Karen Miller - Empress (Godspeaker Trilogy)

You wish to be a knife-dancer, Hekat of Et-Raklion?

Her blue gaze shifted to his knife-dancers and their hota. I wish to be a knife-dancer, she answered him. I wish to be a charioteer. I wish to shoot an arrow, sling a shot-stone, bury my spear-point in an enemys throat. I wish to be a warrior, warlord.

The calm declaration moved him. And what are you now, Hekat of Et-Raklion?

Her lips pursed in disgust. I am a killer of chickens, I slaughter sheep.

She was scarred, her beauty destroyed. That did not matter either, though he mourned its loss. Warriors had no need for beauty in the face, a warriors beauty was speed and strength, a lust for blood, the knack of survival.

Why should I grant your bold request, Hekat? Why should I make you a warrior of Et-Raklion?

She looked at him with those clear blue eyes, in their depths burned a fervent flame. Because it is the will of the god, warlord. Hear it whisper in your heart. It whispers to you: make Hekat a warrior.

Praise for Karen Miller:

Talk about making a splash debut!

Romantic Times BOOKreviews (starred) on The Innocent Mage

A perfect blend of magic and drama.

The Fantasy Review on The Awakened Mage

Books by Karen Miller

Kingmaker, Kingbreaker

The Innocent Mage

The Awakened Mage

The Godspeaker Trilogy

Empress

The Riven Kingdom

Hammer of God

For Dave Duncan, a scholar, a gentleman, and a damned fine writer.

Thanks for all the fabulous readsand lunch. Heres to many more!

D espite its two burning lard-lamps the kitchen was dark, its air choked with the stink of rancid goat butter and spoiling goat-meat. Spiders festooned the corners with sickly webs, boarding the husks of flies and suck-you-dries. A mud-brick oven swallowed half the space between the door and the solitary window. There were three wooden shelves, one rickety wooden stool and a scarred wooden table, almost unheard of in this land whose trees had ages since turned to stone.

Crouched in the shadows beneath the table, the child with no name listened to the man and the woman fight.

But you promised, the woman wailed. You said I could keep this one.

The mans hard fist pounded the timber above the childs head. That was before another poor harvest, slut, before two more village wells dried up! All the coin it costs to feed it, am I made of money? Dont you complain, when it was born I couldve thrown it on the rocks, I couldve left it on The Anvil!

But she can work, she

Not like a son! His voice cracked like lightning, rolled like thunder round the small smoky room. If youd whelped me more sons

I tried!

Not hard enough! Another boom of fist on wood. The she-brat goes. Only the god knows when Traders will come this way again.

The woman was sobbing, harsh little sounds like a dying goat. But shes so young.

Young? Its blood-time is come. It can pay back what its cost me, like the other she-brats you spawned. This is my word, woman. Speak again and Ill smash your teeth and black your eyes.

When the woman dared disobey him the child was so surprised she bit her fingers. She scarcely felt the small pain; her whole life was pain, vast like the barren wastes beyond the villages godpost, and had been so since her first caterwauling cry. She was almost numb to it now.

Please, the woman whispered. Let me keep her. Ive spawned you six sons.

It shouldve been eleven! Now the man sounded like one of his skin-and-bone dogs, slavering beasts who fought for scraps of offal in the stony yard behind their hovel.

The child flinched. She hated those dogs almost as much as she hated the man. It was a bright flame, her hatred, hidden deep and safe from the mans sight. He would kill her if he saw it, would take her by one skinny scabbed ankle and smash her headfirst into the nearest red and ochre rock. Hed done it to a dog once, that had dared to growl at him. The other dogs had lapped up its brains then fought over the bloody carcass all through the long unheated night. On her threadbare blanket beneath the kitchen table shed fallen asleep to the sound of their teeth, and dreamed the bones they gnawed were her own.

But dangerous or not she refused to abandon her hate, the only thing she owned. It comforted and nourished her, filling her ache-empty belly on the nights she didnt eat because the womans legs were spread, or her labors were unfinished, or the man was drunk on cactus blood and beating her.

He was beating her now, open-handed blows across the face, swearing and sweating, working himself to a frenzy. The woman knew better than to cry out. Listening to the mans palm smack against the womans sunken cheeks, to his lusty breathing and her swallowed grunts, the child imagined plunging a knife into his throat. If she closed her eyes she could see the blood spurt scarlet, hear it splash on the floor as he gasped and bubbled and died. She was sure she could do it. Hadnt she seen the men with their proud knives cut the throats of goats and even a horse, once, that had broken its leg and was no longer good for anything but meat and hide and bleached boiled bones?

There were knives in a box on the kitchens lowest shelf. She felt her fingers curl and cramp as though grasping a carved bone hilt, felt her heart rattle her ribs. The secret flame flickered, flared... then died.

No good. Hed catch her before she killed him. She would not defeat the man today, or tomorrow, or even next fat godmoon. She was too small, and he was too strong. But one day, many fat godmoons from now, shed be big and hed be old and shrunken. Then shed do it and throw his body to the dogs after and laugh and laugh as they gobbled his buttocks and poked their questing tongues through the empty eye sockets of his skull.

One day.

The man hit the woman again, so hard she fell to the pounded dirt floor. You poisoned my seed five times and whelped bitches, slut. Three sons you whelped lived less than a godmoon. I should curse you! Turn you out for the godspeaker to deal with!

The woman was sobbing again, scarred arms crossed in front of her face. Im sorryIm sorry

Listening, the child felt contempt. Where was the womans flame? Did she even have one? Weeping. Begging. Didnt she know this was what the man wanted, to see her broken and bleating in the dirt? The woman should die first.

But she wouldnt. She was weak. All women were weak. Everywhere in the village the child saw it. Even the women whod spawned only sons, who looked down on the ones whod spawned she-brats as well, who helped the godspeaker stone the cursed witches whose bodies spewed forth nothing but female flesh... even those women were weak.

I not weak the child told herself fiercely as the man soaked the woman in venom and spite and the woman wept, believing him. I never beg.

Now the man pressed his heel between the womans dugs and shoved her flat on her back. You should pray thanks to the god. Another man wouldve broke your legs and turned you out seasons ago. Another man wouldve plowed two hands of living sons on a better bitch than you!

Yes! Yes! I am fortunate! I am blessed! the woman gabbled, rubbing at the bruised place on her chest.

The man shucked his trousers. Maybe. Maybe not. Spread, bitch. You give me a living son nine fat godmoons from now or I swear by the village godpost Ill be rid of you onto The Anvil!

Choking, obedient, the woman hiked up her torn shift and let her thin thighs fall open. The child watched, unmoved, as the man plowed the womans furrow, grunting and sweating with his effort. He had a puny blade, and the womans soil was old and dusty. She wore her dog-tooth amulet round her neck but its power was long dead. The child did not think a son would come of this planting or any other. Nine fat godmoons from this day, or sooner, the woman would die.