The Godspeaker Trilogy (28 page)

“Peklia, are you sworn to tell of this choosing? Must others know what has happened here?”

She stared, surprised. “Other godspeakers? No. But—”

“Then please, I beg you. Let it be our secret. When the god is ready it will reveal its purpose in giving me this knife. Until that time I do not wish this choosing to be known. I am newly tested, I was not born in Et-Raklion. I have no desire for others to hear of this and treat me differently.”

“I understand that,” said Peklia, nodding. “But you must understand, Vortka, I cannot keep secrets from Nagarak high godspeaker.”

Nagarak. Nagarak. “Yes, he must be told,” said Vortka, slowly. “But will you let me tell him, Peklia, when he returns with the warlord from the Heart of Mijak?”

Her broad, plain face settled into stubborn lines. “That is not proper. I am godspeaker of the Sacrifice chamber, responsible for the sacrificial knives. It is my duty to record which knife is claimed by which godspeaker.”

Vortka took a deep breath and let it out, subduing frustration. “Peklia, I feel I am guided by the god. I must be the one to tell Nagarak high godspeaker of this strange choosing.”

It was no small thing, to invoke the god like that. No godspeaker did so lightly, if the claim was false the god would smite without mercy. Peklia’s eyes widened, her lips pressed tight. “You say so?” she said, after a long moment. “You are certain?”

“I am. I hear the god’s voice in my heart.” And that was no lie. The god was a burning coal, waking and sleeping he felt it, he heard it. “Please. Let me tell him.”

Peklia sighed. “Very well, godspeaker. You have my silence.”

He touched his fingertips to her arm. “Thank you. And if I might ask for one more thing?”

“ Tcha ! You are bold for one so newly tested!”

“Forgive me,” said Vortka, truly contrite. “Before lowsun I swear I will kneel in the tasking house, that I might be chastised for my sin.”

“And in the meantime?” she said. Her lips twitched a little, she was not a sour woman. “What is this other thing you desire?”

He looked at the ancient knife in his hand. “This blade will draw attention whenever I wield it. Until I have spoken to Nagarak, until he gives me leave to use it, I think I am better served with something plainer. Can I choose another, to learn the art of sacrifice with you?”

She shoved the knife-box across the table. “It would be wiser. Choose quickly, Vortka. You take much of my time.”

“Thank you, Peklia. The god see you for your understanding.”

She snorted. “And may it see you for your speed, godspeaker!”

He chose a knife at random from the box. The god did not care which one he took, he felt no surge of power as his fingers closed about its hilt, it was a plain tool that would help him serve the god.

Peklia gave him the sheath that fitted that blade. As she returned the knife-box to the cupboard he attached his working knife to his belt, then wrapped his true knife in the square of red wool and slid it into his robe pocket to keep company with the small red crystal.

“Come,” she said, and glanced at him. Shadows lurked within her eyes, he could see she was not comfortable with her decision. “The novices will be finished their preparations by now, sacrifice must continue.”

“Yes, godspeaker,” he said, and followed her out of the knife-room, the ancient snakeblade heavy in his pocket.

In the main chamber the novices stood ready against the wall. The altar was clean, the sacrificial blood taken away. Peklia chose the next sacrifice, a white lamb. “A single stroke must kill it,” she told him. “An unclean death displeases the god.”

Vortka nodded, his time as a novice here had shown him that much. He stood at the altar and sacrificed the white lamb, his plain knife took its life with one sure stroke. Peklia gave him the snake-eye amulet and he passed it over the dead lamb’s body, the god ate its essence. It was pleased in his heart.

“A proper first sacrifice,” said Peklia, not smiling. “You are adept already. Continue, Vortka. I will watch with the god.”

More lambs he sacrificed, and golden cockerels and twelve black goatkids. There was no end to the god’s great appetite, the more he fed it the hungrier it grew. The candles burned down to their holders, the sacrifice pens were stripped bare and refilled. Peklia stood in a corner and watched him, unspeaking. The blade in his pocket weighed heavy, then heavier, it began to pull him down. He resisted, his spine straight, he would not fail the god, not in this place. Not before the chamber’s strict guardian.

“Enough,” said Peklia, as he gave the last goatkid’s godspark to the god. “You have served the god well today, Vortka.”

“Yes, Peklia godspeaker,” he answered, and put his knife down on the bloodied altar, beside the snake-eye amulet. Relief was a hammer, pounding his head. he was hungry, he was thirsty, all he could see with his eyes was blood.

Peklia said, “When you have paid for your sins in the tasking house, Vortka, Brikin will assign you a godspeaker sleeping cell of your own.”

Aieee , the tasking house! He had forgotten. He was sworn to go there, he could not break his word.

“The god see you, Peklia,” he said to her, bowing. “The god see you, novices.”

“The god see you, Vortka. Return here at newsun,” said Peklia, briskly. “There is still much I have to teach you.”

He cleaned his working blade and safely sheathed it, washed himself in a bucket supplied by one novice, dried himself with a towel supplied by another. Then he walked to the tasking house. He walked slowly, but in the end he reached it, as he must. He told the taskmaster chosen for his tasking of his debt to that village family, and his impudence to Peklia. The taskmaster listened, frowned, pointed. So Vortka removed his robe and folded it carefully, then knelt on the floor to receive the god’s judgement.

The god treated him kindly, he was tasked with just twenty strokes of the strap. He had in the past been tasked far more severely, this time the strap did not draw his blood. Smarting, humbled, he thanked the taskmaster, wincingly pulled on his robe, and made his way to the shrine garden for a moment of solitude.

It was late, no light in the sky, the godmoon and his wife strode among the stars. Somewhere behind him, in the godhouse, Nagarak swam in the godpool and communed with the god. Or perhaps that was done now, and he made private sacrifice for the great journey to Mijak’s Heart.

Hekat will tell me why they ride to that sacred place. If she rides with Nagarak, surely she will know why. I will have to meet her before newsun, I cannot let her ride away without first telling her of the wilderness and the crystal. It might have meaning at Mijak’s Heart.

His pocket weighed heavy with that other, mysterious sacrifice knife. He should not take that with him when he went to meet with Hekat at the palace. He should find out where he was meant to sleep while he remained in the godhouse, and leave it there, safe.

Leaving the garden, he returned to the godhouse and made his way to the kitchens. After so much sacrifice his belly was empty again. Sitting by himself with a bowl of soup and a round of flat bread he let the soft conversations of the other godspeakers wash over him, he thought of Hekat in the godhouse. She looked well, she looked lethal, life with the warlord had honed her to a sharpness. Truly she was born to be the god’s warrior.

It would be a relief to share his experience in the wilderness with her, and learn at last what the god meant by it.

He had only eaten half his bowl of soup and three mouthfuls of bread when Brikin came to the kitchen. “Vortka!”

He shoved his bowl aside and bowed almost to the bench-top. “Novice-master.”

Brikin rapped his knuckles on the wood. “I have seen Peklia, she speaks well of you. Nagarak will be pleased to hear it when he returns from Mijak’s Heart.”

Would he? I think he would be pleased if he never heard my name again . He could not say so to Brikin. “Yes, novice-master.”

“Are you finished eating? You must come with me. My last task as your novice-master is to assign you a sleep-cell. I have done it, I will show you, I must be about my novicing business.”

Brikin waited while he disposed of his half-emptied bowl, his bread and his spoon, then led him up staircases and along corridors to the godhouse sleep-cell wing.

“A pallet, a candle, a pishpot and a blanket,” said Brikin, opening one cell’s door and standing aside. The room was grey, stone-built and small, three paces by three, a thin slit in the stonework its excuse for a window. “For as long as you remain in the godhouse this is your place.”

Vortka nodded. “Do you know how long that will be, novice-master?”

“No,” said Brikin. “Nagarak will decide your fate after his return. While he is away you will serve in the library. Go there after newsun sacrifice.”

“Yes, novice-master.” He hesitated. “Must I stay in my cell now, or am I permitted some time for contemplation in the shrine garden?”

Brikin looked at him, something approaching affection in his eyes. “You were always a dutiful novice, I know you love the god. If you feel the need to pray in the shrine garden, I say you may do it. If you are questioned there, tell that godspeaker to see me.”

Vortka lowered his face, he felt a twinge of discomfort, telling lies to Brikin. But I lie for the god, so there is no sin . “Yes, novice-master.”

Brikin departed. Vortka took the sacrifice knife from his pocket and slid it for safety under his pallet. It would be safe there, till the god told him the best place to keep it.

Then he left the godhouse, unseen, and made his way down the Pinnacle Road to the palace, and Hekat.

H
ekat sat beside her sleeping son’s bed and watched the dreams swirl behind his closed eyes. She was alone in the palace, as Raklion spent this night in the barracks with Hanochek. The warleader was not happy he did not ride to Mijak’s Heart. On the surface Hanochek pretended to accept the god’s will but she knew better. She saw with the god’s eyes, she knew he was jealous and filled with spite. Raklion tried to ease Hano’s hurt. She thought he was stupid, but did not say so.

Who are you, Hanochek? You are no-one, nothing. If you are not dead by the time Zandakar is warlord you will not be his warleader. When Zandakar is warlord if you are not dead you will be banished to the savage north. He will have no need of you. I will be with him, I am all that he needs.

Beneath his light covers Zandakar stirred and sighed. She smoothed his godbraids, she stroked his cheek. “ Yuma ,” he murmured, and was lulled to rest.

Aieee, how she loved him. How her heart beat for him, how he melted her bones with a single look. She wished she could take him with her at newsun but she did not dare show him to the warlords when he was still a child. The warlords were wicked, they listened to demons. A demon might strike Zandakar, he was too precious to risk. The god would abandon her were she careless with its greatest gift.

Time passed, she sat with her son. When at last she felt her scorpion amulet stir, when she felt a throb of heat against her skin, she left his bedside and sent in his nurse-slave to watch over him. Then, hidden in the god’s eye, she slipped from the palace onto the Pinnacle Road, and waited there for Vortka to arrive.

“Come,” she whispered when he reached her, and led him in the god’s protection past the slaves at the palace gates to her private garden where they could speak undisturbed and she was nearby to Zandakar.

Vortka’s face was still beautiful, his godbraids were gone. His skull was covered in black fuzz, his eyes were enormous. How young he looked, and so vulnerable. “You are certain we’re safe here?” he said, glancing at the shadowed palace.

“Tcha! Vortka, you are stupid. We are hidden in the god’s eye, surrounded by godspeakers we would be alone.”

He shook his head, faintly smiling. “I have missed you, Hekat, and your sharp tongue.”

It did no good to say she had missed him. He was a godspeaker, she was a warrior. Their lives were their lives, they walked different paths. They were almost strangers now, so much time had passed since their last secret meeting. “So you are tested, Vortka. The god sees you in its eye. I knew it would, I knew it would reward you for your service. That is your purpose, to be a godspeaker. Why do you seek me out now?”

“Why do you ride to the Heart of Mijak?”

She frowned. “Does that concern you? I think it does not.”

Her words hurt him, she saw the sharp pain in his eyes. He said, “And I think it does. Hekat, in the wilderness the god did more than see me. It spoke to me. It gave me visions. It led me to a secret place, it gave me something I do not fully understand. I think you are meant to know of it, also. I think you are wrong to think our journey together is finished. Tell me, Hekat. Why do you ride to the Heart of Mijak?”

It did not matter if she told him. All of Mijak would know why, soon enough. “So Raklion might throw down the godforsaken warlords. His time is come. Mijak must be united in the shadow of his snakeblade.”

“Ah,” said Vortka. Hesitantly he reached into his robe pocket and withdrew something she could not see, it was hidden in his hand. “I burned my godbraids in the wilderness, it is part of the test,” he said slowly. “The smoke consumed me, I wandered witless till I fell into a cave. In the cave I found this.” He opened his fingers, and showed her a lump of something wrapped in cloth. “Watch.”

He shook the cloth free to reveal a piece of dull red crystal. Closing his eyes, he tightened his fingers, he gasped and shivered. The crystal glowed, it burned bright white, it did not hurt him, though she could feel its great heat. She felt her scorpion amulet tremble, it shivered with reflected power.

“ Aieee !” she whispered. “What else does it do?”

Vortka opened his eyes and loosened his fingers. The crystal faded back to dull red. “I dare not show you. Not here. Not now. But I will tell you what I did in the wilderness with this crystal. I destroyed solid rock. I melted stone. With this crystal I shattered the cave, it is ruined forever. As I returned to Et-Raklion I blasted trees into splinters. I killed a stray cow, its blood boiled in its veins. Hekat, this red stone is a mighty weapon.”

“How did you know what to do?” she demanded. “The crystal is a mystery, Vortka, I have read every tablet in the godhouse library, there is no mention of such a thing.”

“The god told me, Hekat,” he said simply. “I lay down on a rocky plain, it sent scorpions to sting me, when I was myself again I knew how to use the god’s gift.”

She frowned at the small stone in his hand. “Is that piece all you found?”

“No. I found one other, larger and heavier.”

“How much power was in it?”

He shook his head. “I did not dare touch it. The god sent me a wild goat to eat, I killed it and skinned it with a shard of rock. I wrapped the large crystal in its hide and carried it with me out of the wilderness. It is buried safely beyond the city.”

Her scorpion amulet continued to burn. “It cannot stay there. The world is full of demons, Vortka, they seek every way to thwart the god. You must bring that large crystal to me. We must bury it in my private garden, it will not be found here.”

“Bring it to you?” He looked at her, uncertain. “Hekat, I think it is meant as a weapon for the warlord to wield.”

Aieee, there was a singing in her heart. “No, Vortka. Not the warlord. This weapon is meant for me. I am the god’s warrior, I am its knife-dancer in the world. If the god intended this crystal weapon for Raklion it would have guided Nagarak to find it. It did not, it guided you. You are godchosen for me, Vortka. Have we not seen this? Do we not know?”

Still the stupid man looked uncertain. “The god did not say—”

“Tcha!” she spat. “Does the god tell you everything? I think it does not.” She held out her hand. “Give me the crystal.”

Vortka hesitated. “Hekat . . .”

“Give me it, Vortka! You know who I am, you have seen me in the god’s eye! I am meant for this weapon, give it to me !”

Unhappily he gave her the crystal. She held the red stone before her eyes, waited for the flaring light, the god’s power rising. Nothing happened. It was rock in her fingers, it contained no power. She felt nothing in it, or herself. Even her scorpion amulet was silent. She glared at him.

“What is this? Is there a summoning word to be spoken? I warn you, Vortka, do not thwart the god. Tell me how you wake the crystal.”

Vortka spread his hands wide, helpless. “Hekat, there is no summoning word. I hold the crystal and it comes to life.”

“Then why does it not come to life for me ?” She reached for her snakeblade, pricked him with it in a heartbeat. “Are you my enemy now, Vortka godspeaker? Have you tasted power and hunger for more? I will gut you, I will spread your entrails on the grass, the god will spit your godspark into hell.”

He looked at her, not at the knife-point in his belly. His eyes were sad, his expression untroubled. “Hekat. Believe me. We are not enemies, I cannot tell you why the crystal sleeps. It is not my fault if it wakes for me and not you. Perhaps you are wrong. Perhaps the god does not intend it for you.”

She stared, struck silent. Was it possible? Was the crystal not meant for her? It was a bitter thought. I am the god’s knife-dancer, I throw down its enemies! I dance with my snakeblade for the god! What was her purpose then, if not to wield the god’s mightiest weapon?

Vortka was frowning. How wrong his face looked, unframed by godbraids. “Hekat. I sired Zandakar, he sprang from my seed. If I can wake the crystal . . .”

Tcha. Was that it? “Come,” she said, and turned on her heel.

Vortka followed her unquestioning into the palace, along the silent corridors, past waking slaves who did not see them, to her son’s chamber where he slept, lost in dreams.

Zandakar’s nurse-slave slumped by his bed. Hekat saw her snoring and could have beaten her. The bitch would be beaten at newsun, before the journey to Mijak’s Heart. Bending over her son in his bed she pulled back his blanket and nestled the crystal in his hand.

Bright white light bloomed in the candlelit chamber. Zandakar stirred, but did not wake. Nor did the nurse-slave, that was lucky for her.

“Hekat!” said Vortka, his voice a hushed exhalation. “The god sees him. Zandakar stirs the crystal to life.”

“Yes,” she said. Her eyes drifted closed, the god’s voice rose like thunder within her. “This was the god’s plan. I was stupid before, I know the truth now. You cannot be warlord, you can wake the crystal. Your seed sired Zandakar, there is the link. With this weapon he will be more than a warlord. He will be the god’s hammer. He will smite its enemies, and they will all be destroyed. I am to guide him into manhood. Train him as a warrior. Advise him how to rule. That is my purpose, he is my son. Yours is to teach him the secrets of the crystal.”

“Aieee,” whispered Vortka. “The god is in your voice, Hekat. Can you hear it? Can you feel it? Zandakar, our beautiful son, the hammer of the god!”

My son, Vortka. Zandakar is mine . “Of course I can feel it,” she said, and opened her eyes. “Am I not Hekat, godtouched and precious?”

He sighed. “Yes. You are Hekat.” He sounded resigned.

She watched him take the crystal from Zandakar before the light woke him, and wrap it in its protective cloth. As she watched him her heart pounded, once.

Yes. I am Hekat. And you are Vortka. You can wake the crystal’s fury. You are godtouched, you are also a man. Men are not perfect, they fall prey to demons. Your seed could sire another son. Another son could rival Zandakar . . .

At the thought, her amulet shivered.

Vortka, serious, touched her son’s soft cheek. “When the god desires it, Hekat, I will teach him what it taught me in the wilderness. I hope it is some time from now. The crystal’s power is brutal and he is still so young to wake such fury.”

“He will not wake it till he is a man,” she said. “He has much to learn of warfare before I can trust him with the crystal. He must master the knife-dance and the slingshot, learn to throw a long spear, drive a chariot, send an arrow straight into an enemy’s heart. When he knows what it is to be a warlord, then will he become the god’s hammer.”

Vortka frowned at her. “Do not forget he must first be a child.”

“A child?” She snorted. “You are stupid, Vortka. Sons of potsmiths are children, they play mud games, they laugh with stupid friends. This is Zandakar, son of Hekat knife-dancer. He plays with snakeblades, he swims in blood.” She held out her hand. “Give me the crystal. I will keep it safe.”

“Zandakar’s power must be left alone for now,” he said, dropping the cloth-wrapped stone into her palm. “Do not be tempted to let him play with it. Do not reveal its existence, not even to Raklion. Until I found it this crystal was the god’s secret. It must stay a secret. No-one must know.”

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.