by Karen Miller
She pulled her hands away. “It is the truth, Zandakar, I will not hear you deny it! That brat spoiled my body, he has thwarted my plans!”
He took a deep breath, he let it out slowly. “Your plans, Empress, but not the god’s.”
She almost struck him, he felt her whole body tense. He was a man now, he did not flinch. After a moment, the urge to violence left her. She settled on her pillows and folded her arms. “I have decided you will take him with you.”
Astonished, he stared at her. “Across the Sand River? Into the world and the godless lands? Yuma, how can I? You said it with your own tongue, Dimmi is a child .”
She would not look at him. “Tcha! You said he is growing fast, you said he will be a mighty warrior. Where best to become that than with you and my warhost?”
“Yuma . . .” He shook his head, his godbells chimed dismay. “I do not think this a wise decision. If I should fall beyond the Sand River, Dmitrak must be warlord after me. If I should fall, he might be in danger. He—”
“ You will not fall !” His mother’s eyes blazed with fury. “It is a sin to say such a thing, you doubt the god with those words, do you think yourself too old for tasking? I will send for Vortka, he will bind you to the scorpion wheel, he will—” She broke off, coughing, wheezing for air.
Alarmed, he reached for her, she pushed him away. “Aieee, Zandakar, you disappoint me!”
Her words were a snakeblade, slid between his ribs. “ No , Yuma, I—”
Her clenched fists beat against her laboring chest. “That demon Hanochek, from hell he thwarts me! From hell he conspires with Nagarak to thwart me. I cannot remain here, I am Hekat, the Empress, godtouched and precious, I must ride to the world!”
Nagarak? She was raving, overcome by her infirmity. This time, when he reached for her, she did not push him away. She fell against his shoulder, for the first time in his life he heard her weep. Appalled, he held her, like a child he rocked her, she wept like a baby.
His world was undone.
“Zandakar,” said Vortka’s soft voice beside him. He looked up, taken unawares, he could barely see the high godspeaker for his tears. “She is overwrought, let me soothe her. You are needed in the barracks, you and the warhost must ride soon.”
He did not release her. “She wants me to take Dmitrak with me. Vortka, he—”
“I know,” said Vortka. “And I think he should go. He will pine without you. Zandakar, you must know you are more than his brother, you are the father he never knew. He needs your guidance. He needs to be with you. And your mother . . .” Vortka sighed. “To see him and not you, it will cause her great pain. It will hurt him, too. You ride with your warhost, you ride in the god’s eye. How can harm come to him, Zandakar, or to you?”
That was true, he could not deny it. He was the god’s hammer, it would not let him fall.
But Yuma is the Empress, and now she weeps in my arms.
“Zandakar,” said Vortka, so gently. “The god chooses its instruments, it uses them until it does not. We have no say in when we will be used, and when we will be put aside. We obey the god’s want, we live our lives in obedience. That is our purpose, Zandakar. Content yourself with that. Hekat has served, it is your turn now.”
Do I have a choice? I think I do not . “Yes, high godspeaker,” he said, and eased himself free of his mother so Vortka might take his place beside her on the couch. “If she calls for me again, I will be in the barracks.”
Vortka nodded, he did not reply. For a moment Zandakar watched them. The high godspeaker held his mother tenderly, he smoothed her silent godbraids, he pressed his palm to her scarred cheek. A new truth burst upon him, he felt it warm his bones.
Vortka loves her. He loves my mother. Why did I not see that, as I was growing up?
Softly he left them. As he reached the chamber door he heard his mother say, bewildered, “I am lost, Vortka. I am lost in the god’s eye. Why does it smite me, how have I sinned?”
“Hush,” Vortka told her, his voice was full of love. “You are not smitten, you have not sinned. This is the god’s mysterious will, we must learn it together. We will have time.”
Zandakar closed the door behind him.
He found Dimmi in the main barracks slaughter-pen, practicing with his slingshot on a huddle of sheep. The warhost consumed so much meat, so much ale and sadsa and fruit and grain, he lay awake at night worrying how he would feed them beyond Mijak’s border. He worried now, surrounded by his thousands of warriors, their horses, their equipment, their eagerness for war.
Worry is sin, the god will protect us. Trust in the god, it sees you in its eye.
“Zandakar!” cried his blood-spattered brother. “Look, I have killed fifty, see how skilled a warrior I am!”
Aieee, killed fifty, and maimed twenty others. Dimmi did not seem to notice that, or hear their pained bleats. Zandakar nodded to the watching slaughter-slaves, that they might leap into the pit and finish the job. Then he beckoned to his brother.
“Come with me. I have news.”
Eagerly Dmitrak clambered from the slaughter-pen. “What news, Zanda? What has happened?”
He slung an arm round his brother’s shoulders, they were closer to his now. He was growing fast. They walked through the blood-stinking air, through the noise and bustle of warrior business, towards the warlord’s lodge where more decisions and preparations were waiting. “I am come from the godhouse, Dmitrak. I have spoken with the Empress. You are to ride with the warhost, it is her decree.”
Dimmi stopped dead in the road, like a horse struck by an arrow. Incredulous, he stared up, hope and disbelief in his eyes. “The warhost, Zandakar? Beyond the Sand River? You are certain, she said so?”
He nodded. “She said so, and also Vortka high godspeaker. It is decided, little brother. You will ride with me.”
“Aieee-aieee- aieee !” shouted Dimmi, ecstatic. Throwing down his slingshot he threw himself into a hota —the falcon striking. He twisted and leapt, passing slaves and warriors scattered, laughing. He was not a graceful knife-dancer, but he could kill.
“This is your doing, I know it!” he shouted. “I thank you, Zandakar, I will love you forever!”
Zandakar smiled, he did not contradict him. Let Dmitrak think that, how could it hurt? Better to believe a small lie than to learn the harsh truth: he rode with the warhost because his mother despised him.
The warhost preparations continued. Released from the godhouse, resigned to the god’s will, Hekat slaved without mercy for Zandakar’s great purpose. Vortka withdrew to the Divination chamber, to learn which godspeakers must ride with Zandakar, and discover when precisely the god desired the warhost to ride. He trusted Peklia and the other senior godspeakers to administer Mijak in his absence. He knew they could be trusted, the god had told him so. They had been shocked by Jokriel city’s wicked betrayal, even now they worked to discover further demons in their midst. Every godspeaker in Mijak must be tested, every potential sinner rooted out. Only the godspeakers of Et-Raklion could be trusted until the last seducing demon was cast back to hell.
For himself, he felt Jokriel city’s fall to demons like a deep knife-wound. As high godspeaker he could not be tasked by another’s hand so he fasted relentlessly to punish his flesh, he deprived himself of sleep and small pleasures, he bent his heart upon the god.
If Jokriel city and Hanochek’s sinning are because I have failed you, god, I bare my godspark to your wrath. Send it to hell, if that is your desire.
The god did not kill him. Either he was forgiven or, for reasons he could not begin to understand, Jokriel city’s fall and Hekat’s resulting diminishment were indeed a part of its plan. The god spoke to him in sacrifice, as it always did. After two days of seeking, his questions were answered. He summoned Hekat and Zandakar and Dmitrak to attend him in the Divination chamber.
“I am given an omen,” he said, still bloody before the altar. “The warhost will ride five highsuns from now. Zandakar, you must be prepared
for this sacred journey. Come to me at newsun. You will remain in the godhouse for three full days, you will be cleansed and tasked, you will swim in the godpool, you will hear the god.”
As Zandakar nodded, Dmitrak scowled. “Zandakar already hears the god, why must he be cleansed, why should the taskmasters task him? He is the god’s hammer, he lives in its eye. He needs no—”
“Hush, Dimmi,” said Zandakar, and put an arm around Dmitrak’s shoulders. “No man is perfect in the god’s eye. Vortka high godspeaker must attend my godspark, lest I fall into sinning unaware. This is the god’s desire, you must not question it.”
“ Don’t call me Dimmi!” said the boy, and wriggled out of Zandakar’s grasp. “I don’t question the god, I question Vortka, he—”
Hekat seized his godbraids and threw him to the floor. “To question Vortka is to question the god!” She bent over her unwanted son, gleaming snakeblade in her hand. “Are you stupid ? Every breath you take reflects upon Zandakar! Every word you speak is echoed in his eye. He is the warlord, he is the hammer, he is the god’s will in the world. If you love him as you say, you will honor Vortka, he is the god’s voice, he speaks with its tongue. Tcha !” She thrust her snakeblade back in its sheath. “Get to the tasking house. Find a taskmaster. Tell him you are sinful and must be corrected before the god.”
“Yuma . . .” Zandakar murmured. “Dmitrak only—”
She speared him with a look. “Do you wish to join him? You are the warlord, I am the Empress. Do not try my patience. Return to the barracks, I will join you there.”
Dismissed, Zandakar bowed and withdrew. Dmitrak went to find a taskmaster for his tasking. Vortka cleansed himself of the sacrificial blood and said, “We are the only ones here now, Hekat. You can admit you are afraid for him.”
She stood by the chamber’s godpost, her fingers tracing a carved and inlaid Et-Raklion snake. “I am Empress. I do not feel fear.”
“Hekat,” he sighed, and shook his head. “Before you were an Empress you were a knife-dancer, before you knew one hota you were a slave. To the world you are the Empress. To me you are Hekat. The god will not smite you for loving your son.”
Resentful, scowling so she looked so much like Dmitrak he almost laughed, she said, “You do not fear for him?”
Of course he feared. He would never say so. “He lives in the god’s eye. He is the warlord you created. Like you and I, he is godchosen and precious. The god will protect him, it will allow no harm to befall its hammer.”
“He goes to war without a son. He will not marry, I have asked him and asked him! He is disobedient, I am pleased he will be tasked before he leaves.”
She did not mean that. “He is a good man, Hekat. He has a good heart.”
Risking the god’s wrath she smacked the godpost. “I want to ride with him, Vortka! I want to ride out with my warhost! It is my warhost, as much as his. I want to see what lies beyond the Sand River, I want to smite sinners for the god!”
His hands were free of blood now, he went to her. “Hekat, my dear friend. Even if your body could bear the journey, you are the Empress. Mijak looks to you. You are its tongue, its voice in the world.”
She turned. “You are high godspeaker, you could speak for me. Your godspeaker healers riding with the warhost, they could ease my body when the pain grows bad. Vortka—”
“ No ,” he said, and grasped her shoulders. “It is not the god’s desire, Hekat. You hear the god, you know what it wants.”
“It wanted Dmitrak and look what that cost me,” she muttered. “At least the brat rides with Zandakar, I will not have to look at him and see Nagarak.”
“Do not speak so,” he said, reproving. “I do not wish the god to smite you. Your duty here is as important as Zandakar’s beyond the Sand River. Mijak must be ruled, it must see its Empress and see the god. There is also the matter of the savage north to consider. Godless lands within our own borders, they must be cleansed. That is your task, the god has told me.”
She pulled a face, but her temper was calming. “I will cleanse them, Vortka, I promise you that. The savage north will be emptied of sinners, I will see that sinning place left to the goats.” She smiled. “And after its cleansing, I will go on an imperial progress. Comfortably, in stages. The cities will not forget again who is their Empress. I must find Zandakar a proper woman, and send her after him so he can sire a son. He must sire a son or Dmitrak will succeed him.” She shuddered. “I could not bear that. He is mud to Zandakar’s gold.”
If he is mud, you helped to make him , Vortka thought. But he could not say so. He understood her hatred of the boy, a little, he tried to, but the god had created Dmitrak for a reason. In its time that purpose would be revealed. It was wrong to hate what the god desired.
He said, “I must withdraw myself, to prepare for Zandakar’s cleansing. Be easy in your heart, the god sees him. It sees our son. He will be safe.”
My son . He saw the thought leap into her eyes, as it always did when he said our son . He did not say it often, it hurt him when she rejected his part in Zandakar’s creation. He knew why she did it, that did not ease his pain.
“Remember when you cleanse him, he is the warlord,” she said, her eyebrows raised in warning. “Do not spare him, Vortka, to spare your own heart. I have never spared him, you can do no less.”
He watched her leave the Divination chamber, he saw the pain that lived within her now, Dmitrak’s fingerprints in her flesh, Hanochek’s handiwork in her limp, and her eyes. He flattened his hands across his scorpion pectoral, sleeping still as it had for so long.
Keep her in your eye, god, I beg you. She will need you when Zandakar goes.
At lowsun before the god’s time of his departing, after three days of fasting, sacrifice and tasking at Vortka’s unflinching hand, Zandakar stripped off his godhouse robe and prepared to enter the god’s sacred godpool.
He had never entered it before.
“Every warlord experiences it differently,” Vortka told him. “Some receive guidance. Some an admonition. Some are praised, it happens rarely. Open your heart, and you will hear what you must hear.”
The air in the candlelit chamber was cool, blood-scented. His belly roiled. A lifetime of discipline had hardened him to sacrifice and killing and the drinking of hot blood. To swim in it was another matter . . .
Naked and nearly shivering, he looked at Vortka. “What did my father hear?”
“Your father,” said Vortka, after a moment. “I do not remember you calling Raklion that, before.”
“In this place I feel closer to him. It has been so long since he died, even in dreams I cannot see his face.” A small pain pierced him, adding its voice to the larger pains of his ruthlessly tasked flesh. “Does his godspark see me, wherever it is? Is my father proud, high godspeaker?”
Shadows shifted across Vortka’s face. “Your father is proud, warlord. Your father knows you are in the god’s eye.”
It eased, a little, some of his tension. “And do you know what Raklion warlord heard, when he swam in the godpool?”
Vortka shrugged. “I cannot tell you, I was a novice in that time. Nagarak accompanied him.”
Nagarak . “That is someone I do remember. He frightened me. He was fierce for the god.”
Vortka smiled. “And I am not fierce?”
“You are fierce in your devotion,” Zandakar said slowly. “You were fierce in your tasking of me, I understand why. But you do not need others to fear you. Nagarak needed that, he fed on terror.”
Vortka frowned, and turned away. “Warlord, we are not here to talk. The god is waiting.”
The blood was thick, it clung to his welted skin as he trod down the stone steps into the godpool. Vortka had told him he must immerse himself completely, he must keep his eyes open and search for the god. The blood soaked his godbraids, they pulled his head back and under the surface. He felt himself sinking, then he struck the stone floor.
I should be drowning. I do not breathe. Is the god
with me? Does it know I am here?
A great warmth suffused him, as though loving hands held him close. He felt peace. Acceptance. Sorrow. Love.
Zandakar, my son, my son. I am with you, though the road is long and steep and strewn with stones. All that will come to pass must come to pass. Grieve, weep, endure, surrender. I will be with you, unto the end.
He burst from the thick blood, gasping and confused. “ Vortka !”
The high godspeaker knelt at the edge of the godpool. “Zandakar, what happened? Did the god speak?”
Was that the god? He thought he had heard the god before in his heart, a cold voice, a hard voice, full of knives and spear-points and shooting arrows. It sounded nothing like the voice he’d heard in the blood.
My son, my son . . . It had sounded so mournful, so full of pain. Yet proud and loving, strong and brave.
I liked that voice.
“Yes,” he said, and climbed from the godpool. “I heard the god. It sees me in its eye.”
When Vortka smiled he looked seasons younger. “Bathe now, warlord. Eat, and rest. At newsun you ride for the god’s great glory.”
The following newsun, as light broke over the horizon, the god’s conquering warhost, its godspeakers and its slaves assembled on the plain of Et-Raklion. Beyond the thousands of mounted warriors the remaining warhost and the chosen witnesses prayed with their heads bowed, for Zandakar warlord, the god’s chosen, its mighty hammer.
Zandakar stood with his mother the Empress and his brother Dmitrak as Vortka high godspeaker sacrificed to the god. Five black bulls, five white lambs, five golden cockerels, five pure white doves. The god took all of them, it inhaled them completely, their blood soaked the earth, it watered the ground.
His gold-and-crystal hammer was strapped to his chest in a horsehide satchel made by the Empress’s own hands.
“The god will tell you when to use this weapon,” she told him, when sacrifice was finished. Her face was stern, her eyes unmoved. “Never let it from your sight. Never permit another hand to touch it. You are the hammer, it is your second skin.”
