by Fiona Patton
“It gives us a chance to ready a defense. You saw the sea chain the smiths of Ystazia are making?”
“You know I did; we visited their workshops last week.” Hisar cocked His head to one side. “They asked me to send strength to their work and weakness to the Volinski sailors. People ask me that sort of thing a lot, but I don’t know how,” He added in a petulant tone.
“You will one day,” Spar said absently. “When the chain’s done,” he continued, “they’ll stretch it across the mouth of the Halic-Salmanak at the first sign of danger. That’ll protect the western wharfs.”
“But what’ll protect the temple wharfs?”
“Estavia’s fleet.”
“The fleet that’s down by a third in strength?”
Spar gave his familiar one-shouldered shrug. “Ystazia’s shipwrights have been hard at work, too. Maybe they’ll be done in time.”
“Maybe? You haven’t seen that either?”
“No.”
“So, what have you seen?”
“Ants racing around an overturned anthill mostly. But ants going the same way at least.”
“More symbols. Very not helpful,” Hisar sneered.
“As helpful as birds and horses.”
Hisar snorted at him. “The enemy has seers, too, you know,” He pointed out. “Petchan sayers, Yuruk wyrdin, Skirosian oracles, and Volinski sorcerers. Isn’t it likely that they’ve already seen all your preparations?”
“Yes. Just like we’ve seen theirs.”
“But they won’t break off even though they don’t have the . . . what’s it called, element of surprise, now?”
Spar shrugged again. “The element of surprise is only one tactic in a battle. They think they have the strength of numbers enough to beat us. They think that’ll be tactic enough. They want control of Gol-Beyaz Lake, and they’re committed to taking it. Seers aren’t commanders; they’re scouts gathering intelligence. Incasa and His priests will mask and muddy the waters the enemy draws their prophecy from, like tainting a well. They’ll do the same to us. We’ll all sift through it looking for droplets of clear truth, making our predictions and giving our advice, but in the end, the enemy commanders’ll send their soldiers and sailors against us and our commanders’ll send our soldiers and sailors to repel them; offense and defense.”
“That’s a pretty martial point of view coming from a seer,” Hisar pointed out.
“I’ve been living in a martial temple for six years. It rubs off.”
The young God turned away. Glancing out across the city once more, He frowned. “I don’t want people attacking my city,” He said after a moment.
Spar raised a blond eyebrow. “Your city?”
Hisar’s gold-flecked gray eyes flashed with a hint of the Gods’ more common silver. “Yes, my city,” He retorted. “I’m supposed to be a God of Anavatan. That makes it mine. But I don’t even know how to protect it.”
He raised His head. “A CHILD OF GREAT POTENTIAL STILL UNFORMED STANDING ON THE STREETS OF ANAVATAN; THE TWIN DOGS OF CREATION AND DESTRUCTION CROUCHED AT ITS FEET,” He intoned, allowing His voice to take on an echoing richness He rarely employed.
Spar nodded as the lien forged by the oaths he’d sworn to the young God nine months ago sent a thrill of power traveling along his spine. “Yes,” he agreed. “The child is ringed by silver swords and golden knives, and its eyes are filled with fire. It draws strength from Anavatan’s unsworn and was born under the cover of Havo’s Dance.”
“That was my first prophecy,” Hisar observed, His voice returning to normal. “Seer Freyiz of Incasa’s own temple said so. I was formed of wild land spirits and birthed by Havo’s spring storms six years ago. I was raised by knives and swords in the battles between the Yuruk and the Warriors of Estavia a year later. The God of Creation and Destruction, that’s what I am. That’s what Incasa saw, and that’s what he told His priests.”
“That’s what Incasa wants you to be,” Spar corrected. “Is it what you want?”
Hisar shook His head with an irritated gesture. “I don’t know. I don’t even know what it means. Create what? Destroy what?”
He scowled. “A CHILD ARMED AND ARMORED, AND A SHIMMERING TOWER, STRONG AND DEFENSIBLE, RAISED TO DEFEND THE CITY OF THE GODS, STANDING BEFORE A SNOW-CLAD MOUNTAIN COVERED IN A CRIMSON MIST OF DANGER AND DEATH. Another old woman’s prophecy about me.” He sniffed. “At least that one makes a bit more sense, but how’m I supposed to do it? I can’t even send strength to a sea chain. Where am I supposed to stand and who’m I supposed to stand against; they’re coming from three sides. If I’m a God, why don’t I know this and why can’t I do the same things the others can?” He shot Spar a resentful glare. “You’re my priest. You’re supposed to figure this stuff out for me,” He added accusingly.
The thrill of power up Spar’s spine became an itch and he pressed his hand against his chest with a scowl. “Stop that,” he ordered. “I’m not a priest.”
“You swore oaths to me. You were my first. That makes you my First Priest.”
Together, they turned to stare out at the night sky to the west. Somewhere out there was the one other person who’d sworn oaths to the immature God, oaths made in a moment of rage and jealousy, but still oaths: Graize, Hisar’s first abayos and Spar and Brax’s earliest enemy, whose prophetic ability and ties to Hisar rivaled Spar’s own. He was hiding out there in the wild lands somewhere, a dangerous and unstable enemy that would have to be turned or destroyed before they could win any kind of lasting security.
“Why are there always mountains?” Hisar wondered out loud. “Have you ever seen mountains in prophecy?”
Spar considered sidestepping the question, but, as a chill of foreboding whispered through his mind, he nodded. “Tonight. I saw a mountain path, just like you did.”
Hisar straightened eagerly. “What do you think it means?”
Again Spar considered sidestepping the question, and again he chose not to. “I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “Mountains usually mean challenges—really, really big challenges,” he added. “And paths mean choices. Choices create the future. So, a challenging path leading to a . . . challenging future probably,” he hazarded.
“And the fog?”
“Fog means the choices are still hidden, still unformed.”
“Like me,” Hisar grumbled. Kicking at the parapet, He grimaced as His toe passed partially through the stone. “I’m sick of being unformed,” He complained.
“Me, too. Be patient.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“That’s no answer.”
“It’s the only answer. The future takes its time, and even the Gods can’t rush it.”
“If I was the God of Time, I could rush it.”
“But you aren’t the God of Time, are you?” Spar leaned his elbows on the stone parapet with an amused expression. “There is no God of Time. Time holds its own dominion, and even Incasa can’t cheat it. Like I said, you’ll just have to be patient and wait like the rest of us.” With that, he turned toward the tower stairs. “Now I’m going back to bed. Brax wants my help training the new temple delinkon in the morning, and he’ll give me more grief than I want to put up with if I’m not rested.”
Hisar gave an unsympathetic sniff. “You could always beg off; say you have to go have a vision or something.”
“I could. But I don’t lie to Brax. He’s my kardos. He’s family.”
A melancholy expression came and went in Hisar’s eyes before He turned to peer down at the darkened courtyards below. “He’s down there, you know,” He said quietly. “Practicing even though it hurts him to do it. I can feel it.” He pressed His hand to His chest in unconscious imitation of the sworn—those who had given their oaths to the Gods. Hisar’s connection to Brax—created when, driven by hunger, the young God had attacked him on the battlements five years ago—was a touchy subject and not one He and Spar discussed very often. “He keeps going until his whole world is thick with
pain,” He continued. “He should rest, but he can’t; Estavia’s lien is burning inside him too brightly.”
“She frets,” Spar answered. “Ever since he got captured by . . .” He paused, unwilling to speak Graize’s name in this regard. “. . . the Petchans last year She can’t leave him in peace; She’s like a hen afraid a fox will get at her favorite chick.”
“The Petchans have the muting effect,” Hisar acknowledged. “I faced it, too.” His expression darkened. “I hate it,” He spat. “It cut me off from Graize. It cut Estavia off from Brax. She’s afraid of losing him again, but She’ll burn him out if She’s not careful.”
“Brax is strong. He’ll be all right.”
“But . . .”
Spar chopped his hand down in a sharp gesture. “It’s his choice, Hisar. He swore his oaths to Her; he loves Her. He’s Her Champion; her favorite, just like Kaptin Haldin was all those centuries ago.”
Hisar’s almond-shaped eyes narrowed. “Yes, you’ve told me those stories, and it sounds to me like Kaptin Haldin was the first one She drew energy from to gain form just like I did with Brax. And if Kaptin Haldin’s essence tasted anything like Brax’s, which I’ll bet it did,” He added tactlessly, “then he probably met his end because She sucked him dry and then burned him out.”
“Even if She did, he’d have let Her,” Spar retorted. “And so would Brax. They’re Champions. It’s expected of them.”
Hisar frowned. “I wouldn’t expect that of you,” He pointed out.
Despite the seriousness of the conversation, Spar’s mouth quirked up in a half-smile. “I’m not a Champion. Apparently I’m a First Priest.”
“But . . .”
Spar shook his head. “There’s no buts. Besides, Estavia’s got thousands of warriors and militia from one end of Gol-Beyaz to the other. That should be enough for Her.”
“It isn’t,” Hisar insisted. His young face drew down in a pout that made Him seem even younger. “And it’s not enough for that lot either,” He added, waving one arm to take in the entire temple. “They made him a ghazi-warrior at sixteen, and then a ghazi-priest right after that. They named him Ikin-Kaptin and put him in charge of a patrol last year, the youngest officer ever.”
Spar shrugged. “People follow him.”
“Because he’s Her Champion?”
Hisar’s sarcastic tone was tinged with jealousy and Spar raised an eyebrow at Him in response. “No, because he’s him. People are drawn to him because he gives himself fully to whatever he believes in; you know that. The temple commanders are drawn to him too. He’s got strength.”
“So, what’s it going to be this season, then?” Hisar insisted, “a full kaptincy? And after that, what—command of the entire temple?”
“I didn’t know Marshal Brayazi was that close to retirement,” Spar answered sarcastically.
“Whatever. They still want to pile even more responsibility on him; I’ve heard them talking about it.”
Spar stilled another foreboding chill that worked its way up his spine. “You shouldn’t eavesdrop,” he said distractedly.
Hisar just snorted at him. “How else am I going to learn things? And don’t change the subject. They’re putting too much on him all at once; so is She.”
“He wants it,” Spar replied quietly. “He always has.”
“He’ll crumble under the weight of it. He’s already starting to fall.”
Spar straightened. “Then we’ll just have to help him carry it,” he said, his voice firm. “Because he won’t put it down.”
“But . . .”
“No.” Spar chopped one hand down. “War is coming, Hisar. Our enemies are gathering and our defenses are strengthening Estavia’s resolve. She won’t be put off, and neither will Brax.” His expression softened. “Don’t start fretting, all right? We won’t be put off either. Reaching out, he lifted the bead from around Hisar’s neck. “Why don’t you go flying or something,” he suggested, attempting a lighter tone. “It’ll be hours before dawn.”
“I could go looking for more tower symbols.”
Spar nodded. He and Hisar had found the first one together months ago, carved on the side of a horse trough on Kedi Caddesi. “How many did you find tonight?” he asked.
“Three.” Hisar cast him a sideways look. “Or I could go west, into the Berbat-Dunya wild lands,” He mused.
Spar maintained an even expression. “You could.”
“But you don’t want me to.”
“It’s your choice.”
“But you don’t want me to.”
Spar sighed. “I don’t want you to get hurt. Graize is crazy.”
“He made me. I know where to find him. You’ve looked; I know you have, the way the seers do when their eyes go white, and through your own way, in the dark place when your eyes go black, but you can’t find him.”
“The wild land hides his movements,” Spar acknowledged.
“Not from me.”
Spar shook his head. “He’ll reject you, just like he always does.”
“He promised that he’d never be gone from me again. I’ll make him remember that. We need him,” Hisar added in a firm tone. “I need him.”
“I know, Hisar.”
“It’s the only way to keep him and Brax from killing each other.”
“I know, Hisar.”
The force of Spar’s reply sent the young God back a step. “Maybe I’ll just go looking for those white bird-ships instead,” He said, attempting a flippant tone of voice to cover His hurt feelings.
Spar sighed. “Just be careful,” he said in a gentler tone.
The young God gave a disdainful sniff. “They can’t hurt me,” He retorted, His voice dripping with a condescension that matched the age of his seeming.
“Be careful anyway.”
“Yes, Aba.” Spinning about, Hisar’s male form vanished to be replaced by a shimmering metallic dragonfly. It circled Spar’s head for a single heartbeat, illuminating his face in a golden light before taking wing over the battlements.
Watching It disappear into the clouds above, Spar draped the red ceramic bead around his own neck.
“He’ll crumble under the weight of it.”
“No, he won’t.”
He’s already starting to fall.”
Spar’s eyes narrowed. He’d protected Brax from his self-imposed destiny as a warrior-priest with a huge target on his forehead for six years, and he wasn’t about to stop now. Brax would not fall.
He turned. “Come, Jaq.”
Refusing to glance down at the courtyard below, Spar headed for the armory stairs, the dog padding obediently along behind him. As they disappeared through the doorway, his eyes slowly darkened until the blue was obliterated completely by the black of his own private prophetic seeking. Brax would not fall, and he and Graize would not kill each other. Spar would see to it as he always had.
Somehow.
Step, strike, strike. Hold. Step, strike. Turn, block, strike. Faster. Faster, strike, step. Breathe, breathe the pain away, breathe. Slowly.
Estavia’s lien buzzing through him like a furious swarm of bees, Brax advanced across the darkened training yard. The small shield strapped to his left arm was an encumbrance he’d managed to integrate into his attack months ago, but the residual pain and weakness in his right leg was a constant source of frustration. Now, he paused just long enough to allow the trembling in the thigh to ease.
“You’re only twenty-one years old and you’re acting like an old man,” he berated himself. “Concentrate.”
“The injury was a deep one. It will take time to heal.” Chief Physician Samlin’s dry voice retorted in his mind. “You’re lucky. The sword bit deep into the muscle but missed the tendons. You’ll walk, you’ll fight, but not if you don’t rest.”
“I can’t rest.”
She won’t let me.
Unspoken words, barely even thought. Estavia was the God of Battle; the only response She knew to weakness or to danger was to fight. A
nd the danger was growing all around them. He had to be ready to face it. But where? There were too many battlefields. He couldn’t hold the line everywhere at once. He had to make a stand somewhere.
Her lien burning through his veins with a renewed sense of urgency, he raised his sword once again, seeking clarity in the familiar motions of attack and defense.
“What did you do?”
“I took them away from you.”
The memory of Graize’s words spoken nine months ago—the last time they’d crossed swords and Brax had lost—whispered, unwanted, through his mind, burning with an intensity that rivaled Estavia’s lien.
As he advanced across the yard, he acknowledged his enemy with a snarl: Graize; the weakness and the danger that drove him onward. Somehow, the stand he took had to be against that weakness and against that danger. Somehow he had to defeat it, defeat Graize, once and for all.
A stab of pain shooting up his leg as his foot twisted on an uneven bit of flagstone pulled him from his thoughts, and he clamped his teeth down on an involuntary hiss. Stretching out the leg, he waited for the pain to ease.
He’d been at Estavia’s temple for six years, ever since he’d sworn his oaths on the streets of Anavatan to save Spar and himself from the spirits of the wild lands. He’d seen countless battles since, but the most debilitating injury he’d taken had come from Graize: petty thief, street seer, trickster, liar, and rival from their childhood turned enemy commander.
And it had been nothing compared to Graize’s most damaging blow when he’d somehow cut Brax off from Estavia’s presence nine months ago, leaving him to face an echoing emptiness alone. Spar and Hisar had saved him, given him back to Estavia, but the memory remained, weakening them both, God and Champion. If it could happen once . . .
He straightened with a savage expression. It would not happen again. Graize would never get the chance again.
Strike, strike, step, block, step. Breathe.
A low line of rosebushes marked the eastern edge of the infantry’s central training yard. When his bare foot touched earth, Brax turned and headed south toward the commissary building. Focusing on his breathing, ignoring the pain, he struggled to keep his mind on task, but as the late night breeze brought him the scent of new plantings, his mind wandered again.