“Aieee—aieee—I am so sinful,” Raklion whispered. “The god is calling, I do not wish to go. Hekat—” He gasped again. “My beautiful knife-dancer . . .” He released a sigh. “I wish I had not banished Hano.” His chest rose with an effort, dragging air into his failing body. He breathed the air out, he did not breathe again.
The chamber’s slaves began wailing. Hekat half-rolled over and forced herself upright. She sat in her own blood, it was thickened and cool. “You slaves, be silent!”
The wailing stopped, cut dead with a knife.
“You slaves, you are blind here, your ears are stopped, your tongues are shriveled in your mouths. Mijak will learn of this when I say it must, it is not your place to speak of Raklion’s death. Tell them, Vortka.”
Vortka nodded. “Silence is the god’s desire. You will die in torment if you disobey.”
Her arms would not hold her, she had to lie down. “Tell your godspeakers to hold their tongues, Vortka. Tell the whole godhouse to hold its tongue.”
Vortka frowned. “I am the high godspeaker, Hekat. I know what to do.”
She relented. “Yes. I know.”
“Yuma?” said Zandakar. He stood alone, hands tightly fisted.
Vortka closed Raklion’s eyes and went to their son. “Zandakar, this is the god’s will. Go to your chamber and sit there quietly. I will come to you as soon as I can.”
“Yes, Vortka.” Zandakar’s gaze slid sideways. “My mother . . . the Empress . . .”
“The god has healed your mother, Zandakar. Do not be afraid, she will not die.” Vortka smiled, a solemn curve of his lips. “The god see you in its eye, warlord of Mijak.”
Zandakar nodded, fighting tears. “The god see you also, Vortka high godspeaker.”
As Hekat watched her son leave, Vortka knelt beside her and pressed his fingertips against her pulse.
“I do not want that brat to nurse,” she told him, furious at her thready voice. “There is a slave in milk somewhere in the palace, give it to her. I must think of Zandakar.”
“It is not Dmitrak’s fault his birthing hurt you,” he said sharply.
“ Tcha ! I am Empress, Vortka. My body is mine now, it belongs to no man. If I say the brat will not suck, it will not . I can say this. The god has seen me, it has raised me high.”
“It will throw you down again just as swiftly,” he warned her. “That child is desired by the god. Forget that, Hekat, and you will be sorry.”
She was tired, she wanted to sleep. “Give it to that slave for nursing,” she said, listening to her weak voice slip and slur. “I will not touch it, that is my word.”
Vortka sighed. “Sidik, give the Empress’s son to the slave in milk.” To the remaining chamber slaves he said, “Show Sidik godspeaker to that slave, then come back with a litter for the Empress. She must be bathed and put to bed.”
Alone with Vortka, struggling to stay awake, she said, “I am Empress, Vortka. I am Empress of Mijak. It is the god’s will. Raklion—”
“I will take care of him.”
She closed her eyes. The slaves returned with a litter. As it carried her away from the chamber, away from Raklion, and her dead past, she closed her fingers round her scorpion amulet.
I am Empress, god. You have gifted me with power. I will use it to serve you. I am still your slave. Do not smite me for rejecting Dmitrak. You desired his creation and I obeyed. He is alive, do not ask me to love him. I love Zandakar. That is enough.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
After three highsuns of ritual sacrifice and purification Raklion was burned on a pyre in the city’s magnificent godtheater, which Vortka had seen finished eight highsuns before the warhost’s return. Recovered enough from her grueling childbirth, Hekat rode behind him to his funeral in an open litter, carried on the shoulders of four perfect male slaves. Instead of her favored plain linen training tunic she wore yellow silk and red wool, and ropes of gold and bronze and carved green jasper. They tangled with her scorpion amulet. Of course she wore that, it was part of her skin. She thought of Raklion as the slaves carefully dressed her, he had not lived to see her attired as he thought she deserved. A passing sadness, she let it go. Zandakar rode his red stallion beside her, splendid in horsehide, leather, silk and jewels. Vortka led the funeral procession, his scorpion pectoral gleaming in the sun.
Nagarak’s brat stayed with its nurse-slave in the palace. It could stay there and rot for all she cared.
Raklion’s body was carried through Et-Raklion’s district streets to the godtheater by the weeping shell-leaders of her warhost. The streets were crowded with mourning Mijakis, as Raklion passed by they threw coins and amulets and bloody scraps of sacrificed flesh. They called his name, they begged the god to see him in its eye. They called her name, called her warleader, Empress . They shouted to Zandakar and praised him to the god.
“Do not disgrace me,” she had told him that newsun, helping him fasten his polished leather breastplate with its striking snake. “You are son to an empress, you must not weep. Weep in your heart, the god sees all secret tears.”
“Is that where you weep, Yuma?” he asked her. “Do you weep for the warlord in your heart?”
She had to lie, how could she be truthful? How could she tell him, Weep? I laugh. I dance in my heart, I am free at last. More than free. I am Empress of Mijak. I was sold as a slave, how can I not dance?
The funeral procession made slow progress, it left the godhouse at highsun and did not reach the godtheater till two full fingers later. Hekat sighed when she saw it, more magnificent even than in her dreams.
The godtheater was large enough to admit many thousands, guarded by twenty-four towering godposts, twelve well spaced down each long side. Carved from the finest Mijaki obsidian, they were decorated with scorpions and snakes, wild falcons and centipedes. Each was banded and inlaid with gold and bronze and silver, with diamonds and emeralds and lapis lazuli, and topped with a coiled striking snake, the snake of Et-Raklion, the god’s one true city.
At the far short side of the godtheater was erected a high stone platform, and on it stood a sacrifice altar and an enormous throne. The throne was carved from that same obsidian, a standing scorpion with its raised tail curved high overhead. A throne for a warlord, it was stark and imposing. Hekat smiled to see it.
A throne for an Empress. That throne is mine.
The open space of the godtheater was crowded with people, the chosen of Mijak, and godspeakers, and as many of the warhost as Vortka would permit. So many people, yet the silence was oppressive. Even when Vortka led Raklion’s body into the godtheater not a word was spoken, just a sweeping sigh of grief.
Weeping still, her warhost shell-leaders placed Raklion on the pyre at the edge of the stone platform, then joined the other warhost witnesses to this solemn event.
At the altar Vortka sacrificed a pure white bull-calf, it was garlanded with flowers and painted with green snakes and crimson scorpions. Its blood was mixed with sacred oil and poured over Raklion on the pyre. Zandakar turned the pyre to flame, and lit it with a torch Vortka gave him, then stood beside Hekat as Raklion was burned to ash.
He did not weep, he was her true son.
When nothing remained of Raklion but cinders and charred bone, Vortka made another sacrifice, this time a bawling black bull-calf. He sacrificed for Hekat the Empress and for Zandakar her son, who would be Mijak’s warlord when he was a man. She sat on her scorpion throne, never showing how the unyielding chair pained her. She did not flinch as Vortka poured the hot blood over her head and down her body.
Her silk robe was ruined. She did not care.
“ Hekat !” the people shouted, and dropped to their knees. “ Hekat warleader! The Empress of Mijak! The god see our Empress in its powerful eye !”
She feasted on their worship, she drank their acclaim. She sat on her scorpion throne and thought:
God, is there more?
Six fingers after lowsun, when tear-stained Zandakar was fast asleep and the godmoon slid
down the night sky with his wife, Hekat went to the godhouse and disturbed Vortka high godspeaker.
“Hekat?” he said blearily, in the doorway of his sleeping chamber. “Is something the matter? Why have you come?”
Her bloodsoaked finery was discarded, she wore her linen training tunic again. Her scorpion amulet was alone round her neck. “I have come to swim in the godpool, Vortka.”
“The godpool ?” He took her wrist and tugged her into his chamber. In the corridor, his godspeakers stared at the floor. As he closed his door on them, he said, “Aieee, Hekat. What madness is this? Take a draft if you cannot sleep! Do not seek to swim in the godpool !”
“Why?” she asked him, looking around his room. It was as spare as his work chamber, no doubt exactly as Nagarak had left it. “The godpool is where the warlord speaks to the god.”
He shrugged on a brown robe over his loincloth. “You are not the warlord.”
“Oh, but I am.” She bared her teeth in a dangerous smile. “Until Zandakar is grown I am the warlord. I am also the Empress. You cannot say no.”
“Aieee, Hekat!” Vortka tugged at his stubby godbraids, did he know how stupid he looked? “Why must you speak to the god in the godpool? You speak to the god wherever you please!”
“And I please to speak with it in the godpool,” she snapped. Then she sighed. “Vortka. The godpool is a sacred place, Raklion would talk of it with such awe . And the question I must ask the god, it is—difficult. I must be certain to hear it clearly, it must answer me strictly, I cannot misunderstand its reply.”
“Then perhaps you should ask your question in the scorpion pit,” he grumbled. “The god can answer most strictly there.”
Was he serious? She did not think so. She took his hands, she almost never touched him. His skin was warm, she could feel his pulse leaping. “Vortka, listen. You were born a potsmith, I was a goatman’s unwanted slut. Then I was sold, and you were sold, Vortka, you and I were made into slaves . Now you are high godspeaker and I am the Empress. We are godchosen people, we are chosen by the god . Our lives are not small lives, the air we breathe is not petty. We have a purpose, Vortka, beyond a palace and a godhouse. We have a purpose in the world .”
He slid his hands free of hers. “Our world is Mijak and together we rule it. There is no other world or purpose, Hekat.”
She looked at him steadily. “Foolish Vortka. You know that is not so. You know there are lands beyond Mijak’s borders.”
“ What ?” He stepped back. “Hekat, you are mad. To think of crossing beyond our borders? You are mad !”
“I do not think so. But if I am, then let the god tell me. Let me ask my question in the godpool, let the god answer it there.”
“ Hekat . . . ”
“It is my right, Vortka. Raklion told me. A warlord can seek the god in the godpool and not even a high godspeaker can say he will not.” Vortka opened his mouth, and she added quickly, “And if you say again I am not the warlord I will prick you with my snakeblade so you cannot sit down.”
He shut his mouth with a snap of teeth, he went to the door and pulled it open. “Prepare the godpool,” he said to his godspeakers. “The Empress desires to speak with the god.”
In the black and red darkness, she swam with the god.
Here am I, Hekat, naked in blood. Here am I, Hekat, I have a great question. You have raised me high, I am precious and chosen. I am your Empress, I am also your slave. You are the god, the true ruler of Mijak.
Should you not also rule the world?
Vortka watched Hekat emerge from the godpool, her skin dripping scarlet, her eyes alight with the god. She was beautiful, naked. He could not think of that. He felt his heart slow, felt the air melt around him.
She has her answer . . . and I am afraid.
“Vortka,” she said. She was smiling. Radiant. The scars on her face and her belly glowed. “I heard the god. The god has spoken. Mijak is not the end. It is only the beginning.”
“The beginning of what?” he said, leading her to the cleansing room, with its milk, water and towels. “Hekat, it is late. I am tired. No riddles. What did the god say? What does it want?”
She laughed. “The god desires a godhouse in every city, godposts in every village beneath the sun. It desires to be taken beyond Mijak’s borders, into every godless corner of the world. Where there are demons, it desires their destruction. I will be Hekat, Empress of the world. You will be Vortka, the world’s high godspeaker.”
The blood was drying on her, he should wash her clean. All he could do was stand and stare. “ And Zandakar ?” His voice was a whisper.
“Zandakar will be what he is: the god’s smiting hammer, smiting the world. Vortka, I understand everything now. This is why you found the crystal. This is why my son was born. He is not needed to smite Mijak, Mijak is conquered. It is tamed to my knife-dancing fist. No. The hammer was born to tame the world .”
Jerkily, he began to fill the cleansing pool, so he might free her of blood. “Hekat . . . I know you are precious. I know you are chosen. But so am I chosen and the god has told me none of this. Each newsun and lowsun I make private sacrifice, I read omens in the blood and the entrails, I pray to the god to show me its want. Not once has it spoken of conquest, of destruction. Of Empress Hekat, Empress of the world.”
She stared at him, disdainful. “You did not ask in the godpool, Vortka. You have not clearly heard the god.”
“I think I have,” he said. “I think I have heard it more clearly than you.”
“ Tcha !” She began to wash herself, he did not try to stop her. “That is not possible. You know who I am and what I have done. Because you are high godspeaker will you believe a cockerel’s gizzards before you believe me ?”
Aieee, the god see her. So arrogant, so proud. “Hekat, it is not a question of believing . It is what I know , that you do not.”
She reached for a towel and began drying herself. “And what do you know , Vortka, that the god did not tell me?”
There were no stools or benches, so he shifted to the wall and let himself sag. “Those tablets in the cupboard, remember, in the high godspeaker chamber? Sacred to high godspeakers, read by no-one else alive.”
She shrugged, indifferent. “So?”
It was not her fault, she had not read them. He beat down his temper and kept his voice calm. “Long ago, Hekat, in a time lost to all men but me, as the last high godspeaker, Mijak was a mighty empire. Its borders extended far beyond the Sand River, into lands whose names are no longer remembered, or even thought of under the sun. In that time many conquered peoples were brought here as slaves or new citizens of the Mijaki Empire. Mijakis of this age are their descendants. That is why there are differences among us, varying shades of skin, eyes of many colors. Hekat, it was the Empire that brought Mijak to ruin.”
He had her attention. She had always loved stories . . . “Ruin?”
“Yes. Ruin .” He straightened, and folded his arms. “The warlord then, he was called the Emperor, listened to demons, he abandoned the god. Deaf to the god’s voice, Mijak grew greedy, it stretched too far, demanded too much. Plagues were brought here by a new conquered nation, they killed Mijak’s people, killed horses and cattle and goats and sheep. Infants starved to death in their cradles. Starving men, desperate, gnawed on their bones. Corpses filled our cities to the rooftops, unharvested crops rotted in the fields. The Empire of Mijak stood on the brink of destruction. It was the god’s judgement, its wrathful smiting. The few surviving godspeakers prayed to the god, they asked its forgiveness, they begged for mercy.”
Hekat clutched her towel, her eyes wide, intent. “And the god? Did it answer?”
“Yes. It answered,” he told her. “It promised to save those who were left, but only if they swore perfect obedience until the end of time. The godspeakers swore obedience, what else could they do? And that is why we live within Mijak’s borders. That is why godposts are everywhere a man looks and godbowls are there for filling, we must b
e humble, always , lest we too are tempted by demons, lest we should, like our forebears, abandon the god. It is why godspeakers rule our streets, why sacrifice is constant, why nothing can happen beyond the god’s eye. We are wicked people, Hekat. We betrayed the god’s trust, we must live in its wrath. We must live on our knees, and hope to be forgiven.”
After a moment, Hekat smiled. “No, Vortka. You are mistaken. We were wicked people, we are wicked no more. Forgiveness is ours, we can stand, and not kneel. Our sins are behind us, the god wants us in the world! Nagarak told Raklion that when he was warlord of Mijak the underground rivers would flow again, the lands beyond Et-Raklion would grow green and lush. Nagarak was wrong. I have ridden through Mijak, it is not so. I tell you truly, until the god’s will is worked on the world, the underground rivers cannot flow. I tell you Mijak’s browning is the god’s sign that we must turn outwards . If we do not, Mijak will die. The god will forsake us for not heeding its want.”
Vortka stared at her. “You are certain? You have no doubt at all?”
“Tcha!” she said, and lightly slapped his cheek. “Vortka, Vortka, this is why you and I were given power, the potsmith, the goatslut. Abajai and Yagji, Raklion and Nagarak . . . they were the god’s instruments, nothing more. It used them to help us. We are the precious ones, we are precious for this reason: to create Zandakar, the god’s smiting hammer. To make the god a gift of the world.”
After Hekat left him, unshakeable in her belief, Vortka discarded his robe and his loincloth and lowered himself into the godpool.
Are Hekat’s words true, god? Are we forgiven, is our past the past? Is Zandakar your hammer? Did I create him so he could smite the world?
The blood was cold, and cloying. Sunk beneath the godpool’s surface, he lost all understanding of time.
Then he heard the god, it whispered:
Watch.
Wait.
Speak.
Act.
Love.
Startled, he broke the cold red surface. Plunged to the pool’s edge, gasping for air.