Hammer of God

Book 3: The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

Genres: Epic Fantasy; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

In Ethrea, Rhian sits upon a precarious throne. Defiant dukes who won't accept her rule threaten the stability of her kingdom. Dexterity has been banished from her court in disgrace. The blue-haired slave Zandakar, the man she thought was her friend, has been revealed as the son of a woman sworn to destroy her world. And Rhian's husband, King Alasdair, is unsure of her love.



The trading nations refuse to believe Mijak is a threat and promise reprisals if she dares protect her realm. Only Emperor Han of mysterious Tzhung-tzhungchai knows that the danger from Mijak is real.



But is he an ally or an enemy in disguise? As she struggles to learn the truth, and keep her embattled crown, the murderous warhost of Mijak advances.

Release date: January 1, 2009

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 816

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

“Dmitrak.” Dmitrak kept his gaze pinned to the conquered harbour of Jatharuj, where the warships of Mijak clustered thicker than ticks on a goat. It was the time for highsun sacrifice. Ant-people swarmed down there, gathering for blood, his warriors and his slaves and all the godspeakers the empress insisted must remain. The township was over-ripe and full to bursting. Half its surviving original inhabitants had been sent to other conquered settlements, just to make room for Mijak's warhost.

My warhost. I am their warlord, they belong to me.

He did not turn. “Vortka high godspeaker.”

“Warlord, you are absent from sacrifice.”

He shrugged. “So are you.”

A sigh. “Dmitrak…”

“Did the empress send you?”

“The god sends me, Dmitrak.”

“Too busy to come itself, high godspeaker?”

“Dmitrak!” Vortka's voice grated with displeasure. “You desire another tasking, is that why you spit your words in the god's eye, do you think the god is blinded by words?”

Dmitrak swung round sharply enough that the silver godbells in his scarlet godbraids woke from slumber, clamouring his anger. “I am weary of taskings, Vortka. I will have no more of them.”

“It is not your place to decide who is tasked, warlord,” the old man said, severe. “It is not your place to say ‘I will not come to sacrifice’. You are the warlord. Your place is at the altar when the god receives its blood.”

He turned back to the wide, shallow harbour and the wider ocean beyond it. Yes, I am the warlord. I am the god's hammer, I can strike down a godspeaker if I wish. Be careful, old man. “My place is where I say it is.”

“Your place is where the god puts you, Dmitrak,” said Vortka, his voice cold. “By its want, you are its hammer. For as long as the god sees you and no longer than that.”

Old man. Old fool. Like the empress he clung to the hope that one day the god's other hammer would return.

“Zandakar is gone, Vortka. Zandakar is most likely dead. I am the only hammer in the world.”

He almost choked on the name, to say it aloud. Thinking the name made the world shimmer red. Rage shivered a harsh keening from his godbells. His skin felt hot, his blood surged hot in his veins.

He was my brother; he turned his face from me. How dare he do that? How dare he dare?

So much time gone by, and still he could weep and kill to think of Zandakar.

“He loved you, Dmitrak,” Vortka said. His voice was cracked and chasmed with pain. “Your brother loved you. How can you doubt it? The world saw his love. He loved you in the god's eye.”

Why would Vortka say such a thing, did he think talk of Zandakar would please Dmitrak warlord? He had never said such a thing before, they had never talked of Zandakar. Nobody dared talk of Zandakar in his hearing.

You defend him, Vortka? You defend him to the man he wronged most? Tcha, you are blind, you tell yourself lies.

Vortka's defence of treacherous Zandakar pricked him to speak, when silence would be better. “He loved his stinking piebald bitch more.”

“And for that you tried to kill him?” said Vortka, angry again. “Aieee, warlord, you do not understand. A man may love a brother and also a wife. Even if—” He sighed, a sound of sorrow. “Even if the wife was a mistake. He loved that wrong woman, he did not stop loving you. He begged I never tell the empress you attempted his life, he spoke of you every highsun he was kept by my hand. Grieving and desolate, sometimes close to losing his mind, still he thought of you. Warlord, you should have a softer heart.”

Dmitrak raised his right arm, let his gold-and-crystal fingers fist. Summoned the power so the crimson stones glowed. “You should guard your old man's tongue, I will burn it in your mouth if you do not take my advice.”

“Dmitrak…”

Vortka sounded sorry again. Sorry, but beneath the regret a thread of fear. Good.

“You cannot hate forever,” said the foolish old man. “Hate will shrivel your heart, it will poison your godspark.”

Dmitrak grimaced into the wind. The high godspeaker was wrong, hate was more potent than the date wine of Icthia. Hate filled a man's belly, it strengthened his bones.

“Tcha, Vortka, you are stupid. The god hates. The god hates its enemies and tasks me to smite them, the god hates demons and weaklings. I am its hammer born to break them apart.”

“The god hates its enemies, yes,” agreed Vortka. “If we see the god in our hearts we must hate its enemies also, this is a true thing. Dmitrak, Zandakar was never your enemy.”

Zandakar again! Was the old man eager to lose his tongue? “Did I ask you to come here and grind your teeth on that name? I think I did not, Vortka. I think you think I will not smite you. I will.”

“You smite where the god wills, you smite nowhere else,” said Vortka, once more severe. “You are warlord, you have power, you have less power than the god. I am Vortka high godspeaker, I am in the god's eye. You will not smite me, Dmitrak.”

He looked over his shoulder. “No? Then why are you afraid?”

Vortka met his stare, unblinking. “Why are you, if Zandakar is gone?”

A hot pain stabbed through him. Sometimes at night, if he was not sated with female flesh or date wine, he dreamed of his brother, of the days when they were friends. He remembered laughter and horse races and the feel of a strong, warm hand on the back of his neck. Sometimes he woke from those dreams wet with tears.

Weak men weep, I am not weak. I am Dmitrak warlord, the god's hammer, doom of demons.

He shifted till he stood sideways to the harbour. “When does the god say we must sail from Jatharuj to this island called Ethrea?”

“Not yet,” said Vortka.

Not yet. Always the same answer. “The slave sailors talk of trade winds, they say the trade winds are weak. They should not be weak. What does the god say to you in the godpool, Vortka? Why do the trade winds lose their strength? We cannot sail to this Ethrea if the winds are too weak to fill our sails. The slaves cannot row there, they will die in their chains.”

“The godpool is godspeaker business, Dmitrak,” said Vortka. “It is not for you to ask or me to answer.”

And what did that mean? Did Vortka not know? Did the god not tell him why the winds had grown weak?

If Zandakar had asked him, Vortka would answer.

“My warhost grows restive, high godspeaker,” he said, thrusting aside the sour thought. “Icthia is conquered. The lands behind it are conquered. The world lies in front of us, out there—” He waved an arm at the gently seething ocean. “My warhost trains newsun to lowsun, it knows these boats, Vortka, it knows how to sail. We are in the world to kill demons for the god, there are demons in Ethrea. Why are we still here?”

Vortka's godbraids were as silver as his godbells, they were weighted with amulets so his head was heavy to turn. His scorpion pectoral clasped ribs bare of flesh. He was an old man, older than the empress, but an agelessness was in him, as though he could never die.

He would die if I killed him, if the hammer struck him he would die.

Vortka's sunken eyes were bright with anger. “Dmitrak, you tempt the god to a great smiting. You are its hammer, you make no demands. The warhost is in Jatharuj until the god says it is not. Do you say to me you will tell the god what it desires?” His hand lashed out. “Tcha! You sinning boy!”

Dmitrak stared at him, his face stinging from the blow. He did not need to look to know his gauntlet had caught fire, that power pulsed from his blood to the red stones, making them glow, waking in them their yearning for death.

Why can he strike me when I cannot strike back?

Suddenly he was a child again, cowering before the empress his mother, stinging from her careless blows because he danced too slowly in the hotas, because he slumped astride his pony, because – because—

Because I am Dmitrak, I am not Zandakar.

“Dmitrak…”

The rage had died from Vortka's lined face, the heat in his dark eyes had cooled to – to – pity.

“You are the god's hammer, you are in the god's eye,” said Vortka. “You serve the god, you serve it well, do not tempt it to smiting. Do not let anger lead you astray, Dmitrak. The empress needs you. She will not admit it.”

Aieee god, the scorpion pain inside him. I am a man grown, I need no bitch empress to need me. He let the gauntlet cool, pulled the burning power back into himself. I need no brother, I need no-one. I am the hammer.

“Dmitrak warlord,” said Vortka. “The warhost looks to you, you are its father and its mother and its brother. You must come to sacrifice, you must kneel for tasking, you must be Mijak's warlord as Raklion was warlord before you.”

He felt his lips thin to a sneer. “Not Zandakar?”

“Zandakar…” Vortka looked away, to the ocean, to the horizon at its distant edge. A terrible suffering was in his old face. “Your brother lost his way, Dmitrak. He was a great warlord until he was not, and when he was not the god smote him for his sinning. There is no mercy in it for the weakness of men. Sinning men die, how many times have I seen this? Sinning men are broken, the god hammers them to pieces. Are you stupid, Dmitrak? Do you think the god will not hammer you?”

If he said no Vortka would strike him again. Vortka was not Nagarak, fierce tales of Nagarak lived long after his death, but still Vortka was fierce in his own way. He was fierce for the empress, he breathed the air for her and for Mijak.

He will choose her over me, he will never see she is used up. He is blinded by Hekat. He is blinded by love. Does he think I am blind, I cannot see it? Zandakar blinded, Vortka blinded, love is a blinding thing. I keep my eyes.

“When have I not served the god, Vortka?” he demanded. “Cities are rubble because I serve the god. Blood flows like rivers because I serve the god. My blood boils and burns me because I serve the god. I sweat newsun to lowsun because I serve the god. I live in its eye, the god is all that I see. But you stand there and say I do not serve it? Tcha!”

Vortka looked at him steadily, hands relaxed by his sides. In the bright sunshine his stone scorpion pectoral glowed. “You do not serve the god if you keep from sacrifice, Dmitrak. You do not serve the god if you say ‘I will not be tasked’. Pain keeps your heart pure. Pain purges your godspark of sin. Pain keeps you in the god's eye, it sees your pain and knows your obedience. In your cries it hears your love.”

He had cried in tasking so often the god should be dead of his love by now. He had been tasked from small boyhood more times than he could count. Breathe too deeply, too often, the empress sent him for tasking. Dance too swiftly, too slowly, the empress sent him for tasking. Speak too loudly…speak at all…the empress sent him for tasking.

If I had died in the godhouse she would not have shed a tear.

That should not matter, he should not care if she cared. Yet he did care and it burned him, as the god's power burned him when he set his gauntlet on fire.

“When you kneel for tasking,” said Vortka, “your warhost sees you serve the god, your warriors know their warlord is seen, they know their warlord is in the god's eye. Can you look in my eye, Dmitrak, and tell me it does not matter?”

Aieee, tcha, it mattered. It mattered but he hated it. “If they are truly my warriors they know I am their warlord, they know the god sees me,” he retorted. “Am I a child or a slave to be beaten, Vortka? I think I am not. Task the empress, not me.”

“The god tasks the empress every day, Dmitrak,” said Vortka. “That is the god's business and mine, you have your own business to think of. The warhost will not linger in Jatharuj forever. Do you wish to sail to Ethrea with your godspark in doubt?”

When he was a child the godspeakers tasked him, not kindly, but knowing he was a child. He was a man now, he was the warlord, he was the god's hammer. The godspeakers thought he would not break.

Every tasking he feared to prove them wrong.

He turned away from Vortka and stared at the clustering boats, at the sunlit water, at the ant-people scattering. Highsun sacrifice was done. Now the iron tang of fresh blood was on the salty breeze. His warhost would be looking for him, with fingers of light to fill there must be training, they could not stand idle. The empress was right about that much at least.

Vortka was right also, though it galled him to think it. The warhost is a beast, it must stay tamed to my fist. It must have faith in him, believe in him. It must believe, never doubt, he was in the god's eye. He turned back. “No, high godspeaker,” he admitted, grudging. “I would not sail to Ethrea with my godspark in doubt.”

“Then you will come to lowsun sacrifice, warlord,” said Vortka, in the voice he used for the god's pronouncements. “And after you have drunk blood for the god you will kneel for the godspeakers to task you. You are the god's hope against the demons infesting the world. You are the empress's hope. You must not fail.”

He stared down his nose at the high godspeaker. “Fail? I am Dmitrak warlord, I am the god's hammer. Where Zandakar lost his way I have stayed strong.”

Vortka nodded again, his expression cautious. “You have.” Like a fish in muddy water, pity stirred again in his eyes. “But true strength lies in knowing when to bend before you break, warlord. You have pride, it has saved you, it might not save you forever.”

Why do you care, high godspeaker? You love Zandakar, you love Hekat. You do not love me.

He frowned. “Yes, Vortka.”

Vortka looked around the bare hilltop where they stood. Now his expression was puzzled, as though he searched for something. The sky was above them, the harbour below. Beyond them stretched the ocean, blue and deep, the greatest test the god had sent its chosen people. What was a desert of sand when the world contained deserts of water to drown them?

“What do you do here, Dmitrak warlord?” said Vortka, almost whispering. “Why do you so often come to stand on this hill?”

It was far from the township. It was dry land, no water. The breeze was cool, it soothed his skin. It made his godbells sing like sweet birds. Until recently the empress came here, this hilltop pleased her, but she came no more. The walk was too tiring. She needed to rest.

But I can stand here, Vortka. I can stand where she wants to stand, I can see what she cannot see. What I have here she wants, she cannot have it, I win.

I win, Vortka. Why else would I come?

He smiled. “I will come to lowsun sacrifice, Vortka. I am the warlord, I give you my word. When sacrifice is finished I will kneel for your godspeakers, I will permit them to task me. I am the god's hammer. I serve the god.”

In silence Vortka stared at him. Not pity in his eyes, not puzzlement or caution or glorious fear.

His eyes are blank. I do not trust blank eyes.

“The god see you, warlord,” said Vortka high godspeaker. “The god see Mijak in the world.”

He walked away. Disquieted, Dmitrak watched until the old man disappeared from sight down the side of the steep hill. Then he swung back to the harbour, the blue water, the wet desert he must cross for the god. In the pit of his belly, a clutch of fear. Ruthlessly he killed it.

I am the warlord, what is fear to me? It is nothing, it is unknown, fear belongs to my enemies. I am not afraid.

Down in the township was a pen full of old slaves, sick slaves, crippled slaves who could no longer work. The empress desired them, their blood held great power, but he would take them first. He would deny them to her. She said the warhost must not be idle, it would not be idle, his warriors would sharpen their snakeblades on the bones of useless slaves. Warriors whose blades did not drink blood often were warriors whose godsparks withered in the sun.

How can she smite me? In her own words I am right.

Already he could feel his snakeblade biting flesh, breaking bone. He could smell the nectar of fresh blood, taste it spraying hot and iron on his tongue, his thirsty skin. He could hear the chanting of his warhost, see the empress's chagrined face, knowing she had lost to him, knowing he was right.

The hilltop breeze strengthened, his godbells sang in the ringing silence. They sang to his glory, they sang to Dmitrak warlord, Dmitrak god hammer, Dmitrak warrior of the world.

He threw back his head. He laughed, and laughed.

Returned to the township, Vortka barely noticed the godspeakers bowing to him, the warriors punching their fists to their chests, the fear in the slaves as they flung themselves face-down on the sand, the grass, the pavestones. He scarcely smelled the fresh sacrifice, the salt in the rising breeze, he paid no attention to the coins in the godbowls before this street's godposts. He hurried to his godhouse in search of the god.

Although it sat above the township, the godhouse of Jatharuj did not dominate like the godhouse atop Raklion's Pinnacle. Before Mijak came to cleanse the town, the building was the home of an official. He was dead now, his bones bleached in the sun. A godpost towered on the godhouse roof, it cast a long shadow down the Jatharuj hillside. Inside the godhouse the soft furnishings of Jatharuj were stripped away, broken up and burned, they did not please the god. The room for bathing in the house was turned into a godpool, its blood collected at sacrifices and stored in stone cisterns deep beneath the hot ground.

Vortka summoned three novices as he entered the godhouse. “Fill the godpool,” he told them. “I will seek the god now.”

Waiting for them to complete their task, he stood on the balcony at the front of the godhouse. In some small way it reminded him of Hekat's palace balcony in Et-Raklion. The view, perhaps, or the clean air. The sense of height and freedom. In Et-Raklion the palace was surrounded by a sea of green, fields and vineyards and open land. Here the sea was blue, it was an ocean, it stretched even further than the green lands of Et-Raklion. He missed Et-Raklion.

He stared at the harbour but instead of seeing the warhost's crowding war galleys he saw instead Dmitrak. He saw the warlord's angry face.

Aieee, god, he disturbs me. He is a boy in a man's body, his godspark is scarred. When I praise him he suspects me, when I chide him he wants me dead. Somehow I must reach him. How can I reach him? He lives alone in his heart. Without Zandakar he is lost.

A dreadful thought, since Zandakar was gone. Dmitrak called him likely dead and it was likely, though Hekat clung to hope. Hekat clung to Zandakar so tight she did not see the son in front of her.

She has never seen him, save for something to hate. Every highsun she hates him, every highsun his scars thicken but they do not keep him from pain. Aieee, god, this is a tangle, did you mean this? Is this right?

After the godpool he must go to the empress. If Dmitrak was angry, Hekat was raging. The trade winds were slothful, he could not tell her why. She was threatening a slaughter like the slaughter in that desert behind them, the one that had drunk her first human blood. He watched his fingers tighten on the balcony railing, in his mind's eye the ocean turned stinking and scarlet.

How I wish she had never learned the power of human blood. Why did you show her, god? It is a dreadful thing.

Doubtless that thought was dreadful too, but how could he help it? To sacrifice animals, that was one thing. That was proper, they lived that they might die. But to butcher humans, even slaves, even those blighted godsparks not living in the god's eye, to slaughter them when they were not criminals… Mijak was in the world for the god. What purpose was served in killing when the god needed living men and women to praise it?

If Zandakar were here he could stop her sacrificing humans, her love for him was the only soft thing in her. Zandakar…Zandakar…why did you stray?

Grief was a snakeblade lodged in his heart. Every time he thought of his son it twisted and he bled inside, bled tears, bled despair, bled fear they would never meet again.

If he was dead I would feel it, surely. If my son was dead the god would tell me in my cut and bleeding heart.

“High godspeaker?” said Anchiko novice, behind him. “The godpool is filled.”

He waited a moment before turning, so the breeze could dry his face. “Good. Return to your duties.”

Anchiko bowed and withdrew. Vortka watched him retreat down the godhouse corridor, his roughspun robe splashed scarlet in places.

I was that young once, I was that fearful of my fearsome high godspeaker. I am not Nagarak, I do not grow fat on the fear of novices, yet they fear me anyway. I never dreamed this would be me, I never asked for this power. Seasons pass, so many seasons, and I find myself understanding it less and less.

Perhaps in the godpool he would receive an answer.

The novices were well trained, all was ready for him in the tiled room given over to the god. It was fortunate the Jatharuj official had been a man fond of his luxuries. The sunken bath was profligate, large enough for five grown men. Small for a godpool, though, mean compared to the godpool in the godhouse on Raklion's Pinnacle, but for his purpose it sufficed.

The air in the tiled room hung heavy with the scent of blood. He stripped to his skin, laying his stone scorpion pectoral carefully on the tiled floor. It had not woken for so many seasons, every highsun he prayed it would not wake again.

The blood in the godpool was cool and cloying, teetering on the edge of turning rotten. This Icthia was not like Et-Raklion, where the godhouse farms bred countless sacred beasts for sacrifice. There was less blood here, it had to be hoarded, kept until it reached the point of reeking. He felt his skin cringe at its touch. The stench clogged his nose and mouth, coated his tongue with nausea. As it closed over his head a sob caught in his throat.

Forgive me, god, forgive this sinning man in your eye.

In the dark redness of the godpool, where he could not walk properly but only crawl, he opened his heart and his mind to the god.

We are trapped in Icthia, god, we are trapped in Jatharuj. Is this your doing or do demons rise against you? We sit in your eye, we wait for your desire, what is your want? Is Hekat right, must we sacrifice more slaves to break the demons' hold on the trade winds? Or do you keep them from us for some other purpose? I am here, god, in the godpool, Vortka high godspeaker, your servant in the world. I seek to know your will, speak to me that I might obey you, I have obeyed you all my life.

His snakeblade heart remained silent. He felt tears well behind his closed eyelids, felt them swell in his chest and make his heart throb with pain.

Why are you silent, god? Have I displeased you? Did I sin, saving Zandakar? Should I have let Dmitrak kill him?

His lips were pressed tight against the stinking blood, he sobbed in his throat but did not let the sound escape. How could he have done that, how could he have given his son to Nagarak's blighted son for killing?

Peace, Vortka. You did not sin. Zandakar lives, he is meant to live. Tell no-one, his life is in your hands.

He did sob then, and the rancid blood poured into his mouth. Choking, his belly heaving, he struggled to stay with the god, to hear its faint voice.

No more human sacrifice, Vortka. The wind is the wind, it will come when it comes. Be patient. Be guided. Your heart knows the true path.

He did burst free of the godpool then, it was burst free or drown. Flailing, coughing, he clung to the bath's tiled sides, retching.

The godpool door opened and a novice looked in. “High godspeaker? High godspeaker!”

They were listening, outside this tiled room? When he told them to leave him they lingered? They disobeyed?

“Did I ask for your presence?” he growled. “I think I did not!”

It was a different novice, not Anchiko, it was a girl, her name was – was – Rinka. “Forgive me, high godspeaker,” she whispered. “I was passing, I heard a sound.”

Exhausted, he clung to the dark blue tiles. His bones ached, his muscles trembled, his heart beat like a worn-out drum. The sacred blood dripped slowly, its stink would linger many highsuns. Whispering faintly, the god's voice.

Your heart knows the true path.

And yet he felt as ignorant as any novice.

Rinka's dark eyes were wide and frightened, she knelt at the godpool's edge and stared at him. “Vortka high godspeaker, should I send for a healer?”

A healer? No. He was healed already, the snakeblade pain was gone from his heart. Zandakar lives. “I have no need of healing, novice,” he said. His voice was a harsh wheeze. “You may assist me, I must speak with the empress. I must cleanse myself and dress in fresh robes. Help me out.”

So long ago Hekat rode his body, she rode him to spilling seed and together they made Zandakar. That Vortka's body was young and strong, it stirred at young Hekat's touch, it yearned for sensation. Now he stood naked beneath the water sluicing from the spigot in the corner, Rinka's young touch swished him free of blood and he felt nothing. He was a stone man, unstirred.

In his hating eyes Dmitrak calls me an old man, he is right. I am old. I am withered. I am shrunken for the god. Does it matter? I think it does not. Zandakar lives.

“High godspeaker?” said Rinka, hesitating.

He pretended his tears were water from the spigot, he pretended he did not want to sob out his joy. “You may leave me,” he said. “Return to your tasks.”

She did not want to leave him, her eyes were full of worry, but he was the high godspeaker. To disobey was to die. So she left and closed the door behind her.

He was alone, he let himself sag against the cool tiles. I am the high godspeaker, the god has spoken in the godpool. Now I must tell Hekat she cannot summon the trade winds. Aieee, god. The tasks you set.

It was not one of Hekat's good days, Vortka saw that immediately. Good days came to Hekat more rarely with each passing fat godmoon.

“What do you want?” she demanded, propped on her cushioned divan. “Do I need more healing, Vortka? I think I do not.”

Zandakar lives. Tell no-one. She would not be surprised to hear it, she never believed their son was dead. But the god was the god, he kept that news to himself.

“Empress,” he said, and gently closed the chamber door. For her palace she had taken the home of a Jatharuj merchant, a rich man with much coin to spend on comfort and lavish display. His coin had not saved his life, of course, his bones bleached too, his blood was long since spilled to serve the god.

The palace's balcony doors stood wide open to let in the fresh salt air. He breathed in its sweetness, willing the godpool's stink to fade. Smiling, he crossed the soft carpet to reach Hekat, took her hand in his and kissed its knuckles. Gold bracelets chimed on her wrist. Her bony wrist, so fleshless, with only half of the strength he remembered remaining.

“Tcha,” she said, as though he'd displeased her, but that was for show, for habit, she was pleased. “You came to kiss me, Vortka? We are long past that.”

So many godmoons they had walked through life together, he did not ask if he could sit. He pulled a cushioned stool closer and lowered his skinny haunches to its soft comfort. “I have been in the godpool.”

Her face had shrunk to scars and eyes. Every curve and edge of her skull was visible beneath her taut scarred skin, her blue eyes were fading, her plump lips were grown thin. Pain lived inside her, his desperate healing could not chase it away. Her godbraids were a torment, too heavy for her head. She refused to lighten them by a single amulet, by one solitary godbell. She was the empress, her godbraids praised the god.

“In the godpool,” she echoed. Now her blue eyes were hungry. She leaned forward, fingers clenching. “The god spoke? What did it say?”

He took a deep breath, braced himself for her fury. “It said there must be no human sacrifice for the trade winds. The trade winds will come in their time, and not before.”

“Tcha!” she spat, she drummed her heels on the wide divan. “You misheard it, Vortka! I will swim in the godpool, the god speaks to me as well as you.”

“I did not mishear it, Hekat, I heard it well enough,” he replied. “And you are too frail to swim in the godpool.”

She threw a cushion at him. “Too frail? Too frail? Who are you to tell an empress she is too frail?”

He took her hand again, it was like holding a bird's claw. “You know who I am, I am Vortka, your dear friend. I am Mijak's high godspeaker, I tell you the truth. Always the truth, though you seldom wish to hear it.”

“Tcha,” she said, and tugged her hand free. “Because your truths are soft, they do not please me. I wish to sail!”

“And we will sail, Hekat. When the winds come, we will sail.”

“Why do they not come, Vortka?” she said, pettish. “Are your godspeakers grown weak in their faith?”

He shook his head, smiling again. Smiling though his healed heart pained him. You were so beautiful, Hekat, time has not been kind. “You know they are strong. You know I train them well.”

“Then where are the trade winds? Why are my warships becalmed?”

He sighed. “Hekat, we do not need to know the god's purpose to know its will. There are reasons the winds are slow, I cannot tell you what they are. I am the god's high godspeaker, I am not the god.”

She snorted. “Do I need you to tell me that? I think I do not!”