Godspeaker

by Tessa Crowley

  “It happened once,” she said. “Perhaps it can be done again.”

  It seemed wholly and absurdly dangerous. Summon the Night Father? Here? Had she not seen all the destruction he’d wrought?

  But then again, it would not be him alone that would be summoned. All his siblings and his mother would also be there. Would they be able to keep him under something resembling control? More to the point, was it worth risking everything on the assumption that they could?

  “It’s v-very r-r-risky,” I said.

  “Yes, it is,” she answered. “Extremely. But these are desperate times and they call for desperate measures.”

  “I d-d-don’t think it’s a g-good idea.”

  “Have you got a better one?” she countered, raising both eyebrows.

  “N-not this,” I said. “Umbrion only b-b-b-brings d-destruction in his w-wake. It w-w-would be a f-fool’s errand to try and s-s-summon him.”

  “It would be a far greater error to do nothing,” she said.

  “F-f-forgive me, G-Greatmother, b-b-but any t-time I’ve d-d-done anything, it has only r-r-resulted in d-d-death.”

  I regretted speaking at once. The words came from a place too close to my heart, were too revealing. Greatmother Amira gave me a long, measuring look, and I averted my eyes. There followed a very, very long pause.

  “I heard about what happened to your brother.”

  I wet my lips. Of course she’d heard.

  “I’m so sorry, Silas.”

  I appreciated her words of comfort for what they were, but drawing any real comfort from them was impossible. I stood up and walked to the window, rubbing at the manacles around my wrists.

  “I can’t help but wonder if that’s the seed of your defeatism,” she said. “I certainly wouldn’t blame you if it was. I heard your friend’s story – Soya. She told me everything that’s happened. Everything around you breaks. People die, temples topple, and then you lose your brother.”

  “G-G-G-Greatmother—”

  “There’s a word in the Ansu tongue that doesn’t have a direct translation in Andelish,” she told me. “It expresses a loss so profound, a heartbreak so complete, that you start to forget what it meant to be whole. Inwari.

  “But there’s a famous idiom about inwari,” she continued. “Mori ite anda inwari do. It means that inwari follows only where there was truest love.”

  I felt her hand on my shoulder. My throat constricted, but I wouldn’t let myself cry. I’d done too much of it already.

  “It hurts because it meant something,” she told me. “It hurts because he was your brother. So don’t begrudge yourself your own inwari. Let it hurt. And for your own sake, don’t let it make you forget what it is to be whole.”

  I nodded, though I scarcely knew why. To end the conversation, likely.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow at the moot,” she said. “Until then, find what peace you can. It’s in short supply these days.”

  Her hand fell from my shoulder. I heard her leave out the door and down the hallway, knowing that if I had ever been whole, I was sure I never would be again.

  “—do not think it wise—”

  “He has lost a brother.”

  “His is not the only loss in Andelan!”

  I wondered if they knew how thin these walls were.

  “He needs us right now, Mother. Who else would be there for him?”

  “We do not yet know his loyalties.”

  “Mother!”

  I leaned my head against the wall. I was sitting cross-legged on the bed, wondering if I was meant to feel offended by the fact that my own grandmother thought me a traitor to the gods. On top of everything else, I found it difficult to feel anything at all. I twisted my wrists in my shackles and wrung the brass chain.

  “You know as well as I do that Silas had no hand in the Breaking. There isn’t a conspiratorial bone in his body! You’re only resisting because—”

  “Because it hurts?” my grandmother said, voice harsh. “Because seeing him will always remind me of his brother, who’s dead and burnt? Because Perenor is dead and that kills me?”

  “It kills him, too!”

  “I c-c-can hear you,” I said, loud enough to be heard through the flimsy wooden door. If I had to listen to them argue a moment longer, I was going to lose my mind.

  Their words, at least, abruptly stopped.

  It took them a while, but eventually the door opened. Mother came first, uneasy but apologetic.

  “The walls are thin,” she said.

  Grandmother entered. She looked so much older, somehow, and she stared at me with what I’m sure she hoped to look like suspicion, but I could see right through her. The flimsy veneer of mistrust was hiding nothing but heartache and exhaustion.

  “S-s-s-so are we,” I answered.

  “Always so clever,” Grandmother snapped.

  “So d-d-does it k-kill you to-to-to l-look at m-me?” I asked.

  Her response wasn’t immediate. I watched all the subtle lines of her face shift one by one. Traces of doubt, of remorse, of anger, all of it masked almost perfectly. Almost.

  “Yes,” she answered after the lapse of silence. “Your mother tells me he died in battle.”

  I nodded slowly.

  Grandmother swore under her breath. “Foolish boy,” she said. “As soon as I felt the city breaking, I knew, I knew…”

  “We shouldn’t talk about this,” Mother said softly.

  “I-I-I-I had h-half expected y-y-you to-to b-b-blame me f-f-for his d-death,” I said.

  “There’s much I blame you for,” she said, “but not for this. “There’s a reason Perenor was so skilled in Craft. More than anyone, he was unafraid of sacrifice. He was always so ready to put others before himself, to—”

  “Please,” Mother said, voice drawn, “please, let’s not speak on this.”

  “Mother…”

  I moved toward the edge of the bed and took her hands in mine. She offered me a valiant smile and sat down beside me.

  Grandmother watched us, face studiously blank.

  “You’ve been in Avenos,” she said after a moment.

  I nodded again.

  “How find you the new Lord-Regent?” she asked. “Is he a reasonable man?”

  I wasn’t sure where this was going, but I had my suspicions. “Qu-qu-quick to anger, p-p-perhaps,” I answered, “and one who d-d-does n-not operate t-t-terribly well under p-p-pressure, but n-not unr-r-reasonable.”

  “Good,” she said. “Good. Then perhaps all hope is not yet lost for a stable Andelan.”

  I frowned.

  “Y-y-y-you think of p-p-politics,” I said.

  “Someone must.”

  “Now?” I asked, feeling anger rise in me. “Wh-wh-when there are g-g-g-gods who would s-seek to destroy y-you?”

  “What good does fear do?” she snapped at me, like she had been waiting all evening for an excuse. “Nothing! Especially in times like these, Andelan cries out for leadership, for order in the chaos!”

  “Y-y-your grandson is n-n-not five w-weeks dead!”

  “And would you have him die in vain? He gave up his life for this world—!”

  “Stop it!” Mother said suddenly, shrilly. “Stop it, both of you! For so long, you’ve been at odds with one another! Can you not find common ground in these most desperate times?

  We both fell silent for a while. Grandmother looked out the window; I stared down at the floor.

  “This is a family that is so much smaller than it used to be,” Mother said. “Our husbands, our son. Surely here at the end of all things, we can overcome our differences?”

  When I reluctantly lifted my eyes back to Grandmother’s, I found her looking back at me, still angry, still suspicious, but now with traces of something like guilt.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “How deep do they run?”

  She seemed as though she wanted a real answer, so I considered the question a moment. Outside, rain pattered on the glass.
<
br />   “Quite d-d-deep,” I said at last. “M-m-my chief c-complaint has ever b-b-been that m-matters of the state have alw-w-ways taken p-p-precedence.”

  She stayed quiet, her eyes running me through.

  “I have d-distant m-m-memories of y-your affection, b-b-but they w-w-were so l-long ago. I s-s-spent the bulk of m-my childhood b-b-being trained to f-f-feel inadequate,” I continued. “I s-s-struggle to recall the l-l-last time I f-felt wanted.”

  Perhaps I’d said too much. I wrung my hands in my lap.

  There was a lapse of silence. I’d never felt so vulnerable. Despite our long and tangled history, never once had we let these things out in the open – and now there they were, all my scars, fresh and bloody as they day they were carved, open and awaiting judgment.

  But none came, because before too long, there was a knock at the door.

  Beside me, Mother straightened. “Yes?”

  The door opened. It was a young woman, a servant at Silverwatch, one who’d come with the caravan. “His Holiness’s – er, your dinner’s been prepared, sir.”

  I nodded my thanks. The functionary ducked back out at the words before the door opened wider so she could carry in a large tray.

  “Let’s eat,” Mother said, voice wan.

  I nodded again. All that was said and unsaid were still hanging in the air like a choking fog, and as the servant went to set the small, rickety table, we languished in the unsteady silence.

  “It’s far too dangerous!” bellowed Lady Aevor from the side of the table.

  “There’s no other option!” shouted Greatmother Amira back at her.

  (The reader must forgive me for not including the whole text of the moot. Though I’m aware it would have some historical significance, there was very little said that didn’t boil down to the above two points. I’m rather pressed for time, so some truncation is necessary.)

  “You would put all of Imlandran in peril – all of Andelan!”

  “We need answers,” Rolen said, sounding nearly as angry as he did exhausted. “And more to the point, the gods need answers. All the Godspeakers have prayed for guidance, and we have all been met with the same answer – that Umbrion will not speak to them, that they cannot find him.”

  “If there is any hope in stymieing this, it lies in the other gods,” Fiyera continued, and I was amazed by her patience – this must have been the twentieth time she’d reiterated that very point. “We have his Godspeaker, which means we have leverage. We can force Umbrion into the open, force him to confront his family.”

  “There are ten thousand ways that could backfire,” the Lord-Regent said, voice clipped. “There are ten thousand ways it could make everything worse!”

  “Do you really think there’s any fate worse than what he doubtlessly already has in store?” Soya demanded. She was sitting at her father’s right hand, literally as much as symbolically. “You heard Silas before those demons came crawling out of the water – he called them the vanguard! I would rather hazard this than whatever else the Traitor God has planned.”

  “Umbrion answers to Silas alone,” Greatmother Amira said, and I felt fifty pairs of nervous eyes move to me, and then quickly away.

  It must have taken more effort to ignore me than to look at me, because I was chained to a chair in the center of the room, manacles on and shackled to the floor by both ankles. Undignified, perhaps, but I didn’t have much dignity left to preserve anyway.

  “Umbrion manifests for Silas alone. This is the only way to ensure that the other gods can’t get to him.”

  “This is foolish,” Lady Aevor growled, sitting back in her seat.

  “This is the only way,” Fiyera said.

  Everyone collectively seemed to realize that this was the fiftieth time they’d been round this point. Many sat back; others rubbed their eyes; some muttered to servants to bring them food or wine.

  The large hall had felt comfortable at one point – the tables had been set up in a great U-shape, the outer half-ring lined with chairs to seat the most important people in Andelan – the Lord-Regent, all four other Lords and Ladies, the Godspeakers, the surviving Queenscourt, the councilors, the diplomats, a smattering of thanes from larger cities.

  But after five long hours, it had stopped feeling comfortable. My legs ached from disuse. My head pounded from all the shouting. My wrists and ankles chafed from their bindings. None of the functionaries had dared come close enough to serve me any food, though without a table, I wouldn’t have been able to eat it anyway.

  I wondered on more than one occasion if there was any point in my being here. No one had asked me anything – they were all too nervous to even look at me longer than a few seconds at a time. My function in this discussion appeared to be a prop.

  “And what if this is all a trap?” Lady Aevor asked, following a lengthy pause.

  “Careful,” Greatmother Amira said lowly.

  “You’re all thinking it,” Lady Aevor growled. “Don’t try to lie and say you aren’t. What if this is precisely what the Traitor God wants? He would have plenty of reason to get the other gods in the same place at the same time. How can we even be sure of where the boy’s loyalties lie?”

  “This is not a boy, Lady of Aevorlum,” Greatmother Amira said. “This is a Godspeaker – a Godspeaker who has as much skin in this conflict as any of you. I’d suggest that you keep your tongue behind your teeth on subjects with which you are woefully unfamiliar.”

  Not that it wasn’t nice to have someone come to my defense, but it was rather aggravating being spoken about as though I wasn’t there.

  Still, I’ve always been one to pick my battles.

  “The kingdom have always valued your counsel, Your Holiness,” the Lord-Regent said, “but surely you must realize why we’re so hesitant to trust him in any capacity.”

  “I realize it fine,” she answered. “I am merely pointing out that you’re wrong to do so.”

  In a room full of powerful people unaccustomed to being so spoken to, it was an interesting – and, I admit, rather amusing – study in their facial expressions. They were by turns horrified, indignant, aghast, embarrassed, and none of them were willing to talk back to Sol’s Godspeaker.

  “What does the Worldmother think of him?” the Lord-Regent asked suddenly.

  It was a good question, and the room reacted accordingly. Every head swiveled in the Greatmother’s direction.

  “She has said nothing about him one way or the other,” she admitted.

  “Troubling,” muttered a woman on the Lord-Regent’s council.

  “What of your seers?” the Lord-Regent asked. “Onansu has an entire council of seers. Have they no prophecies on him? On anything?”

  “Your question misunderstands the theory of prophecy,” she answered. “And time as a concept.” Her patience was starting to wear thin, clearly.

  “Fine. Then what of the other Godspeakers?”

  I turned my head to the left. They were all lined up at the table across the way.

  Fiyera sighed. “We are Godspeakers, same as him. We don’t need to know his mind to know his innocence. Even if he conspired as you all seem to believe he has, we know that he would not have had a choice in that conspiracy.”

  “You’d be so apologetic to him?” said one of the thanes, sounding off-put. “Even if he was willing?”

  “There can be no willingness where there is no choice,” Fiyera said. “We are servants to the gods. We have always been—”

  “Don’t bother,” Greatmother Amira said. “They will not and cannot understand.”

  I stared at them, heart aching. Empathy – it wasn’t something I’d ever anticipated feeling again. Emotion knotted in my throat and I looked down at my knees.

  There came another lapse of silence. Every pair of eyes turned to the Lord-Regent. In the absence of the Queen, he was the ultimate authority, and it would be his decision on what course of action to take.

  And after a long pause, the Lord-Regent sighed. “Be it
at your peril, then, Godspeakers,” he said.

  “My Lord—!” began one councilor, aghast.

  “You cannot seriously—” began another.

  The Lord-Regent held up one hand to silence the detractors. “We’ll empty this city of all those not necessary to assist the Godspeakers in their work,” he said. “I am sure they’d be willing to give us a day’s start to flee the area.”

  Greatmother Amira hesitated a moment, then nodded. “A day.”

  “Therefore whatever happens,” the Lord-Regent continued, “we’ll have a day’s ride on it.”

  The shouting started up again, this time with more volume. Words like “absurd” and “madness” were thrown around quite a lot. Several people stood. I heard some accusing the Lord-Regent of abusing his new power, and others start shouting about what Queen Nerisa would do in this situation.

  It carried on for quite some time, a jumbled cacophony of hurling insults and outrage, before it was all silenced by a sudden, loud, thunderous crack of metal on wood.

  Soya, now standing, had neatly impaled the crest of her hand-axe into the table in front of her. She was seething with rage.

  “What, then?” she bellowed. “If not this, then what? What would the detractors have us do?”

  No one answered, or at least not for quite some time.

  “The gods—” began Lady Aevor, but Soya shouted her back down:

  “The gods can’t find him!” she thundered. “Or were you not paying attention? Would you wait for them? Would you have us hide from it all, barricade ourselves in our homes and cower like children, hoping that the Night Father fails, somehow? Or would you stand and do something?”

  Soya stood waiting for a response, challenging them all with smoldering brown eyes. No answer came.

  “If I am to die, I would die like Perenor!” she said, and his name lanced straight through me. “I would die standing in defiance of destiny! I would go down fighting! The Night Father took our immortality. Let’s show him that it has not broken us!”

  Greatmother Amira leaned over to Fiyera and muttered, “The girl is more a leader than her Lord Father.”