The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

  It took almost two full highsuns to kill them. When it was over, Mijak's godspeakers were soaked in blood. The waters of Jatharuj harbour were turned from blue to red. Blood soaked the waiting hulls of the warships.

  Half-fainting, Hekat had smiled. “Do you feel it, Vortka? Do you feel the god grow?”

  Of course he had felt it, though it wasn't the god. He wanted to tell her that, he wanted to kiss her and hold her and tell her the truth. If he did that now, his blood would be spilled. He would die and the truth would die with him. He could not die now. He must live until he could make her hear it.

  “I can hear the demons screaming,” she whispered. “I hear them screaming in my mind. They are defeated, they cannot conquer Hekat. I have danced my snakeblade into their hearts.”

  Whatever she had done – whatever he had helped her to do – he could feel it with all his godspeaker senses. His skin was crawling, the blood burned in his veins. His eyes saw too clearly, every whisper was a shout.

  Hekat laughed. “The god is pleased, Vortka. You and I have pleased the god.”

  No. They had pleased the thing that was not a god at all. The thing godspeakers had created in panic, by mistake. A thing of ravenous hunger, whose appetite for blood could never be sated. In seeking to save themselves, in that sinning time spoken of in the high godspeaker histories, so long ago now it was all but forgotten…those frightened godspeakers had set in motion Mijak's doom.

  I am the only godspeaker living who knows Mijak's true god. The true god of Mijak spoke to me in flames, with love.

  And how he would ever convince Hekat of that, he did not begin to know.

  Aieee, god, you must help me, you must show me the way.

  Kneeling beside Hekat at the slave pens by the harbour, his nostrils clogged with the foul stench of death, surrounded by warriors and godspeakers and Dmitrak, he could not tell her that what she worshipped was a lie.

  “Yes, Hekat,” he said, despairing. “Mijak's bloodthirsty god is pleased.”

  Lowsun on that second day of slaughter was approaching. Dmitrak carried his mother back to her palace, she did not complain. She was silent. Asleep.

  Because he was Vortka high godspeaker, he had stayed by the harbour while the burning of the dead slaves began. Then he washed the blood from his skin and his scorpion pectoral and returned to the palace, to see how Hekat fared.

  “High godspeaker,” said Dmitrak, in Hekat's private chamber. “All the demons are dead. How soon before the trade winds blow in Icthia?”

  Hekat was sleeping. Vortka took Dmitrak by the arm and guided him onto the balcony, so their voices would not wake her.

  “I do not know, warlord.”

  Dmitrak's face was twisted with ugliness. “You are high godspeaker, and you know so little. You did not want Hekat to kill those slaves. You said the god did not want their blood. Why did you say that? Why do you say the god does not want the world?”

  He stared at Nagarak's son, unyielding. “I am Vortka high godspeaker. I do not answer to you.”

  “Hekat is weak, Vortka,” said Dmitrak, he smiled like a wolf. “Every highsun she grows weaker. Every highsun you heal her, you cannot heal her forever. I am the warlord, I will be emperor. When I am emperor you will answer to me. You are loved by Hekat. You were loved by Zandakar. Vortka high godspeaker, you are not loved by me.”

  Dmitrak was a dangerous man. Only one man breathing had the power to stop him. If Dmitrak knew his brother was alive he would swim to Ethrea so he might kill him. He would kill Zandakar with his bare hands and teeth.

  “Warlord, you do not need to love me,” he said. “You need to obey me, for I am the high godspeaker. My scorpion pectoral kisses wicked, sinning men. It kisses them to death, warlord. You have been warned.”

  Dmitrak had hissed, then, and stormed from Hekat's palace. Vortka stood on the balcony and watched him stride down the street, far below. He was an enemy, there was no friendship there.

  Feeling empty, feeling wicked, feeling sick from the stink of death hanging over Jatharuj, he'd returned to Hekat's bedside to pour his healing power into her, and wait for her to wake.

  Two highsuns passed. And as he waited for Hekat to stir from her long sleep, fear gnawed his bones. What if she never listened to his truths? Did that mean he should let her die? Would he save the world from Mijak if he let its empress die?

  He did not know. He did not think so. She could die, and there would still be Dmitrak. With Hekat dead, Dmitrak would never trust him. Dmitrak would use Hekat's death to rid himself of a high godspeaker he hated.

  And even if those things were not true…how could he kill Hekat? Or even Dmitrak? He had promised his son he would save them both.

  The doors to Hekat's balcony stood open. The newsun air of Jatharuj was not yet sweet, but he could not seal her within an airless chamber. In the bed beside him, Hekat stirred at last…and through the open doors, a fresh breeze blew. She opened her eyes and smiled, her eyes were shining in her thin, scarred face.

  “The trade winds, Vortka! The trade winds are come!”

  As lowsun gentled the burning blue sky, Hekat walked with Dmitrak down to the harbour, where the warships of Mijak crowded the water. She walked with strength and purpose, in the time she had slept since sacrificing the slaves she had become strong again. All that blood had made her strong, its power had destroyed the demons and entered her bones. Its power fed the godspeakers, they poured power through their crystals and changed the horses of the warhost. They would ride in the warships and suffer no harm, they would leap from the warships to conquer sinning Ethrea.

  As she walked the streets with Dmitrak, the trade winds blew in her face. They blew and made her godbells sing, they blew and she sang in her heart.

  I am Hekat, destroyer of demons. I am Hekat, in the god's eye.

  “Are your warriors ready to set sail from Jatharuj, warlord?” she asked Dmitrak. “Now the trade winds are come again, and we are needed in the world.”

  “They are ready, Empress,” said Dmitrak. “They are skilled sailors, they are swift with their snakeblades. Their snakeblades are thirsty, they seek blood to drink.”

  She bared her teeth in a smile. “They will have blood, warlord. The world is full of blood, waiting for their snakeblades.”

  They reached the harbour, and all the warriors there saluted her with fists and laughter. She greeted them laughing in return, they were her warriors and she was their empress. Dmitrak walked behind her, he was only their warlord.

  With all the slaves of Jatharuj dead, her warriors worked to fill Mijak's warships with supplies. They did not complain, their empress asked this of them. They would do anything that she asked.

  “I desire to see my warship,” she told Dmitrak. “Take me to the warship of Mijak's empress.”

  He was obedient, he did as he was told. He led her along Jatharuj harbour's stone pier to the largest warship tethered to the dock. It was a beautiful warship, it was black and blood red, the scorpion on its mainsail was fierce. Her fingers folded tight about her scorpion amulet, she felt the power in it from the slave blood she had spilled.

  She stepped onto her warship, Dmitrak came after. She turned her face away from Jatharuj and breathed in the open ocean. She breathed in the trade winds that blew for the god. The warship beneath her feet rocked at its mooring, it wanted to sail in the world for the god.

  “Empress,” said Dmitrak, behind her. “We must speak of Vortka.”

  “Must we?” she said, she did not look at him. “What does my warlord wish to say of my high godspeaker?”

  “Vortka is corrupted,” said Dmitrak. “He is gone from the god's eye. He spoke against Mijak, he spoke against the god.”

  “How do you know Vortka is corrupted?” she asked him, her powerful blood was bubbling with rage. “Did the god tell you, Dmitrak? Are you a godspeaker now?”

  “A godspeaker? No, Empress.” His voice was uncertain. “But you heard his words, the night the storm struck Jatharuj. H
e said the god did not want the world. He said the god did not want blood. He tried and tried to stop you sacrificing those slaves. He is an old man, he is stupid, his mind has turned to mush. Demons have corrupted him. He cannot leave Jatharuj.”

  In a single smooth movement she turned, like a hota , and slapped Nagarak's son hard across his ugly face.

  “Are you Mijak's empress? I think you are not! I think you do not say who leaves Jatharuj and who stays!”

  Hate and anger burned in Dmitrak's eyes. “He spoke against the god in the world! What is that if not corruption?”

  “ Tcha ! You are stupid ,” she spat, fighting the urge to plunge her snakeblade in his heart. “I have known Vortka since I was a child. He is a soft man, a loving man, he is not corrupt . He has served the god in ways you will never know, Dmitrak. He has served the god so well, he is the only soft man it will not kill. The god will not kill him, he lives in its eye.”

  A thread of blood trickled from Dmitrak's mouth. “Are you a godspeaker, that you can know that?”

  “ I am more than a godspeaker !” she shouted. “ I am the god's empress !”

  Dmitrak dropped to his knees, at last he saw his true danger. “You are its empress,” he whispered. “You are in the god's eye.”

  The scorpion amulet around her neck was pulsing, its fury pulsed in her and its lust for blood. Aieee, the god see her, she wanted to feed its fury with Dmitrak's blood. She wanted to see him dead, like Abajai and Yagji.

  I cannot kill Dmitrak, he is the warlord. He is the god's hammer. Until I find Zandakar, the god needs him in the world.

  “Forgive me, Empress,” said Dmitrak, still on his knees. “When Vortka spoke against the god in the world I believed he was an enemy. I thought you believed it, too.”

  She did not like to say it, but he was not wrong. When Vortka had said those things she was angry. She thought he betrayed her. She thought his softness had gone too far. When he said those things she found herself with Dmitrak, against Vortka.

  Do I like to stand against Vortka, with Dmitrak? I think I do not. I will not do it again.

  Dmitrak pressed his fist against his breast. “You are the empress. I am your warlord. How do I serve you if I do not speak my truth?”

  Tcha, the god see her, she could not smite him for that. “Get up,” she told him. “You speak your truth, you serve your empress. You do not know Vortka. Do not call him corrupt. You were there when he gave the god blood from those slaves. So much blood he gave the god, he is not corrupt . He has a soft heart, that is my business, not yours.”

  Dmitrak stood, his eyes were wary. “He will sail with the warhost?”

  “Tcha. Of course he will sail,” she said, and let her gaze sweep across the warships of Mijak. “He wil sail when we sail, we will sail in three highsuns. You are the warlord, you will see this done.”

  “Empress,” said Dmitrak.

  “Leave me now, warlord. You have much work to do, and I would speak with the god.”

  Dmitrak left her, she was not sorry to be alone. She walked the length and breadth of her warship, she cut her arm with her snakeblade and gave the godpost mast her blood. She went beneath the deck to see the place where she would sleep, it was small and dark, she preferred the warship's deck. She sat on the deck and let the sun warm her skin.

  I will sleep on the deck when we are at sea. I will sleep on the deck beneath the godmoon and his wife, I will sleep beneath the stars as we sail towards Ethrea, and when we reach Ethrea I will flood it with blood.

  “Well, Jones,” said Ursa. “I've looked long and hard but I can't find anything amiss with you. Whatever that Tzhung witch-man got up to, however it was he spirited you across miles and miles of ocean in an eye-blink and back again, it doesn't seem to have left a mark on you.”

  “Didn't I say?” said Dexterity, perched on the edge of his castle chamber bed. “I'm fine.”

  She was frowning, uneasy. “Yes. Aside from that burn, Jones, you've not a mark on you. Which is more than I can say for that heathen Zandakar.”

  “You've seen Zandakar already? So early?”

  Ursa pulled a face. “You expected me to dilly-dally at home when the queen's sending me urgent messages at first light?”

  Dexterity got up and crossed to his chamber window to stare down into the gardens below, where a solitary Rhian still walked. She'd been prowling the flowerbeds for nearly an hour now. Such a slight figure. So painfully alone. She was dressed yet again in her battered huntsman's leathers, as though she'd misplaced every last pretty gown.

  “No.” He leaned against the wall beside the window. “I suppose not. He's all right too, is he?”

  “Fine as figs,” said Ursa. “Aside from those scarlet welts I don't recall him having before you went to Icthia. You can tell me how he got them while I'm physicking your hand.”

  He considered his scabby, crusted wound. Remembering Zandakar's searing blue fire, he shivered. “It's not so bad, Ursa. A dab of ointment should put me right.”

  “A dab of ointment?” she echoed. “I see. Turned physick in your old age, have you, Jones?”

  “No, but—”

  “I think we'll leave it at no ,” she snapped. “ A dab of ointment . A soaking in tinctured hiffa leaf and some ointment and a bandage is what your hand needs, Jones, and then perhaps you'll be on the mend. You were a fool not to come to me with it last night.”

  He shrugged. “Emperor Han's palanquin brought us directly back to the castle. It was too late to go traipsing to your cottage. I'm hardly dying. Don't make such a fuss.”

  “Tcha,” she said, rummaging in her capacious physick bag. “I'll remind you of that next time you come bleating for a foot plaster. Now, about those welts…”

  “Didn't Zandakar tell you?”

  She snorted. “Would I be asking you if he had? He can play as dumb as a stone when the mood takes him, that young man.”

  Instead of answering, he continued to stare down into the gardens where Rhian still prowled, and touched his fingertips to the thick glass. She was so far below him it was like stroking her hair.

  I worry for her. I worry for Alasdair. His face last night, when she looked at Zandakar, near broke my heart.

  “What are you sighing about now, Jones?” said Ursa.

  “Nothing,” he replied, turning. Then added, seeing her raised eyebrows, “Well. Nothing I can help. Rhian and the king will just have to work things out themselves, I fear.”

  She didn't pretend not to understand. “No marriage is easy, even when you're mad in love. And that's before you touch on small matters like invading armies and heathen witch-men and pride and disappointment and – and—” She sniffed, hard. “Other people.”

  “Zandakar may love her, Ursa, but nothing will come of it. It can't.”

  “Not even if she loves him? I'm not blind either, Jones. I've seen…the looks.”

  “She loves the king,” he said stubbornly. “I'd stake my life on it, Ursa.”

  “Oh, Jones . A woman can love more than once, and at the same time. Just like a man.”

  “She loves the king,” he insisted. “And she would never betray the crown.”

  “Did I say she would?” said Ursa. “But so long as Zandakar remains in Ethrea, he's a thorn in all our sides. He stirs up things best left unstirred. It's hard enough already, Alasdair has to defer to his wife. But when his wife's got a man in love with her who looks like Zandakar, well .” She sighed. “Let's just say there's more than one reason I'll be pleased when we've trounced those Mijaki heathen all the way back home.”

  Gloomy, he stared at her. “You're assuming we'll beat them.”

  “Yes, I am, Jones,” said Ursa. “We're not going to lose, we've God on our side. Now sit down, so I can tend your hand and you can tell me how Zandakar got those welts!”

  As he perched once more on the edge of his bed, Ursa settled on the chamber's stool before him. Taking his hurt hand gently she lifted it, turning it towards the light from the window. Afte
r a closer examination than her earlier, cursory look, she glanced up, her eyes sharp. “How did you do this? And don't say you spilled hot lamp oil, Jones, because I've seen more lamp oil burns than you've strung puppets. No lamp oil did this.”

  “If I explain,” he said, after a moment, “you must swear to tell no-one else.”

  That earned him a scorching glare. “Dexterity Jones, if you think after all we've been through that I'm not to be trusted , well—”

  “Oh, don't be silly, you know I don't think that. But I have to say it aloud. For my own sake, I have to say it.”

  “All right, Jones,” she said slowly. “No need for a tizzy. I'll not repeat your words, you've my solemn physick's vow.”

  Which she'd die before breaking. So he told her of the ugly scorpion knife and the blue fire and how Zandakar had wielded them both.

  “You think that's why he's been sent to us?” said Ursa, when he was done. “Because he's got the power to fight his brother, fire with fire?”

  “I think that's part of it, Ursa. It must be.”

  She'd finished cleaning his wound with the stinging tincture. Now she dabbed it dry with a clean cloth. “Those welts on Zandakar aren't burn scars, Jones.”

  Dexterity shook his head. “No.” Remembering, a shudder ran through him. The stone scorpion. Zandakar's screams. “I tell you, Ursa, after what I saw in Icthia – Zandakar's as strange as any Tzhung witch-man. After what I saw, I'm not even certain he's entirely human.”

  “Not human ?” said Ursa. “Nonsense!”

  Leaning forward, he rested his good hand on her knee. “Ursa, I'm serious.”

  “Yes,” she said, much more kindly. “I can see you are.” She reached for her jar of ointment. “So tell me the rest of it, and I'll decide for myself.”

  It was a relief, unburdening himself of those terrifying memories. How a carved stone scorpion had come to life and stung Zandakar, and how he'd voided its poisons from his body and not died.