The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

  She knows the secret of my heart. How could she know this and not be from the god?

  “Warlord,” said Nagarak, halting before the scorpion wheel. “The god has heard you weeping, it has seen you in its smiting eye. Your sins are purged. Return to your life outside this godhouse and serve the god in its desires.”

  Raklion swallowed hot, relieved tears. As Nagarak released him from the scorpion wheel, as he cut the blood-slicked leather thongs at ankle and wrist, Raklion said, “Do you go now to the scorpion pit?”

  Nagarak nodded. “Yes. I go to ask the god’s desire. I go to ask if you must rule all Mijak as its warlord. If I am to be its one true godspeaker.”

  Raklion’s gaze slipped sideways to rest on Hekat’s secret, watchful face. He could see her smiling, he could hear her breathing, but Nagarak was deaf and blind. To Nagarak, they were alone.

  The god has sent her. She is sent by the god. She has already answered Nagarak’s question.

  “The god will not smite you in the scorpion pit, Nagarak,” Raklion said. “It will tell you I am to be warlord of Mijak.”

  Nagarak frowned. “You cannot say so, warlord. I am high godspeaker, I cannot say it. No man can know the god’s desire before the god tells a godspeaker in its time.”

  So Nagarak said. But there in the shadows stood the knife-dancer Hekat, and she had said a different thing. She stood in the shadows and Nagarak did not see her.

  Who do I believe now? Who knows the god best, Hekat or Nagarak?

  “Come with me, Raklion,” said Nagarak. “I will heal you before I go to the pit.”

  It was a terrible thing, to slide free of the scorpion wheel. Raklion heard his pained breath sobbing, he felt his head swim and his knees buckle after so long spent suffering for his sins. Nagarak’s smiting arm slipped round his shoulders, Nagarak’s strength kept him from falling.

  “When I beat you,” said Nagarak, “I was obeying the god. I took no pleasure from your weeping.”

  Nagarak, expressing regret? For a moment Raklion thought he must be fever-dreaming, that Hekat did not stand close by and unseen in the shadows, that he remained bound to the scorpion wheel awaiting further sorrow.

  Nagarak said, “If I must die in the scorpion pit I would not have any misunderstandings left behind me.”

  Raklion shifted a little, and took more weight upon his feet. He was desperate to lie down. “The smiting hand was not yours, Nagarak, it was the god’s. You were its instrument, I understand. And you will not die in the scorpion pit.”

  This time Nagarak did not chide him. “That is my desire, I confess it freely.” He cleared his throat. “But a man’s desires are nothing to the god. Its desires are not the desires of men.”

  Raklion looked at watching Hekat. “I believe the god desires peace in Mijak. I believe it desires an end to strife, to squabbling warlords, to untrue godspeakers. I believe it will tell you this in its scorpions’ whispers. Now, heal me I beg you, Nagarak high godspeaker, and let that be an end to my sorrow.”

  As Nagarak helped him from the chamber he resisted the urge to turn back to Hekat. The god had seen her into this place, it would see her safely out again.

  If it did not, her words were lies and she would be justly punished.

  But if she does not lie . . . if Nagarak is spared in the scorpion pit and tells me in his own words what Hekat has told me, these terrible three highsuns will be as labor. I will birth a Mijak made new.

  Hekat left the godhouse as she had entered it, deep in the god’s eye, invisible to mortal men. Vortka waited for her on the Pinnacle Road, chilled in the deep cold that came before newsun.

  “Tchut tchut, Vortka! What do you do here?” she whispered, as he took her hands in his. Voices carried on the cool night air. “This is the quiet time, the godmoon should not see you!”

  His fingers released her, and folded into his sleeves. His teeth were chattering. “I wanted to be sure you were unseen and unharmed.”

  “I am both, Vortka. The god hides me in its eye,” she said, impatient. “It does not hide you, you will be seen. You will be smitten. I have witnessed what the godspeakers do to men who break the quiet time. You are stupid , go away!”

  His solemn face broke into a smile. “You are worried for me.”

  It was one thing to call him friend in the silence of her mind. That did not mean she meant to shout it from her tongue, or wished to see him smile like that or say out loud things best left unspoken.

  “Tcha! Who wastes worry on stupid rocks?”

  His smile faded. “Did you see the warlord?”

  “Yes, I saw him. I told him what the god wants, he will do it. He has no choice, and neither do I. What the god desires the god must receive.”

  Vortka nodded. “It desires you to lie with the warlord. It desires you to bear him a son. Raklion will become the warlord of Mijak and the son you bear will follow him to glory.”

  Astonished, Hekat felt her mouth fall open. Then she stepped close to Vortka, her snakeblade in hand, and pricked its sharp tip into his throat. “ How do you know this ?”

  He did not push her hand away. “Aieee, Hekat. How do you think? I asked the god for answers, the god revealed its plan to me.”

  “The god, or a demon seeking mischief in the world?”

  “A demon cannot know the god’s secret heart.”

  Still she kept her snakeblade to his throat. “A man cannot know its secret heart, Vortka!”

  “A godtouched man knows whatever the god desires it to know,” said Vortka. “I too am godtouched, Hekat, do you seek to deny it? Do you seek to thwart the god from jealousy or spite?”

  Jealousy? Spite? How dare he say so! She snatched back her snakeblade and slapped his face. “I think you are jealous,” she hissed. “I can stand before Nagarak, he does not see me. Nagarak will always see you. You must ask the god to tell you its desires, the god comes to me unbidden, I never ask and still I know what it wants.”

  “You think that matters to the god?” said Vortka, scornful. “The god cares only that we serve. I am its instrument, Hekat, no less than you. Accept it, or the god will smite you.”

  That was true. She sheathed her snakeblade. “You are its instrument, Vortka, I accept it, but I must be careful. No man is perfect. All men are weak.”

  “I am not a man,” said Vortka, touching his face where her hand had struck him. “I am a godspeaker.”

  “Tcha!” she scoffed. “You were a man before you were a godspeaker. Little more than a boy. Sold to slavery for being unwanted.”

  “And you were a girl sold for the same reason,” he said, glaring. “That is the past, it does not matter. Now I breathe for the god, Hekat. I will not betray you, I will never hurt you. You need not guard yourself from me . Why do you attack me? I thought we were friends. I thought you trusted me.”

  “I can trust no-one,” she told him coldly. “I am precious and godtouched, I can have no friends.”

  His face twisted with anger. “You ungrateful brat! I have kept your bloodsoaked secrets and told lies for your sake in the godhouse. I come to you when the god’s will moves me and I tell you things it wants you to know. Things it does not whisper unasked in your heart. Even though I am put in danger, even though I would be tasked to mindless screaming if any godspeaker was to learn what I did. You are a stunted woman, Hekat. You have a mean spirit. That is your sorrow, it is not mine. Deny our friendship, I cannot stop you. But I am equal to you in the god’s eye and you will respect that.”

  She felt a pricking, a sting of discomfort. There was water standing in Vortka’s eyes. Scuffing her sandaled toe in the dirt she muttered, “I said I accepted you are the god’s instrument. Did I not say I accepted that? There is no need to sharpen your tongue on me. You are not so precious you can sharpen your tongue on me.”

  “Is that so?” he said, and turned away.

  She let him walk five paces, then called, “Wait! Vortka, wait!”

  He stopped, but did not turn back. “What?�
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  Mindful of their voices carrying, she took four paces to be near him again. “Nagarak prepares for the scorpion pit. He will ask the god if it wants Raklion as Mijak’s warlord. You must be there to witness the god’s answer. Whoever witnesses Nagarak’s testing, those godspeakers will be seen by him as special. Soon enough Nagarak will be my enemy. He will work against me. You must work for me, in the godhouse. You must trust me in this, I speak the truth.”

  It showed in his face that he did not want to trust her, his feelings were hurt. He was stupid, stupid . What were his feelings, compared to the god?

  “ Vortka ,” she said, and took his robe in her fist. “This is what the god wants. You cannot refuse.”

  He plucked her fingers free, turned on his heel and stalked away up the Pinnacle Road. She watched until the darkness swallowed him, until he was a memory in her eye. Around her neck the scorpion dangled, and it was hot with the god’s displeasure.

  He is my instrument, you handled him roughly.

  So said the god to her, deep in her heart.

  Bathed in the godmoon’s thin light she dropped to her knees, bruising them on stones scattered in the road. Her snakeblade glinted, it thirsted for her blood. If she refused its spilling, demons would take her. The power in her scorpion amulet would drain away, leaving her empty.

  I did not mean to disrespect you, god. I did not mean to disrespect your instrument.

  She pulled down her linen tunic, exposing her left breast to the night. Her snakeblade bit keenly. Dark blood welled. Pain rose like a hot wind from The Anvil, scouring away sin.

  Three times her blade bit, and after that the god was slaked. The fresh wounds healed, no need for a godstone. It was the god who healed her, who sealed her flesh.

  I am Hekat, beautiful and precious. Chosen. Godtouched. Filled with the god.

  How could Nagarak stand against her? How could any man stand against her?

  Though her wounds were healed, wet blood still stained her skin. She dragged her fingers through it and touched them to the scorpion amulet. The stone pulsed and flared into life. She laughed to feel it, the god throbbing in her bones. Its presence soothed her, eased the prickly hurt of harsh words with Vortka.

  I am Hekat, precious and beautiful. The god loves me, I will give it the world.

  Et-Raklion godhouse’s scorpion chamber had four bare walls, a bare ceiling, and a pit in the center of its stone floor. It had an altar at one end, but that was all. No lavish decoration was needed here, no godposts, no friezes, no mosaics, no elaborately wrought torch-holders. The god was here, and that was enough.

  Kneeling naked before the altar, even his scorpion pectoral discarded, Nagarak felt the god’s presence slide across his skin. Cool, caressing, but with a hint of heat and venom in it. Promise of the testing to come. He spilled no blood upon the altar. No sacrifice was needed for this ritual. He was the sacrifice, the sacred offering.

  In the pit behind him, fat godhouse scorpions skittered and hissed. It was full of them, more scorpions than any high godspeaker had faced in the godhouse’s ancient history. How could it be otherwise, when such a question trembled on his tongue?

  Must Raklion be Mijak’s one warlord? Must I be its one true high godspeaker?

  There was a chance he would die in this sacred place. That the god, offended, would sting him to a screaming death. Raklion warlord had outlived two high godspeakers already. Would today’s testing see a third outlived? He did not know. He could not tell. His godsense failed him, he saw no further into the future than the taking of his next breath. That had never happened before. Was it an ill omen?

  It was something else he could not tell.

  He waited with an empty mind for the witnesses to come. He knew not which three godspeakers the god would send, to be seen in its eye recording the question and the answer. That was the god’s business, no part of him.

  A godbell tolled, its sweet tones muffled by stone walls and distance. Outside the godhouse the sun was rising, chasing the godmoon and his wife below the horizon. The scorpion room contained no windows, he could not see the sunlight kiss the top of Raklion’s Pinnacle, strike fire from the godpost as though the god’s scorpion eyes were open. He felt a small regret for that.

  This was his favorite time of day.

  Sandals shuffled in the corridor outside. Three pairs, slow and steady. Unhurried, with the grace and dignity expected of a high godspeaker, he rose to his feet and turned to greet the god’s chosen witnesses.

  “The god sees you in its eye, my sister, my brothers.”

  It had selected Saskira, a healer, the taskmaster Bendik and one of the novices. Vortka, yes, that was his name. A pious youth, this Vortka, oft found in the tasking house repenting his sins. A godspeaker of uncommon powers and quiet devotion, so the novice-master said.

  “The god sees you also, Nagarak,” they murmured.

  At all other times, in all other places, every godspeaker in the godhouse was subordinate to him. Only here, in the scorpion chamber, was he the supplicant and they his masters.

  “Kneel to the god, Nagarak,” said Saskira healer. “Be anointed, bare your godspark to its all-seeing eye. The scorpions await you, they are hungry to test your heart.”

  Vortka novice was first to paint his high godspeaker’s body with the blood and oil, carried with him in a sacred stone jar. His dripping fingers were cool and confident, he knew precisely where and how to mark his high godspeaker’s skin. When the anointing was done he smeared his own face, from brow to chin and eye to eye.

  “Here is a sacred place, a silent place, a place of communing with the god,” he said. “I will see the god here. It will whisper in my heart. Its mysteries will be revealed to my eye. May the god grind my flesh to dust and feed my godspark to demons if I reveal by thought, word or deed what is shown to me in this place.”

  “The god sees, the god hears, the god will grind you into dust,” murmured the others.

  Twice more the ritual was performed, with bloodied oil upon the face and fervent words falling from the tongue. Nagarak waited, silent, patient, as the witnesses swore their oaths of discretion.

  When they were done, it was his turn.

  “Here is a sacred place, a silent place, a place of communing with the god,” he said. The oil and blood burned his naked flesh. “I have a question, the question is this. What does the god demand of Raklion warlord and his high godspeaker Nagarak?”

  “ A question is asked, the god will answer ,” intoned the witnesses. “ Surrender flesh, abandon hope. The god sees you, seeker. It sees you in its eye .”

  The scorpions rattled and scraped in the pit. They hissed, tails raised, as Nagarak slid into their midst. Their heaving bodies closed over his head, he was swimming in scorpions, drowning in scorpions. He was a scorpion, inhaled by the god.

  Time ended, suspended. Stung and stung, he screamed in torment. His blood turned to venom. His heart pumped pain. In his mind, the god’s voice thundered.

  One warlord for Mijak. One high godspeaker to guide him.

  There was its answer and its desire. Raklion warlord had heard the god right. Seven warlords no longer. No Mijak divided. One Mijak. One warlord. One godspeaker, to lead him.

  The god had answered. He would live.

  On a shout of triumph Nagarak surged to his feet. Scorpions fell from his flesh like scales from a snake. The pit was filled with dead and dying scorpions but he breathed, he lived, the god had answered him and spared his life.

  “ Tell us ,” the witnesses demanded.

  “The god desires a united Mijak,” he said, his voice ringing. “One nation, one warlord, one sacred altar beneath the sun.”

  He could not say why but it was the novice, Vortka, he looked to first. As Bendik and Saskira stared, eyes wide, pulses beating fast in their throats, the novice incompletely hid a smile. He was not surprised. He showed no alarm. No sweat beaded upon his brow.

  Before Nagarak could wonder at that he began to shake like
a man with fever. Saskira healer leapt forward and seized his arms. He was swiftly drawn from the scorpion pit and laid upon the cold stone floor. His body heaved and thrashed, he voided venom from bowel and bladder, from mouth and eyes and even his ears. Empty of poison, filled with the god, he let the godhouse healer mend him.

  One warlord for Mijak. One high godspeaker to guide him.

  When Saskira was done and he could stand unaided, he thanked the witnesses for their service, swore them to solemn secrecy, and departed from them for his private bath. There he cleansed his body, soaping and scrubbing until all traces of filth were removed.

  His skin was welted with fresh scorpion scars. He counted hundreds, he was lumped like a lizard, like some survivor of a terrible plague, the kind that had in the distant past ravaged the nation, plundered its populace, reduced the fat empire of Mijak to bones.

  The welts did not worry him. They were gifts from the god. Thumbprints of favor. He thought no other godspeaker living or dead had ever borne so many sting-marks. It was fitting.

  I am to be godspeaker of a nation.

  Cleansed, he strapped himself into his scorpion pectoral and draped his limbs in linen and wool. He alerted Peklia, godspeaker in charge of the sacrifices, and at the godhouse’s largest altar he gave a black bull-calf, twelve black lambs and one hundred golden cockerels to the god. Blood ran like a river. The novice holding the basin of water, afterwards, was the same Vortka who’d witnessed in the scorpion room.

  Sluicing the sacred blood from his hands, Nagarak said, “You desire something from me, novice?”

  The novice shook his head. Beads rattled. Godbells chimed. “No, high godspeaker. I desire only to serve.”

  “I see that you do serve. I see the god calls you to important matters.”

  The novice Vortka stared at the floor. “I am the god’s instrument. It uses me as it desires.”

  On the surface, it was a humble answer. On the surface, Vortka novice was a humble man. And yet . . . in the scorpion chamber . . . Vortka novice had smiled.