The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

  Aieee, Zandakar, Zandakar. Such a sharp snakeblade in his smile. His love was a whip, she bled from its beating. Of course she forgave him. What else could she do?

  Vortka had told her: I have a letter, too, Hekat. You cannot reject this girl, she bears Zandakar’s son. This is the god’s will, you must not interfere .

  He would not tell her what his letter said.

  As the newsun sky brightened she returned to her chamber, tossed the clay tablet on the bed, and dressed so she might eat her breakfast with her son’s piebald woman.

  Do you see my devotion, god? I hope you are pleased.

  Slaves threw themselves to the floor as she passed, burying their chanting faces in the stone. “The Empress comes, the earth trembles beneath her feet, the sky blushes at her beauty, with my body and my voice shall I worship the Empress, she lives in the god’s eye, she is precious and beautiful. My blood shall spill for the Empress’s glory.”

  And so it would. And so it did.

  When she entered the bitch’s apartments, Zandakar’s mistake was ogling herself in front of the mirror, hands spread over the nauseating thrust of her belly. Her piebald face flushed as she lurched away from the polished silver disc and dipped her knees in a travesty of obeisance.

  “Empress—you honor me—the glory of your presence—your glory—I—you honor—” Scarlet and brown, she pressed her fingers to her lips and dripped tears.

  Wrong. As usual, the stupid slut got the ritual greeting wrong. Hekat’s palms itched to sting themselves against that mottled hide. Tcha , how could Zandakar find her attractive, with her milk and mud skin and her long, thin legs and dugs like melons over-ripened on the vine! An ugly people, the Harjha, fit for nothing save conquering and chains.

  Zandakar, Zandakar, how could you do this to me?

  She made herself smile. “The god see you, Lilit. Are you ready for breakfast?”

  “Empress, the table is laid and waiting.”

  Her smile tightened. That accent, warping the pure tongue of Mijak like mold on honey. What had she been thinking, allowing Zandakar to keep this bitch?

  She heard his voice in the letter he sent her: Yuma, I love you, for my sake love Lilit .

  Aieee, love. What stupid fools it had made of them both.

  The piebald was staring. “Empress? Are you all right?”

  No. She was not. “Let us eat, quickly. We are expected in the godtheater for the public sacrifice.”

  The piebald nodded, looking away. She was pathetic, squeamish, she hated the blood.

  Zandakar, Zandakar, what have you done?

  They ate, they dressed, Vortka joined them. They traveled to the godtheater where the people and warriors and godspeakers gathered. The bull-calf was sacrificed, she plunged her snakeblade through the throat of the customary godforsaken criminal. It hurt her body as much as ever, it was expected, she had no choice. Lilit stood watching like a lump of fat, hands pressed against her thrusting belly.

  A godspeaker came running as the sacrifice ended, he ran to Vortka and whispered in his ear. Vortka straightened, and came to her side. After so long as high godspeaker his face remained guarded, his eyes were alive and filled with feeling.

  “Empress, Zandakar warlord approaches the city. His brother Dmitrak rides by his side.”

  She stared at him, shocked. “What? What do you say?”

  “Zandakar is sighted,” said Vortka. His clasped hands were trembling. “He will soon ride through Et-Raklion’s gates.”

  The piebald heard him. She gasped. “Zandakar? He comes? He comes for our son?”

  Oh, how she wanted to cut out that tongue. “Be quiet. I do not know why Zandakar comes.” Her heart was beating, she was burning with love. My son, my son, there is time to undo this. Cast this bitch aside, you will have a new wife . She said, “Vortka? Did you know? Did the god tell you he was coming home?”

  Vortka frowned. “No. If it had, I would have said so, Empress.”

  She felt her mouth suck dry with fear. Her fingers touched her scorpion amulet, it was cool, it did not wake. “I am sure there is no trouble. The god would have warned you if there was trouble.” It would have warned me .

  He did not touch her, his look was a touch. “Yes, Empress. The god would have warned me.”

  Zandakar, Zandakar, my beautiful son . . . “Send your godspeaker to greet him, Vortka. Have the warlord ride here to the godtheater, that his people might see him in his pride.”

  “Empress,” said Vortka, and sent the godspeaker back, running harder.

  Waiting for Zandakar to arrive was agony. Sitting still upon her cruel scorpion throne, remaining composed and indifferent when she longed to run to him like that godspeaker, she would rather return to the scorpion pit.

  At last, he came.

  Aieee, my son, my beautiful son. My heart is returned, I can breathe again.

  The godspeakers in the shouting crowd had cleared a pathway for him, he rode like a warlord towards her throne with his gold-and-crystal weapon on his arm. The other one, Dmitrak, rode behind him.

  Her heart beat harder. As he approached she studied his face, tcha, he looked older and worn with care. The crowd in the godtheater stopped its shouting, it slowly fell silent. All tongues were stilled.

  Something was wrong.

  Zandakar drew rein at the foot of the steps leading up to her throne. He slid from his horse, he climbed those stairs. Dmitrak, uninvited, unwanted, climbed them behind him, he drove his heels into the smooth stone as though he were the god.

  Hekat watched them come, her blood was surging. The god was in her, it whispered beware . Zandakar did not look at her first. First he looked at the piebald bitch.

  Just for that, she ached to strike him.

  “The god sees you, Empress,” her son said, his voice soft. “Godtouched and precious, it sees you in its merciful eye.”

  The god was not merciful . And neither was she. He brought trouble with him, it stank in the air.

  “I did not look to see you here, warlord,” she said, all her love fled, her voice was stone. “Tell me of your prowess in battle. Tell me of the new lands you give me, making great the god’s Empire of Mijak.”

  Zandakar rested his gaze on her face. In silence he removed the gold-and-crystal weapon from his arm. He gave it to her, his fingers were cold. “Empress, that is not why I am come.”

  “Zandakar?” said the piebald bitch. “You have spared Na’ha’leima?”

  In the dreadful silence, which was Zandakar’s answer, Dmitrak said, “He would not smite their godforsaken city. He says the god spoke to him. I say he lies.” His voice was vicious, his eyes full of rage.

  Zandakar’s weapon slid from Hekat’s grasp. Vortka caught it before it hit the dais. She did not believe Dmitrak. He was Nagarak’s son, he was the liar. “ Zandakar ?”

  Her son kissed her with his eyes. “Empress, I tell you, it is no lie. The god spoke in my heart, it told me conquest was over. It told me to come home. It has had its fill of blood.”

  She looked at Vortka, whose eyes had gone blank. “ High godspeaker ?”

  “Empress . . .” He shook his head. “The warlord’s purpose remains unchanged. The god sees him in its conquering eye. He is the warlord, the god’s smiting hammer. His purpose is to reshape the world.”

  Zandakar said nothing. The other one, Dmitrak, shoved him with hard fists. “I knew it! You liar, you deceiver! You sinning betrayer of the god!”

  “Empress,” said Zandakar. His voice was low and steady. “Yuma. I would have words with you alone.”

  Her heart was shriveled, a scorpion had stung it. “We are alone,” she said coldly. “If you have words for me, speak them.”

  Incredibly, the piebald bitch opened its mouth again. “Zandakar, beloved, tell us what happened. Everything will be all right.”

  Hekat slid her snakeblade out of its sheath. Held it up, so the light flashed on its edge. “One more word, you will not speak another.”

  “ Yuma !�
� said Zandakar, and reached out his hand.

  “ I am not Yuma! I am the Empress !”

  He dropped to his knees like a slaughtered bull. “You are the Empress,” he said, his head meekly bowed. “Empress, forgive me. I did hear the god. In my heart it told me, enough .”

  She looked at Vortka. There were tears in his eyes. His scorpion pectoral weighed him down. “Hekat . . .” The tears were on his cheeks now. Vortka was weeping. “It was not the god.”

  Dmitrak said, “ Tcha . I knew it. He has turned from you, Empress, as he turned from me. All he cares for is that piebald bitch. You should taste her blood, Vortka. I think she is a demon.”

  Hekat caught her breath. Betrayal was a hot knife, plunged hard and deep between her ribs. She was a slave again, a bratty child, she stood in the chamber of Abajai’s villa and learned that all she thought was true were lies.

  Dmitrak said, “I tried to reason with him, Empress. I tried to make him listen to the god. He cut me with his snakeblade! He tried to kill me with the hammer!”

  She would not care if he had killed Dmitrak. She would not care if he had killed himself. She wished he was dead now. She wished that she was.

  I am Hekat, godtouched and precious. How can this be happening to me?

  “Is this so, warlord?” she whispered. “Did you turn the god’s hammer on your brother?”

  Zandakar swallowed, his godbells cried. “Not to hurt him. Only to stop him. Yuma, I swear, I heard the god. I am not meant to make Mijak the world. I am meant for another purpose.”

  His words struck her like blows. Annihilating. Numbing. Dimly she was aware of the watching crowd. Of Vortka beside her, his robes brushing her arm. She could hear the piebald bitch, breathing. That was offensive. This was her fault.

  She tipped her face towards the sun. Breathed in deep the searing air. Around her neck, the scorpion amulet burned.

  “ Aieeeeeeee! The god see me! My son Zandakar is dead !”

  She leapt from her stone throne, she brought up her snakeblade, she dragged its sharp point through her left cheek, her right. She severed her silver scars, she turned them scarlet, she bled for the god and the pain in her heart. With her sharp snakeblade she cut her breasts, her arms, she soaked the hot air with her acrid blood.

  The piebald bitch screamed. The crowd was screaming. Vortka was shouting, Zandakar too, even Dmitrak shouted, though he could not care.

  Zandakar reached for her. “Yuma! Yuma !”

  She could not hear him, her son was dead.

  The piebald bitch screamed again, even louder. Hekat turned, blood pouring down her face. “Be silent, you patched slut! Did you not hear me, there is no Zandakar! Zandakar is dead ! Dead in the god’s eye, dead in mine!”

  “No, no, he kneels before you!” the piebald bitch cried. “Do not disown him, forgive him, Empress. Whatever he did, he did for me! For his son in my belly, for the love between us!”

  Forgive him? Forgive him?

  He is unforgivable.

  There was a roaring in her head, it was the god, the god was screaming. She lifted her snakeblade, the world was turned scarlet.

  A dead man howled at her, “ Yuma, no !”

  With five slashing strikes of her snakeblade she opened the piebald’s bulging belly. Watched, immobile, as the bitch’s ugly mouth widened, as her body went rigid, as something brown and white and covered in blood slid from that slashed place and fell to the ground. It writhed feebly for two heartbeats, then was still.

  Slowly, the piebald’s stunned eyes lifted, then she began screaming. Dmitrak’s snakeblade plunged into her throat. The piebald thudded to the blood-slicked stone dais.

  Silence, but for a dead man’s weeping.

  Hekat looked at Dmitrak, saw Nagarak inside him. Saw the flash of the god’s power and snatched the hammer from Vortka. She gave it to Dmitrak, he put it on. In his face a riot of triumph, a hunger for power finally assuaged.

  He raised his arm, and crimson power surged into the sky.

  “Behold the god’s chosen!” she screamed for the crowd. “Dmitrak warlord, hammer of the god!”

  It was the watching warriors who broke the dreadful silence. They yelled, they shouted, they surged for the stairs.

  “ Dmitrak! Dmitrak! Behold the god’s hammer !”

  The crowd took up their frantic chant.

  “ Dmitrak! Dmitrak! The god’s mighty hammer !”

  Dmitrak bared his teeth at her, it was almost a smile. With the power still surging, he turned to her people, he swam in their chanting, he grew in their eyes.

  Hekat could not bear it. She looked at dead Zandakar, slumped over the piebald. He was oblivious, weeping, groaning like a man strapped to the scorpion wheel. She seized his godbraids, she wrenched his head back, she raised her snakeblade—

  “ No, Hekat !” cried Vortka, and took hold of her wrist.

  “Do not dare to stop me!” she cried, her voice was a stranger’s. “He is dead already, I but finish my task!”

  Vortka’s face was running with water. “Hekat, don’t . When your anger cools you will hate yourself!”

  Was she weeping also? She could not tell. “I have given him all my hatred, I have none left, not even for that !” She kicked the piebald’s flaccid body.

  “You think so now, you will not think it forever!”

  “You try to save him because he is yours!” she hissed. “Release me, Vortka, or lose your hand!”

  Vortka pulled her close, he pressed his cheek to hers. He did not care who might be watching. Truly, to Vortka, they were alone.

  “Hekat, spare him, I beg you. For what was between us, for how he was made.” He was weeping so hard, he was almost incoherent. “You will never see him again, you have my word. But do not kill him . I ask on my life.”

  She looked again at her dead breathing son. Why should I spare him, this wicked sinner? For his sinning betrayal, god, he should die .

  A flicker of memories crossed her inner eye:

  Zandakar, bloody and slimed with mucus, still roped to her sweaty, exhausted body . . . Zandakar, two teeth revealed in his triumphant smile as he stood alone for the very first time . . . Zandakar, kissing her, saying, Yuma, I love you . . . Zandakar, brown and gold and gleaming, galloping his pony ahead of Raklion and the warhost . . . Zandakar, riding to conquer the world . . .

  Zandakar . . . Zandakar . . . Zandakar . . .

  She released his godbraids. Stepped away from his body. Wrenched her wrist free from Vortka’s desperate grasp. With her cold gaze resting upon the face of Dmitrak warlord, the god’s mighty hammer, her only living son, she said:

  “Then take him, Vortka. Get him out of my sight. The next time I see him I swear, he will die.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Well, this was an adventure! Kind of like trying to nail smoke to a wall, only harder.

  First and foremost, heartfelt thanks to my long-suffering editor Stephanie Smith, who bore with patience above and beyond my extraordinary cluelessness through the writing of this book.

  The entire Voyager team in Australia for their hard work and support: you guys rock every casbah on the planet.

  My esteemed and invaluable guinea-pig readers, who must have qualified for some kind of purple heart: Glenda Larke, Mark Timmony, Elaine and Peter Shipp and Mary Webber.

  My agent, Ethan Ellenberg, who scared the you-know-what out of me with a last-minute critique that really put the cat among the pigeons and the grey hairs on my head. Thanks, Ethan. I think. *g*

  Those mad, mad puppies at Voyager Online (aka The Purple Zone) for—well—being mad, mad puppies.

  Les Petersen, for his beautiful cover illustration, and Darren Holt, for the spectacular design.

  The booksellers, who help spread the word.

  extras

  interview

  Your first series—Kingmaker Kingbreaker—was a two-book series which is quite unusual. Why did you decide to do this and do you plan to make it into a trilogy at a later date?


  Funny you should ask that . . . originally, it was a standalone novel. Why? Because I honestly couldn’t imagine writing a trilogy. I never believed I had that many words in me. The idea of writing a single novel was daunting enough. Thoughts of a trilogy had me crawling under the blankets! As it was I struggled for a long, long time to get that single novel written. In the end I wrote it as a film script—I’ve always found dialogue fun and narrative prose more challenging. The only way to reach The End was to do it all in dialogue. After that I went back and novelized my script (you’d have to think there’s an easier way, wouldn’t you?) and—making the classic new writer’s mistake—submitted it to a publisher way before it was ready to be seen. But the editor liked it enough to include a list of rewrite suggestions with the rejection letter, and invited me to resubmit after having another try. Of course when I re-read it I saw all the mistakes—the biggest one being I’d massively shortchanged the story. So I looked for the natural breakpoint, cut the manuscript in two, making it a two book series . . . and got published.

  Having said that, though, I do like the two-act structure. I do a lot of theater stuff, so it seems to be quite comfortable. As for expanding the series from two to more . . . well, there is something in the pipeline. No official announcements yet but stay tuned!

  Kingmaker Kingbreaker is about the arduous coming of age of your protagonists. What is it about this situation that you think fascinates fantasy authors and readers? Is it also the sort of theme you enjoy coming across in books as a reader?

  Well, it’s about a lot of things—love, hate, revenge, sacrifice—but certainly coming of age is a major factor in the story. It’s a theme that resonates through all literary genres, I think, and has done for as long as there have been stories. Because “coming of age” can be a great many things. As complicated human beings I think it’s possible that we never stop coming of age. Every time we grow in our lives, every time we take a chance, meet a challenge, survive something dangerous or frightening, we’ve come of age. We’ve reinvented ourselves. We’ve found a new way to live in the world. That’s where the appeal lies, I think. Because change is frightening. It’s confronting. Experiencing it vicariously through characters in a story can be helpful—but it’s also a lot of fun! All the emotional payoff without the actual scary of real life. It works for me!