Speaker of the Gods

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.

It was once a place of lushness. Of life. Generations of families lived in peace, their lives full of love and joy.

Then came the dragon riders.

At first they came alone to lay the path for their beasts. Passages were carved through the mountains. Trees were felled. And one by one, the serpents slithered into the valley and made their home there, killing all who stood in their way.

What once grew was gone. Green turned to grey. Water turned to dust.

Those who survived fled. Be patient, the gods told them. For one day, the bringer of your salvation will be appointed.

One day, he will be chosen. The Speaker of the Gods will name him, and he will rise up, don the armour of old, and march into the Valley to slay the dragons.

That day is today.

***

The large oak doors part with the groan of an exhausted old man and dazzling light floods the gap, reaching through like hands trying to force their way inside. With it comes a thrum like a beehive, which dies as I step forward into blindness.

It takes a few moments – and many blinks – before my eyes adjust to the sunlight and I see them.

The entire city is gathered here in the courtyard of the castle, at the foot of the stairs where I stand, to hear the words of the gods. Today, a prophecy will be spoken. Today, one of these souls will be chosen. To be honoured. To be our salvation.

Not one of them looks eager.

I take my place beside the queen. The king glances at me before stepping forward to address his people.

I try to listen, but it’s warm out here, and the dress of my station is thick and stiff. A slick layer of sweat builds up between my skin and the course red fabric and my arms begin to itch. With subtle movements, I stretch my neck one way, and then the other, my heavy headdress already taking its toll.

‘Stop fidgeting, Lyra,’ the queen mutters to me from the corner of her mouth.

I clench my fists, concentrating my entire being on fighting the urge to scratch my arms.

The king turns and reaches out for me, and I know it’s now my turn. I step forward as he steps back, and look out over the crowd. Their features are blurry from where I stand and I can’t pick out any familiar faces. It doesn’t matter. All I need is a name.

I close my eyes and lift my arms, reaching up to the sky. It begins.

‘By the highest sun of fall’s last day,’ I say, my voice low and not at all like is usual self. ‘He shall be chosen.’ Whispers run through the crowd like a wind, but I ignore them. ‘A hero shall rise. He will take up arms against those that deposed us and return us to paradise. He will learn his worth. He will earn his worth. He will be chosen …’ Another breath runs through the crowd as they await the name of their saviour.

‘Markus Thatch.’

They gasp and my eyes snap open. I take an unsteady step back, my arms dropping to my sides, and take gulping breaths as if I’ve been submerged in water. The queen catches me as my knees buckle.

‘Come forward, Markus Thatch!’ the king’s voice thunders from beside me.

The crowd parts around a boy, only a few years younger than me at twelve or thirteen. He looks around, as if not sure which way he should have stepped, as if he should be part of the crowd.

‘Markus,’ the king says. His voice is still loud enough to echo around the courtyard, but is not lacking in compassion. ‘Come forward, boy.’

Still looking around, the boy takes a step forward. Then, in a flash of colour, two figures rush toward him. One is taller, with long hair. His mother, if I had to guess. The other is the same height, but also with long hair. His twin, perhaps. They grasp at him, as if they can stop the will of the gods.

‘Markus,’ the king repeats, his voice as warm as an embrace. ‘Come. It is time.’

The boy has no choice. They have all heard the prophecy. Reluctantly, his family release him.

His body seems to shrink as he makes his way forward. His tiny feet take the stairs one at a time, and it seems like hours pass before he makes it to the top. He’s a small boy, slight for his age, shrunken by poverty. He stops before the king.

This is the boy I’ve just sentenced to die.

I, the Speaker of the Gods.

I, who these people revere, who they trust.

They have no idea that I made the whole thing up.