbraids gleamed like fresh blood. “There are always more slaves. Their blood will flow, it will drown those demons. I will summon the trade winds and we will sail from Jatharuj.”
His eyes burned, he could weep. Hekat, Hekat, will you not let me save you?
She turned her fierce face to the open water, rested her eyes on the horizon, so distant. “Dmitrak is right, the warhost needs blood. Like its empress it has rotted here long enough. The warhost was weary, it is weary no more. Now it is hungry, it needs to be fed.”
“And you will feed it in defiance of the god?” Vortka demanded, anger stirring with his fear.
“Nothing I do defies the god, Vortka,” she said, suddenly serene. “I am its chosen, every breath serves it sweetly.”
“Hekat!” If she was not frail he would shake her to pieces. “The god has told you, do not sacrifice more slaves !”
“I have thought on that in my resting, Vortka,” said Hekat, coldly smiling. “I have wondered why the god would say such a thing when it knows the power human blood brings it.”
He could feel his scorpion pectoral thrum in time with his heartbeat. “You think a demon spoke to me, not the god? In the godpool , Hekat?”
She shrugged. “Demons have power.”
“You think I would not know the difference ?”
“I think you are a man and a man may be deceived.”
“And you cannot?”
She laughed again, a soft chiding sound. “I have lived in the god's eye since I was a child, Vortka, I cannot be deceived. I will bring back the trade winds, I will help you change the horses. I will lead my warhost into the world.”
Where they stood, at the slave pens, they could see clearly the warhost's ships ride into their moorings like obedient stallions. They saw Dmitrak leap from the deck to the dock, his scarlet godbraids flaming under the sun. His warriors leapt after him, lithe and lethal, exultant in their skills.
“Hekat,” said Vortka, watching her son, “I know you are certain, does it matter I am not?”
“It matters to you, it does not matter to me,” she said. “You have doubted me often, I have never been wrong. When was I wrong, Vortka? Can you tell me? Tell me once.”
He could not tell her once and she knew it. Aieee, the god see me, she knows I cannot . “You are quick to dismiss me, Hekat, but if I had lost my purpose would the god see me still? I think it would not, I think Vortka would be blind in the god's seeing eye.”
She laid her hand on his arm, he could feel new strength in it. “Of course you have a purpose, but it is not to thwart me. Your purpose was always to serve me, Vortka. When you serve Hekat you serve the god, has that not always been true? From the very beginning, is it not so?”
“Yes,” he whispered…even as he heard his heart cry out no . Heard his heart cry out stop her .
“Good,” she said briskly. “Vortka, this is good. Now let us greet Dmitrak, Mijak's warlord. He must answer to his empress. He has wronged her, and should know.”
They skirted the empty slave pens and walked to the top of the long pier where Dmitrak's warriors clustered round him as they waited for all the returned ships to empty. When the last warrior had joined him Dmitrak turned and led his warhost away from the water. The sliding sun flashed on his gauntlet, gold-and-scarlet in the light.
The warhost saw its empress and stopped in one breath. Fists punched against horsehide chests, in one joyful voice they shouted.
“The god see Hekat! The god see her in its eye!”
Vortka, looking sidelong, saw the warm pleasure flash in Hekat's thin face. Then she settled her blue gaze on Dmitrak and that pleasure plummeted cold.
“Warlord.”
Dmitrak's gauntleted fist at last kissed his breast, lightly. “Empress.”
“We will talk now. Your warriors will leave us.” Her cold gaze warmed again as she smiled at them. “The god sees them, warlord, it sees them in its satisfied eye. Go now,” she told them, raising her voice. “I will see you at sacrifice, we will serve the god together then.”
“ Empress !” shouted the warhost, and continued along the pier without a second look at Dmitrak. They bowed their heads, godbells sighing, as they passed their high godspeaker.
Vortka nodded, he needed no more than that.
The smile Hekat gave her son was full of memories and spite. “They are mine first, Dmitrak, they are mine always. Remember that.”
Whatever dark thoughts curdled behind his eyes, Dmitrak was too canny to let the world see them. Instead he nodded. “You are the empress, you were warlord many seasons.” His gaze shifted. “Vortka high godspeaker.”
“Dmitrak,” he said. “I am no warrior but I think your warships danced their hotas we
ll, to please the god.”
“To please me,” said Dmitrak. “My warriors please me, high godspeaker. After the empress, the claim on them is mine.”
Hekat stepped forward, eye to eye with her son. “There were slaves in the slave pens, warlord. They are not there now.”
Dmitrak shrugged. “Old slaves. Diseased slaves. What is their purpose but training for the warhost?”
“Whatever they are, warlord, is my place to name it. I told you the slaves of Jatharuj belong to me.”
Dmitrak shrugged again, he flirted with insolence. “Empress, you have been long within your palace, we do not see you. Your voice is hushed, it fades with time.”
She looked down. “I see your legs, warlord, the god has not cut them from your body. I hear you speaking, it has not taken your tongue. You could not walk on your legs to my palace, warlord? You could not use your tongue to ask ‘ May I have those slaves ?’”
Now Dmitrak scowled. “If I am the warlord then I am warlord of those slaves, Empress. Whatever my warhost needs it is my purpose to provide it, when I am in the world with my warhost do I ask you before I wield it? Do I send a warrior to ask you ‘ May Dmitrak warlord kill these slaves? ’”
She stepped closer again, and spread her hand on his broad chest. “Your heart beats, Dmitrak. I feel it. You live. You live because I say so. You are warlord by my will.”
Dmitrak's eyes, so like Nagarak's, stared fearless at Hekat. She tried to deny it but he was her son. “And the god's hammer by its making,” he replied softly. “By blood and by its purpose do you and I walk together, Hekat. There is no breaking of us. We are two, and we are one.”
Seabirds cried in the silence that followed. Mooring ropes creaked, wooden hulls groaned, salt water slopped and splashed, a soothing sound.
Hekat smiled. “Until I say we are not.”
Dmitrak glanced away, for a heartbeat. He lowered his head. “Empress, my warriors' snakeblades were thirsty. The warhost is becalmed here, as its warships are becalmed. There is little to do, there is much time to fill. You were once the warlord, you taught me well. Idle warriors are prey to demons.”
Hekat's fingers fisted and punched his chest. “This is true, Dmitrak,” she said, stepping back. “You say a true thing. So I will not smite you for the taking of those slaves. You thought of the warhost, the god sees you in its eye. Vortka—”