The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

  Heart frantic, breath strangled in his throat, he sat in the dark and wondered if he dreamed. If he was fevered and raving on the brink of ugly death.

  If I am dying, god, let me die in peace I beg you. Do not torment me with such terror. Do not take my mind from me.

  The god was everywhere but in this cave. Unanswered a third time, Vortka felt his fingers reaching, as his heart pounded he felt them grope in the darkness for that strange rock. If light came again, if his godsense stirred, it might prove he was not raving. That this was real and not a dream. He could see where he had fallen. Perhaps even find a way out before he starved.

  A pebble—nothing. A shard of stoneglass that cut his fingers—blood, but no light. A gritty, grainy chunk of sandrock—more darkness.

  Something smooth and cold and briefly familiar—

  “ Aieee !” he cried out, in the new light, in the roaring of his power. In the heat that was like fucking Hekat.

  He clutched a crystal in his hand. It was dark red, but the light it emitted was purest white. Power pulsed within it and it pulsed in him, his eyes were burning, his flesh was on fire. He looked around him, saw another red crystal, this one as large as a man’s head. He had never seen crystal like it before. Never heard it mentioned, or found reference to it in the godhouse library.

  Is this why I am brought here, god?

  Despite the light and power, the dark red crystal was cool against his skin. The heat was in him, pouring out of him and through its rough-hewn facets. He remembered his testing in the slave pens of Et-Nogolor, how it felt when he took hold of the godstone and power woke within him for the first time in his life.

  That was water. This was blood.

  More time passed and he felt himself grow dizzy. He uncrooked his clutching fingers, let the crystal tumble to the gritty ground. This time the heat and light faded slowly, as though the crystal were a goblet with a hole punched in it and his godsense was rich wine trickling out.

  Darkness returned, not as an enemy but as a friend, a refuge. Somewhere to hide while he struggled to make sense of the crystal, the light, the stirred power within him.

  Not one godspeaker in Et-Raklion’s godhouse, not even Nagarak high godspeaker himself, had sensed this potential in their novice.

  I am godchosen, like Hekat I hide in the god’s secret eye.

  If only he understood what that meant. Understood what he was meant for, besides the siring of a child.

  This dark red crystal that seemed to channel his godsense, did Nagarak know of its existence? Was it kept a terrible high godspeaker secret? If so, what might happen if Nagarak learned a newly tested novice had held it in his hand? Or was Nagarak ignorant, kept unknowing by the god? If that was so, then did he have a duty to tell the high godspeaker of his discovery? Surely not. If the god wanted Nagarak to know, he would know. If he told Nagarak when the god wished it secret, what dread retribution might he invite?

  Questions scuttled round the bowl of his skull like rats in a dry well, he could not catch them, they would drive him mad. The god sent him no answers. It had brought him here, the smoke from his godbraids had led him to this place. There was a purpose to this discovery, he was sure of that much. As for the rest . . .

  Hekat will know how to learn what this means. The god speaks to her when it will not speak to me. I must return to Et-Raklion. Hekat will know what to make of this mystery.

  There was a measure of comfort in that, at least.

  Exhaustion overcame him, then. He was so weary the cold meant nothing, his scrapes and bruises meant nothing, his clamoring belly and sand-dry throat, they also meant nothing. His bones were chalk, his muscles turned to sadsa dregs.

  He stretched out on the ground, and slept.

  When he woke again, filtering sunlight lifted the cave out of deep shadow. For a moment he thought again of dreams, of fevered ravings, but the dark red crystals were no dream. With the newsun’s help he searched the cave to see if there were more. He could not find any. One large crystal and one much smaller, that was all.

  Squatting on his battered haunches, he looked at the large lump of dark red rock. He was afraid to touch it. Holding the small crystal had woken such power, what might happen if he roused the larger crystal to life?

  He did not know. Turning aside from that thorny problem, he distracted himself with another no less uncomfortable.

  How to get himself out of the cave.

  But there, the god saw him, it answered his pleas. Exploration showed him the cave was a kind of bubble blown into solid rock. The hole in the roof, too high for him to reach, no rocks to help him upwards, was one breach; a narrow passageway behind some tumbled boulders was another. Whether it led all the way to the outside world he could not see, or even guess. The only way to learn that was to traverse it. He had no hope of walking upright in the passage, he had to lie on his back and shuffle his way along the ground like some crippled snake, like a lizard with no legs. It was a harsh tasking, he could feel his naked skin tearing, the solid rock pressed upon him, there was air but he could not breathe.

  He thought of Zandakar, and throttled his fear.

  The passageway ended just as he imagined, despairingly, he would never see the sky again. With a grunt he wriggled free of the oppressive crawlspace and regained his feet with great effort, shaking and mucky with dirt, blood and sweat. Aieee, had any novice before him endured such a testing?

  He stood in the shadow of a crumbling rock cliff. As his harsh breathing eased and the thundering blood in his ears slowed to silence, he heard another, welcome sound. Running water, near at hand.

  Vortka staggered towards that godsent flowing, to the fringe of green lining a rocky depression off to the right. It was an oasis, a grudging trickle of water from deep underground that fed into a shallow basin. Laughing weakly he thrust his face into it and drank, drank till his belly distended and threatened to burst. Then he wept, in fear and gratitude. The night’s doubts shamed him now, safe in sunlight, he knew the god would not abandon him but even so, he’d felt abandoned. He saw a brown lizard, torpid and sluggish, and killed it with a loose rock before it could escape. Ravenous, he devoured it raw.

  After that he bathed his body as best he could, inspecting himself for wounds less than superficial. He had lost much skin, scored grooves, punched holes, but in truth the damage was no more dangerous than any brute strapping he’d received in the godhouse.

  He would survive.

  Letting unshaded sunshine dry him, he wondered what he must do about the crystals. Where he stood was a featureless plain, he saw no tree or outcropping he could recognize. He realized then he had no recollection of how he found this place. His last clear memory was setting fire to his godbraids. After that, it was smoke and wonder.

  God, you must guide me. If this is my testing and I have passed, show me how to get home to Et-Raklion, to Hekat and our Zandakar. Tell me what you desire I do next.

  His godsense stirred then, and he turned from the oasis to tread further across the stony plain. He walked until the god told him to stop, then dropped to the hard ground and lay on his back beneath the sun. The rock was burning, it woke all his small hurts and made them larger. The light dazzled his eyes, he closed them and was lost in blood-red shadows. His skull was vulnerable, pillowed on rock.

  Here I am, god, at your mercy. Write your desires in my naked flesh.

  The surrounding silence was vast and deep. But then something broke it, a skittering sound, faint at first but growing louder. He opened his eyes and turned his head.

  Scorpions were coming.

  Called by the god, whispered to its service, they covered the rocks in a carapace carpet, black and brown and red and ochre. Not the lovingly bred monsters from the godhouse, larger than a large man’s hand spread full wide, these were creatures of the wilderness, small and agile, bred to survive all of nature’s casual cruelties.

  Vortka’s heart faltered, he felt it stop. Every muscle, every sinew, screamed at him to lea
p up and run. Run before the scorpions reached him, run before that first kiss of venom, run before it was too late.

  If I run now, it has all been for nothing.

  When his father died, he’d thought he knew fear. When his mother re-married, then he thought he understood it. When the slave chains closed about his wrists, his ankles, he was certain at last he grasped its meaning.

  Now he knew those times were but seedlings, shy suggestions of what was to come.

  Oh, Hekat. Oh, Hekat. I wish you were with me.

  She had braved the scorpion pit, she had swum with godhouse scorpions and drowned in their venom. She had embraced that destiny, urged it upon herself. How could he do less when the god had chosen him to give her a son?

  Swallowing a whimper, he watched as the rock plain disappeared beneath an onslaught of scorpions. Who knew so many lived in the world?

  The god knows. The god made them. They serve its mysteries, and its purpose.

  The scorpions reached him, covered him, stung him. They made of him a scorpion man. He forgot his name, he felt his flesh welt, his blood curdle, the god roared through him, leaving him weak. Hissing, scratching, the creatures scrambled upon him, he heard words in their voices, they whispered in his ears.

  Vortka . . . precious . . . chosen . . .

  Was he dying? He did not know. Consciousness left him. He sank into shadow. When he woke, he was alone. No sign of scorpions. No marks on his flesh.

  He knew exactly what he must do.

  Raklion waited until it was almost time to ride to Mijak’s Heart before telling Hanochek he would not be riding there with his warlord. He knew Hano would be hurt, so hurt, to have his rightful place taken by Hekat. He was the warleader, he stood tall in the world. Wherever the warlord rode, so rode his warleader.

  But not this time. This time I must be guided by the god. The god tells Hekat she must ride beside me, who am I to say she will not?

  After meeting with Nagarak for the taking of omens and private sacrifice on his knees, he walked down to the barracks. There he found Hano at warplay with Zandakar, they were the best of friends, his friend and his son. A ring of warriors surrounded them, cheering and shouting as Hano and Zandakar sparred on the warhost field. Zandakar was blindfolded, in his hand a blunt wooden snakeblade. He was learning to fight with senses not fed by his eyes, he was nimble on his feet, swift to feel Hano’s approach and retreat.

  Raklion slid between two laughing warriors, held his finger to his lips so they would not betray his presence. He did not wish to distract his son.

  Zandakar danced like his beautiful mother, he was light on the green grass, he leapt without weight. Hano was strict with him, he did not make exceptions for Zandakar’s age or his father. Twice Zandakar misjudged Hano’s movements, once he went sprawling hard on the ground when Hano caught him a sharp blow on the rump. Below his blinded eyes Zandakar’s face twisted with anger, he spat out a curse and bounced to his feet.

  “Again, warleader! Come at me again!”

  Aieee, he was a brave boy, he was a warrior bred in the bone. Raklion held his breath as his small son flew at Hanochek, tapping him smartly with his blunted blade, he did not make a single mistake. He caught Hano in all his vulnerable places, his belly, his hamstring, the soft inner elbow. Hano dropped to his knees, crying surrender.

  “You defeat me, I am beaten, see me cowed before you!” he declared.

  Zandakar tore off his blindfold, laughing. “I have beaten the warleader! I am Zandakar the mighty!”

  Hano snatched him into a crushing embrace, saluting his grimy cheek with a kiss. “Yes, you are mighty! I am defeated by a mighty warrior!” Standing easily, sweeping Zandakar up and over and onto his feet, his head turned. “Warlord!”

  Raklion came forward. “Hanochek warleader, I see you train a mighty warrior.”

  Zandakar pulled himself to attention, he bowed his head and pressed his fist to his heart. “Warlord.”

  He returned the salute with a small ache in his heart. He was always the warlord. Hekat was Yuma , he was never Adda . Hekat knew it bothered him, she called him stupid. He will be the warlord, he shows you respect. You fret because he respects you? How foolish are men . She was right, of course. She was always right.

  Reading him as he always did, Hanochek dismissed the watching warriors with a gesture and stood with his hand on Zandakar’s shoulder. “You need me?”

  “Where is Hekat?”

  “She trains with the new recruits on the horse-field, warlord. Shall I send a—”

  He shook his head. “No. It is you I need.” But it was better that Hekat was safely somewhere else. Her voice added to his would not make this easier. “Zandakar, lowsun approaches. Return to the palace, bathe and don clean clothes. We attend special sacrifice in the godhouse this night.”

  “Special sacrifice?” said Hano, as Zandakar departed. “What do you pray for, Raklion?” Then his face changed. “Aieee . . . it is time, warlord? It is time to take Mijak in your fist?”

  Raklion cast a swift look around them, they were alone but even so. “Not here,” he said sharply. “Walk with me, Hano.”

  On the far side of the warhost field grew an expanse of woodland, where warriors practiced stealth among the trees. It was quiet, private, they could talk in that place undisturbed. Raklion led Hanochek there, and when they were swallowed by leaves and shadows he stopped.

  His warleader eyed him warily. “You are making me nervous. Whatever you must say, I wish you would say it.”

  Hano was not the only man with sweaty palms. “You are right, my friend. The god’s time is come. Five highsuns from now, at the next fat godmoon, it sends me to Mijak’s Heart to change the face of Mijak forever. The warlords are called to meet me there with their high godspeakers in attendance, so they might learn their fate: to kneel before me in submission, to lose their autonomy, to be cast down.”

  “Tcha!” said Hano. “They will not be pleased to hear that news.” He frowned. “Are you certain you must tell them at Mijak’s Heart? If you tell them elsewhere, if you summon them to Et-Raklion and meet them with every warrior in your warhost—”

  Raklion shook his head, his godbells sang. “This is not warlord’s business, Hano. This is the god’s will, it is given through Nagarak, the god’s voice in the world. They can be told nowhere but in the Heart of Mijak.”

  Hano did not like to hear it, but he swallowed his protest. “You are permitted to take ten warriors, that is true?”

  “Yes. It is true.”

  “Have you chosen who will ride with us, or do we meet now to—”

  “Hano.” He lowered his hand, it hurt to breathe. “We meet so I might tell you of the god’s desire, and also that you will not ride with me to Mijak’s Heart.”

  “ Not ride . . .” Hano was puzzled. “Raklion, you cannot ride to tell the warlords such a thing without a sharp blade at your side, you—”

  “I will have a sharp blade, Hano. I will have Hekat.”

  Hano’s face stilled, like a lake unstirred by any breeze. In the woodland’s hush his breathing was loud, almost labored. “Hekat is not your warleader, warlord. I am your warleader, the snakeblade at your side.”

  Aieee, god, the pain in him. He and Hekat were not easy together. It was a grief to him, he could not change their hearts. “She is more important than my warleader,” he said gently. “She is Zandakar’s mother. After me he will be the warlord of Mijak, greater than any warlord in our history. The god has said so, and I know it in my heart. Hekat is a part of this, she must be witnessed by the other warlords, they must see her beside me and know she is chosen by the god as the mother of my living son who will be warlord after I am dead. The god desires I heal bleeding Mijak and lead it kindly into peace, to make of it a gift for Zandakar. I will do that, you will help me. In truth, I will not do it without you. But for the throwing down of the warlords, there I must have Hekat. I am sorry, Hano. This is not my will, but the will of the god.”

  “Sh
e tells you that?” Hano demanded, vicious. “Is this her doing?”

  “Hano, Hano . . .” He took his warleader’s shoulders in a biting grip. “Would you have me choose between my knife-brother and my son’s godchosen mother? Are you so cruel? Is your heart so small?”

  Hano tensed, he did not pull away. “This is not about my heart, Raklion. I think only of you, and keeping you safe. The warlords will not greet your message with a smile, they will foam at the mouth, they will spit on you in fury. The warlords know me, seasons of fighting have burned my name into their flesh. When they see me beside you they will know better than to challenge your might.”

  “They will know not to challenge when they see Nagarak,” he said. “And when they see Hekat, Bajadek’s doom.”

  Now Hano did pull away, he thudded his fist into a tree. “ Raklion —”

  “I will be safe in the Heart of Mijak, Hano,” he said. “That place is sacred, there can be no bloodshed there. Not even a warlord as hungry as Banotaj, as angry as Tebek, would dare thwart the god’s will in that place.”

  “I think the warlords would dare anything if they think their days of power are come to an end!”

  Raklion stepped back, he stiffened his spine. “Hanochek, you risk the god’s wrath. It has chosen me, I am in its eye. No harm can come to me in the Heart of Mijak. Nagarak will be with me, he too is the god’s chosen. He will be high godspeaker of Mijak.”

  Hano’s eyes were bright. “I am sorry, Raklion. I do not mean to doubt the god, or you.” He heaved a sigh. “Aieee, my warlord, the warlord of Mijak. What a thing that is. How deep are you in the god’s great eye.”

  “So deep I think I cannot see,” he confessed. “If I tell you I am afraid, Hano, will I seem less than a man to you?”

  “You are the greatest man I have ever known!” said Hano, swiftly. “And while you are with the god in the Heart of Mijak I will be here in Et-Raklion, warlord, I will guard your city and your warhost. I will guard your son, he will live in my eye.”