Her carrying voice freed them from silence. If they thought of Hanochek, they did not say his name. They surged towards her with their arms outstretched.
“Hekat! Hekat! The god sees Hekat! Raklion’s warleader, Zandakar’s mother! Bajadek’s doom and the doom of his son!”
She let them surround her, crowd her, touch her. She greeted them kindly, they were hers to kiss or kill.
Aieee, Zandakar, my son, my son. See the gift I have to give you. See how I love you, all these warriors are yours.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
So. Vortka. You are returned from the wilderness a tested godspeaker.” Nagarak’s fingers drummed his stone desk. “In a time of upheaval, the god sees you in its eye.”
Vortka’s hands were clasped behind him, he felt his knuckles crack. The high godspeaker had summoned him after lowsun sacrifice, he had stood waiting outside the high godspeaker’s chamber for a finger, maybe more. The standing was a punishment, he knew that. He had expected it, and was resigned. Nagarak was not happy he had been waiting at the Warriors’ Gate.
He nodded. “Yes, high godspeaker.”
Nagarak sat back, his eyes were half-lidded. He blinked like a sandcat, slow and dangerous. “I am told you were present when the warlord’s son was injured.”
Of course someone had told him. He had not said so himself, there had been no time. Nagarak had dismissed him to the godhouse after the briefest of explanations on the road. “Yes, high godspeaker.”
“What were you doing in the barracks, Vortka? You are not a barracks godspeaker. I am told you were assigned to the library until my return from the Heart of Mijak.”
“I was ill, high godspeaker. I—”
“A fever,” said Nagarak. “Yes. I am told. The healers say it was a strange fever. It came on you suddenly and no other godspeaker was afflicted. Can you explain that?”
No. He could not. Feverish maladies were common in Mijak, a legacy from the distant past, but they claimed many victims. Not just one. He had his suspicions, he would not voice them to Nagarak.
I can hardly bear to voice them to myself.
He said, “Forgive me, high godspeaker. I am at a loss to understand it.”
“It is known, Vortka godspeaker, that a demon in the flesh brings with it strange fevers.”
Vortka felt himself go cold. “You think I am demonstruck ?”
Nagarak pretended he did not hear the question. “So. Vortka godspeaker. You were in the barracks because you had been ill.”
“I was walking, high godspeaker,” he croaked. “Regaining my strength. Sidik godspeaker said I should. It is peaceful in the barracks, where the warriors are not training. It is a pleasant place to walk with the god.”
Nagarak’s eyebrows lifted. “And you walked there when the warlord’s son fell from his pony. When the animal lost its footing, I am told, and crashed to the ground.”
He nodded, his mouth dry. “Yes, high godspeaker.”
“Is it not a wonder the pony did not fall on Zandakar and crush him to death.”
Aieee, a great wonder. When he closed his eyes to sleep in the godhouse, that dreadful moment rose to torment him. Zandakar galloping, laughing, his godbraids flying with his joy. Hanochek watching, encouraging, shouting. A falter, a mis-step, and the pony was twisting, falling, its hindquarters flailing, its neck snapping like wood. And Zandakar, vulnerable Zandakar, tossed from his saddle and into the air, striking the hard ground and screaming his pain.
Repressing a shudder, he made himself meet Nagarak’s piercing, lidded stare. “Yes, high godspeaker. The god sees Zandakar in its eye. It kept him safe.”
Nagarak sat forward. “Your godchosen sacrifice knife, Vortka. Show it to me.”
His true knife was hidden in the trunk of a half-dead tree in the godhouse shrine garden. It was the only safe place he’d been able to think of, no tree was cut down in the godhouse, not until it was fully dead. He gave Nagarak the other knife, the one he had chosen without the god’s guidance, and waited as the high godspeaker held it before his eyes.
The god has kept my secret safe, Peklia has not told him of that other knife. If Nagarak knew of it I would be on the scorpion wheel, screaming. The god will protect me now, be still.
“Your hand,” said Nagarak.
Vortka held out his hand. Nagarak seized it and sliced the knife’s blade through his palm. Blood welled, pain blazed. Nagarak dropped the knife to his desk and dragged his fingers through the thick red blood. Then he raised them to his lips and sucked.
Vortka watched light-headed as Nagarak tested him. “Your blood is clean. I taste no demon-taint in you,” the high godspeaker said at last. He sounded grudging. Disappointed.
Vortka released the air from his lungs and willed his knees not to give way. “High godspeaker.”
Nagarak took out his godstone and healed the deep cut he had made. Then he handed back the sacrificial knife. “I do not like that you were there when the warlord’s son fell from his pony. I do not like that you waited at the Warriors’ Gate for the warlord to return from Mijak’s Heart. I do not like that you are afflicted with strange fevers. Before you went into the wilderness I told you, Vortka: you are not humble, there are secrets in your heart. I told you I would pluck them out.”
“Yes, high godspeaker,” he whispered.
Nagarak sat back again, his expression disgruntled. “You are tested in the wilderness, the god has seen you in its eye. You are tested in this godhouse, I have tasted your blood and it is clean. It makes no difference, I do not trust you .”
He almost protested, he bit his tongue to blood. One ill-considered word and Nagarak would smite him to pieces. Aieee, god. If I am sent away now . . . whisper in his heart, god. Do not let him send me away!
Dropping to his knees before Nagarak’s stone desk he said, “If that is true, high godspeaker, I have failed you. I beg your forgiveness. I swear to you I serve the god, the god dwells in my heart, I feel its presence. I believe the god guided my feet to the barracks horse-field. I waited with Zandakar as Hanochek warleader ran for help, I staunched Zandakar’s bleeding wound, I kept him calm and quiet until the healers came.”
In his dreams he still heard his son, weeping, heard him call for his mother, heard his piteous moans of pain. The sounds woke him, sweating, as he woke he heard his own voice, saying again what he’d said then: Hush, Zandakar. Hush, little warlord. Vortka is with you. Do not be afraid .
Nagarak slammed his fist to his desk. “You are arrogant, Vortka! You do not presume to say what the god has done! That is my purpose, I am high godspeaker.”
Vortka bowed his head. “Yes, high godspeaker.”
“You are godseen and tested, you are here to serve the god.” Nagarak stood, he loomed over his desk. “You will not serve it far from my sight. You will present yourself to Hadrik godspeaker, he is in charge of the godspeakers who walk Et-Raklion in the quiet time. Every night until I say the god desires your different service, you will walk the city’s streets, you will smite any sinner who dares violate the god’s peace. If you are not walking the streets you will remain in the godhouse. You will not set foot in the barracks again. You will not see Zandakar in your eye. You will not speak with the warleader, Hekat’s voice is forbidden to you.”
He felt a jolt of shock. Hekat was the warleader? What had happened to Hanochek? Had she killed him in her rage?
The fault was not his, Hekat. God, let her not have killed him.
“Lift your head, Vortka! Look into my face!” commanded Nagarak. “Do you hear my words? Do you hear them in your heart?”
Beneath his worry for Hanochek seethed a harsh relief. I will stay, I will stay. He does not banish me. Thank you, god . He looked up. “Yes, high godspeaker. I hear your words in my heart. In the god’s eye I swear to you, I am its true and honest servant.”
Nagarak smiled, it was a smile filled with rage. “Your mouth dribbles sweet words, do not think I am swayed. If you disobey even one of these commands, Vortka,
the god will throw you down in the dirt. It will destroy you. I will destroy you. I am the god’s smiting hand in the world.”
Vortka nodded. “Yes, high godspeaker. I hear your commands, I will obey them. I serve the god.”
“See that you do. I will be watching,” said Nagarak. “Go now. You begin your service on Et-Raklion’s streets after lowsun sacrifice.”
Sweating beneath his godspeaker robe, Vortka escaped the high godspeaker’s impotent fury. He presented himself to Hadrik godspeaker, who expected him. Hadrik gave him a godstaff, for the smiting of sinners abroad in the quiet time, and left him alone with tablets that explained all he must know of sins, and sinners, and how to smite them for the god. When the godbells rang he went to lowsun sacrifice, and after that ate soup and flat bread in the godhouse kitchen. It was three more fingers until the quiet time, he returned to Hadrik to be tested on his understanding. Hadrik pronounced him competent enough. He took his godstaff and walked the almost empty Pinnacle Road down to the city.
As he neared the barracks he saw a familiar figure walking towards him in the godmoon’s half-light.
Aieee. Hekat. She said she would find me . . .
She saw him. She stopped. She said, “We must talk together, Vortka.”
He cast an anguished look up and down the road but, for the moment at least, they were alone. “Hekat, we cannot,” he whispered, as though Nagarak might hear him. “The high godspeaker forbids me your company, I will be thrown down if I disobey.”
“Nagarak forbids you?” she said, disgusted. “Tcha! What is Nagarak to us, the god sees us in its eye.”
“Hekat. I cannot thwart the high godspeaker. I serve in his godhouse, I answer to him. He tested me for demon-taint , he knows I hide something. I must take care, would you have me discovered?”
She folded her arms, she still wore her dusty linen tunic. “Nagarak knows nothing, he is a stupid man.”
Aieee, she was stubborn, she thought no man could touch her. “You have seen Zandakar?”
“I have seen him.”
He smiled, he could not help it. “I told you he was healed, and whole.”
“Yes. You told me.” In the half-strength moonlight her face was cold and hard. After a moment, it softened slightly. “You are very thin. Have you been ill?”
“A fever. I am better. Hekat,” he said, though he was foolish to keep on talking, “what has happened to Hanochek?”
Her teeth shone, she was smiling. Vortka felt his flesh crawl. “Hanochek is an unknown man. Never speak his name again.”
Unknown? What was that, some obscure warrior ritual? “Hanochek lives? You did not kill him?”
“You think I should have killed him?” She pulled a face. “Vortka, I wanted to.”
“No! I am glad he lives! What happened to Zandakar was not Hanochek’s—”
“ Do not defend him!” She had her fingers on her snakeblade, her fury was so fierce he thought it might scorch him. “Or I will smite you, there will be no need for Nagarak!”
“I am sorry,” he said, stepping back. “I will not speak of him again.”
She took a deep breath and leashed her temper. “The large crystal, Vortka. The one you buried beyond the city. Did you fetch it while I was gone to Mijak’s Heart? Is it hidden in my palace garden?”
“No,” he said. “I—”
“ No ?” she echoed, and her rage again unleashed. “Did I not tell you—”
“It was not safe!” he protested. “I retrieved it from the woods but I did not dare risk the palace. Hekat, I do not walk in the god’s eye as easily as you. Only with you do I trust myself fully hidden. The crystal is buried in the godhouse shrine garden, no demon can touch it there. And Nagarak says he desires me within his reach, only the god knows if or when he will send me from Et-Raklion. I will guard the crystal, Hekat. I will keep it safe for Zandakar.”
She released a hard breath. “You are the god’s chosen. If you say it is safe I must believe you.” Her hand brushed her breast beneath its covering of linen, and some memory shifted behind her eyes. “But if Nagarak should decide to send you from his godhouse—”
“Yes. Then I will make sure it is left in your safekeeping. I promise, Hekat. I want that weapon for Zandakar as much as you do.”
“ Zandakar . . .” she whispered. “Aieee, Vortka. He nearly died.”
There were tears in her voice, he would not say so. “I know,” he said. “But he did not.”
She nodded slowly, her face was so troubled. “No. He did not.”
He longed to hold her. Comfort her. Kiss her. I cannot touch her. She would not let me . He said, “Tell me quickly, what happened at Mijak’s Heart? What happened to the warlord, did the god smite him?”
“No, of course not. Stupid Vortka. The god has thrown down those sinning warlords, they knelt before me on the ground.”
“But Raklion—”
“Was injured, he is not dead. He will see Mijak united, he will make of it a gift for my son. That is his purpose, he is not finished yet.”
She had fed his curiosity, not sated it. There was no time to ask her more. No time to ask her about his strange fever. Do I really want to? I did not die, do I need to know more? I do not think so. My fever is passed, let it stay behind me .
He was being a coward, he knew it, he did not care. If the god wanted him to know more, the god would tell him. I will leave that decision to the god . He looked towards the distant godhouse, shadowy figures were approaching. “Hekat, I must go, I am expected in the city. I am tasked to keep the god’s peace in the quiet time. I do not know when or how we will speak again. I have told you Nagarak’s edict, I must obey him. To disobey the high godspeaker is unwise, and unsafe.”
“Yes. Go,” she said. She seemed distracted, her eyes were still troubled. “You are expected in the city, I must see Raklion and consult with Nagarak. If the god desires us to speak again it will make that possible. The god see you, Vortka.”
“The god see you, Hekat.”
They walked swiftly away from each other. Despite his misgivings, he tried not to care.
“Well, Nagarak?” said Raklion faintly. “Does the god say I will recover my strength?”
Nagarak looked up from the healing chamber’s red-spattered altar, where he read the omens in a dead dove’s blood. After his confrontation with sinful Hanochek, Raklion had all but collapsed. He had been so weak a healing had been too much for him, he was put to bed and allowed to sleep for a time. Woken now, with some vitality restored, he had tolerated his high godspeaker’s godstone and the god’s power pouring into his faltering flesh. Nagarak was relieved, he had never seen Raklion laid so low.
He said, “The knife struck you deeply, warlord, in many vital places. You will recover, but not completely. Your strength will never fully return. You are Mijak’s warlord, that is your purpose, you must live carefully if you would live long.”
Raklion sagged on the low couch, his scarred, naked body full of bones. “I see.”
Nagarak watched him in silence, noting the carved lines of pain in his face, the empty places beneath his skin where his flesh had melted as they rode home to Et-Raklion. “Raklion,” he said sternly, “you must not despair. If the god desired you dead, you would be dead. The god does not desire that.”
Raklion smiled. “No. It gave me Hekat, to save my life not once but twice.”
Hekat . Nagarak felt his mouth shrivel. “The god has many instruments, do not place more faith in this one than in that.”
“She is beautiful, she is precious. She is the god’s gift, Nagarak,” said Raklion, frowning. “Do not seek to harm her, you will displease the god. She is the god’s warrior, she dances in its eye. Until I am myself again her words are my words. I am Mijak’s warlord, that is my want.”
Nagarak said nothing, what could he say? Where Hekat was concerned the warlord was blinded, he thought with his male parts, his tongue was in his heart. He sluiced his hands clean of blood in a basin of water and dried
them on a towel.
Raklion said, “Nagarak. Why did you not warn me that Banotaj had a weapon?”
Nagarak did not look at him, he cleaned his sacrifice knife instead. He could feel his heartbeat in his stone scorpion pectoral. “Like his father before him, Banotaj was a man who danced with demons. Demons live to thwart the god. That is their purpose, they sometimes succeed. The god has its vengeance, Banotaj is dead.”
“Because of Hekat,” said Raklion. He did not sound appeased. “If she had not insisted, if I had listened to you, Hekat would not have stood with us in Mijak’s Heart. Banotaj would have killed me. Do you deny this? Do you still deny her ?”
Aieee, the god see him. How much simpler his life without that knife-dancer in it. Nagarak dried his knife and sheathed it on his belt. “Be warned, warlord. You are a man, you cannot say what would or would not have happened. Hekat was there, the god made use of her. If she had stayed in her place it would have used another instrument.”
“You say,” said Raklion. “I tell you, Nagarak. I am not so sure.”
Nagarak felt his fingers clench. Who was Raklion, a mere warlord, to question him in that tone? If the man were not so recently wounded he would make him dearly repent those words.
Am I not Nagarak high godspeaker, smiter of sinners, smiter of high godspeakers in the god’s wrathful eye?
The memory of that moment, when his stone pectoral had turned to living scorpion, when the god’s power had thundered through him with a fury never known, that memory lingered yet. In his cold blood, a hot thread of that power.
He let it echo in his voice. “Warlord, you do not need to be sure. I am high godspeaker, I am sure, I—”
The healing chamber’s door swung open, it was a novice with suitably downcast eyes. “Forgive me, high godspeaker. Hekat warleader says she will see the warlord.”
Curse the woman, god, send her godspark to hell . “The warlord is resting. She may return after newsun.”
“No,” said Raklion. “She has come, I will see her.”