by Fiona Patton
“As you wish.”
“Try to get along with Tonja’s uncle, Pyotre, this time, would you please?”
“He’s an ass who wouldn’t know a prophetic vision if it bit him on the pizzle, but yes, be assured, I’ll be at my most gracious.”
“Good. We’ll be finalizing the chain of command, and that’ll be a prickly enough subject all on its own. You’ll sail with the fleet.”
“Indeed. And bring you such tribute the like of which has never been seen in the Court of Volinsk before; the treasures of the south piled before your child’s feet as high as his bald, little head.”
Bryv frowned at him. “Tonja’s brother, Pieter, will command the fleet and Dagn, the ground troops,” he continued, ignoring the remark. “You will advise them of anything of a prophetic nature that they need to be aware of.”
“Of course.”
Bryv ran a hand through his hair in an irritated gesture, and Illan shook his head in mild exasperation. “You only do that when you have to broach an uncomfortable subject, Brother,” he noted. “What is it?”
Bryv grimaced at him. “You know there will be at least one Water Sorcerer on every ship?”
“As always.”
“And several court sorcerers from both Volinsk and Rostov aboard the flagship?”
“Yes?”
“And that you will not be allowed to toss any of them overboard, Brother.”
Illan laughed. “You think so little of my temper?”
“I remember it from when we were children.”
“Don’t fret. I don’t know about Prince Pieter, but Dagn has almost no interest in prophetic warnings, no matter how they’ve been attained. If it’s important, I’m sure all of your sorcerers, including myself, will be united in our struggle to keep from being completely ignored.”
“As long as you remember that, despite our blood connections, Rostov is not Volinsk. Their customs are . . .” Bryv paused with a frown.
“Archaic?” Illan finished with a patently false tone of encouragement. “Incongruous? Peculiar?”
“Just different, Brother,” Bryv sighed. “Tonja and I are trying to bridge a vast gap here. We could use your assistance.”
Illan bowed. “For the sake of my beloved little nephew, you will have my complete cooperation, Your Grace.”
“Good.” Bryv rose. “Now, we have a few moments before Council. I’m going to see my son and be assured by his nurse that it’s indeed only croup and nothing to worry about.”
“I’ll come with you. Perhaps the word of a mighty sorcerer will help assure his mother as well.”
Bryv gave him a glum smile. “Perhaps, but don’t hold out too much hope. Tonja has less interest in prophecy than Dagn does and a more volatile temper.”
“As you say, Rostov is not Volinsk, but the royal family is particularly militant.”
“Remember that when she starts throwing things.”
Chuckling, the two brothers retired, leaving the throne room to an army of servants who swept in to prepare it for the combined Privy Councils of two very different nations.
Far to the south, Panos brought Illan’s kiss, tasting of pears swirling ever faster in a beaker of brandy, to mind with a wistful smile. The small band of travelers had broken camp as soon as the dawn sun had sent fingers of light spilling across the plains with Danjel driving the ponies before them, the dogs keeping pace to either side, and the rest of the company following behind, spread out evenly to keep the dust and flying grasses kicked up by the herd’s feet, from choking them. Hares, with his ever-present vellum sketchbook and charcoal, and the other Skirosians rode on the left flank with Graize, Yal, and Panos on the right. For most of the morning, Panos had kept them entertained with songs of the southern seas, her black eyes lost in the memory of her home. Now, she raised her face to the sun, allowing its warmth to dance across her eyelashes.
“The shores of Gol-Bardak Lake to the north of the wild lands are strewn with blue and gray pebbles and the shores of the Gurney-Dag Mountain lakes are dark with deep-green moss,” she began. “Even the shores of Anavatan are covered with bits of multicolored marble and lake weeds, but the sandy shores of my own home are white, blindingly white in summer and creamy white in winter. The sky is so blue, it seems as if it might have been the very first radiance to burst forth when the world was born, and the waters glitter like clear green gems, dusted with silver pollen. When you turn to the land, the air vibrates with the scents of olive trees and grapevines. Ribbons fly from every home, fluttering like butterflies. The sentinels who guard my mother’s residence, high upon the cliff above the harbor, wear dove-gray tunics, and her servants wear pale green shifts. The marketplace is filled with the cries of sweetmeat sellers and wine merchants. You can buy anything there from marble to music; exotic fruits and shimmering fabrics to spices so pungent and rare that only the Skirosian merchant sailors know where to acquire them.
“There are mountains, too, far inland,” she added. “Take the right path and you could lose yourself in such a place and never long to be anywhere else, my tortoise,” she said suddenly, turning her intense, dark-eyed stare on Graize.
“Why should I want to be lost?” he shot back.
“Because it’s so much more pleasant than being found, if you’re lost with the right person.”
He gave her his own version of an intense stare. “Wishful thinking tastes like coals in ashes,” he reminded her.
“And missed opportunities taste like dust and the bitter, inner peel of citrus fruit. You should take the lover of your dreams and chase a rainbow up a mountain path rather than a storm cloud across the sky while the waves of destiny still lap gently at your feet.”
He rolled his eyes. “Even for you, that’s a metaphor of truly awesome confusion,” he noted. “So here’s another one. The game is begun, the pieces are in place, and the dice are rolling. The lapping waves will give over to a raging torrent, and all whom I desire to drown will drown. After that, you may take the lover of your own dreams and chase whatever sky-born symbol you want, up whatever path you wish.”
“And what will you do?” she pressed.
“Rest.” Driving his heels into his pony’s sides, he urged the animal forward, breaking off the conversation abruptly.
Panos waved a dismissive hand as Yal cast her a questioning look. “Oracles are often stubbornly blind,” she explained. “They will not see what they don’t wish to see unless they’re forced to. And even then, they may not heed the warnings,” she added more to herself than to Yal as a prescient shiver ran down her spine.
“What doesn’t Graize-Sayer wish to see?” the Petchan woman asked, her eyes wide.
“Anything beyond his own ambitions, which, like a narrow strait will not permit much passage. My tortoise moves ever so slowly toward the shore even though he may not wish to.” She tipped her head to one side. “I think he may be afraid of hidden shoals ahead,” she mused. “And they are there for all of us. But he can be nudged forward as soon as he receives an anchor.”
Yal frowned at her. “No offense, Panos-Sayer,” she said formally, “but I think Graize may be right. Your words are very confusing. Even for a sayer.”
Panos just smiled. “All will be made clear soon enough,” she assured the other woman. “Physical events conspire and when that happens, even the most powerful seers are powerless to prevent themselves from being anchored in the world.”
At Yal’s impatient expression, she laughed again. “Wait until we join the Yuruk, then you will understand.”
They camped under the stars that night amid the grazing ponies without bothering to set up the tents. The night had fallen warm and sweet smelling, with a faint breeze that kept the insects at bay without chilling the skin. As the moon rose, Danjel sat with her dogs on a small rise, the smell of her pipe smoke drifting across to them. To Panos’ unique sensibilities, it smelled of shipbuilding and rain and, as she fell asleep, her dreams filled with images of her father’s port on Skiros.
The southern sea never truly grew cold, but its seasonal storms could wreak havoc with a fleet so, for the two months of winter, the island empire’s harbors were crowded with fishing boats, bireme and trireme galleys, and trading vessels. Now, with the onset of spring, most of the fishing and merchant ships had departed, leaving the wharfs to King Pyrros’ navy being outfitted for the offensive against Gol-Beyaz.
Standing on the central gangway of the royal trireme, King Pyrros regarded the hive of activity about his main port with a satisfied expression. Of average height and build, Skiros’ king was not a particularly imposing man physically, but what he lacked in size he made up for in intensity. Just past his fortieth birthday, his bright golden hair, made brighter by a daily wash of lemon juice, was as thick and shining as it had been at twenty, and worn long and loose with tiny shells and gemstones woven into the plaits so that they flashed in the sun whenever he moved his head. His simple white tunic showed off his breadth of chest and shoulders to their best advantage and his bare arms and legs were well formed and muscular from years spent aboard ship. Although his thoughts were elsewhere, his expression remained both commanding and confident, missing nothing.
Now, he turned the full weight of his regard on the young woman standing by his side.
“So, what do you think of my fleet, Daughter?” he demanded with an indulgent smile. “Is it not vast and formidable?”
Glancing up through a veil of hair so like his own, Panos made a carefully crafted shrug of languid indifference. Dressed in a similar white tunic, she’d been enjoying the way the breeze sang across her skin, playing the fine hairs along her forearms like the strings of a lyre rather than paying much attention to her royal father.
“It’s pretty,” she answered sleepily, casting her gaze across the lines of warships. “Like a flock of swans upon the water. Except that none of them lift their bottoms into the air to feed,” she added.
Pyrros snorted. “I should hope not; they’re far too costly to upend themselves in such an undignified fashion.”
Accepting a scroll from a hovering servant, he glanced at it briefly before returning his attention to the harbor.
“Our northern allies have wide-sweeping ambitions,” he noted. “And the riches of two ducal treasuries to set them in motion. However the doom-seekers on my council are concerned that Anavatan is more than a match for us both even with our advanced weaponry.” He waved the scroll at the largest of his vessels being outfitted with a heavy wooden catapult. “They’re still advising caution even at this late stage.”
“Anavatan does has a fleet of its own,” she answered, setting her usual cryptic demeanor aside with a businesslike gesture.
“Lake-sailing penteconters,” Pyrros snorted. “With no more than fifty oars apiece to bring them into battle against my lovely triremes with more than twice that number.”
“Plus the might of six Gods and six nearly bottomless temple treasuries,” she continued. “Without our assistance, Volinsk’s ambition would be unreachable.”
Pyrros gave a bark of amusement. “Then perhaps I should have negotiated more aggressively with Bryv when he asked for my help.”
Panos gave herself over to a bout of musical laughter. “I am sure, my lord-father, that you knew all this when you went into negotiations with the duc, and that your negotiations were as aggressive as they always are.” Tucking herself into his side, she nudged him gently until he put his arm around her.
“I’m sending you north,” he said simply. “I know you feel that you haven’t had enough time with your mother, but I need an envoy to represent my interests with Volinsk. And you miss this prince of yours, don’t you?”
Glancing at the pier where Hares, her ever-present guardian, was sketching the hills, villages, and aqueduct beyond the royal port, she shivered as a prescient air raised the air along her arms.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Then it’s settled. You’ll leave at once.” Pyrros tipped his head toward the open sea beyond the harbor mouth. “I don’t care who ultimately ends up commanding the waters of Gol-Beyaz, Anavatan or Volinsk,” he said, returning his thoughts to business. “I just want them in a weak enough position to accept my terms: free and open trade and access from the southern sea to the northern. If this conflict weakens them both equally, so much the better. Go and ensure it.”
“Yes, Father.”
On the wild lands, Panos frowned thoughtfully in her sleep. She did not care who ultimately ended up commanding the waters of Gol-Beyaz either, but she was intrigued by the thought of a future where neither Anavatan nor Volinsk emerged truly victorious. To her prophetic sight, it appeared the most stable, so she would obey her father’s directive exactly as he had worded it; she would ensure that both sides weakened each other equally. Perhaps then her own small fleet might navigate into calmer waters than those her vision kept returning to.
As she sank deeper into sleep, Panos reached into her dreaming mind to draw up the first element she needed to accomplish her desire: a single forerunning memory that had set this possibility into being—an artist sketching hills and villages and the vast, sweeping arches of Skiros’ royal aqueduct. To that, she added the foreign visions that had followed her since she’d set foot upon these lands, then reached into the distant past and found the final element she needed: Estavia’s first favorite, a man of might and myth standing on a rocky promontory overlooking a vast building site shrouded in fog. She drew the element forward and laid it gently into the present, watching as the current carried it into the future toward Estavia’s latest favorite standing on his own promontory.
With the future she desired begun, she then turned from her own seeking and reached out for Illan once again.
Beside her, Graize lay, staring up at the stars for a long time, feeling his own prophecy ebb and flow like the tide; then he stood with a impatient grunt. He could sense that Danjel had awakened some time ago and now sat, smoking and reading prophesy in the sparkle of the stars on the rise overlooking the encampment. Joining him, Graize pulled out his own pipe, allowing the calm sensibility of the Yuruk wyrdin’s presence to wash over him. They sat smoking in companionable silence for a long time until the late night breeze sent a buzzing whirlwind of tiny spirits to spin about their faces. Brushing them away gently, Danjel stirred.
“We’re making good time for all we’re burdened by those more suited to sitting in boats than to riding on horseback,” he observed. “This shouldn’t put us back more than a day at most.” He glanced over at his companion, his jade-green eyes bright in the moonlight. “You didn’t tell me that your ambitions would be catching us up so quickly, Kardos.”
Graize just shrugged. “I’m not all-knowing,” he retorted. “The future streams do offer up a surprise catch from time to time.”
Danjel gave a snort. “That you would admit to that gives me great hope for your future happiness.”
Graize turned a suspicious glare on him. “Does it?” he demanded, his tone somewhat affronted. “And what do you see as my future, Kardos?”
Danjel waved a hand at him. “I haven’t looked for your future,” he replied. “I’m simply pleased that it’s now possible that you might actually have one instead of hurling yourself into a mire of madness and revenge.”
“Little has changed to alter that course.”
“Don’t be so sure. That one down there has plans for you, make no mistake.”
“The plans of others are easily avoided.”
Danjel shrugged, refusing to argue the point any further. Staring up at the moon, his bi-gender features, smooth whatever gender he happened to be wearing at the time, turned pensive. “The spirits sing to me of partings,” he said wistfully. “You’ll not tarry long among the Rus-Yuruk, will you?”
“No,” Graize answered and was surprised that his own tone was equally melancholy. “I will travel north, past Gol-Bardak and the warm welcoming tents of my wild lands family, to Anavatan’s Northern Trisect and there deliver
the envoy of King Pyrros to her fiery sorcerer and fulfill the destiny I have seen in prophecy.”
He glanced over, his expression suddenly closed. “And what destiny has your prophecy shown you?” he asked, his voice now carefully neutral. “Swallows and hawks building nests together from twigs and leaves stolen from the western villages this season?”
Danjel blew a long line of whitish-gray smoke into the darkness before shaking his head. “No. My prophecy has shown me a lithe, young grass snake moving swiftly away from its den in search of prey. I’ll be going with you to Anavatan.” He sighed. “I will miss my dogs, but Rayne will take good care of them.”
“You will go as a grass snake, Swallow-kardos?” Graize asked, striking a dramatically sarcastic pose to mask the sudden lightening of his mood. “Isn’t that a bit unwise? Aren’t snakes the natural enemies of birds?”
Danjel bared his teeth at him. “I’ll be sure to keep them well separated,” he replied in a sour voice. “But I just got your wits gathered into something vaguely resembling a proper flock. I’ll not have them scattered to the four winds the first time you’re let out to pasture on your own.”
“Then perhaps you should have seen a herding dog instead of a grass snake.”
Danjel’s hands dropped down to stroke the two dogs lying quietly at his side. “I did.”
“And Yal?”
The wyrdin shrugged. “I haven’t asked her yet, but she’s come this far. What’s a few more miles?”
“A lifetime?”
“That’s what I’m hoping for.” He gave his adopted kardos a sly look. “My prophecy also showed me a bird’s nest lined with exotic feathers this morning; and not my feathers. I think Rayne may have you tarry a little before you go. If she’s decided to get a child off you, she won’t be easily put off with fancy or confusing words. Destiny and prophecy mean little to her.”
Graize felt a brush of heat caress his cheeks and turned his head away in annoyance. “She’s always made her ambition plain,” he admitted. “But she may have found another.”