by Fiona Patton
Danjel snickered. “That hardly matters,” he retorted. “Rayne has wider appetites that any one lover could ever sate. Besides, she wants your strength for the Yuruk. She told you that years ago. You can’t truly leave us, whether you eventually make your home among the Petchans, the Volinski, Panos’ Skirosians, or even the Anavatanon once again. The Rus-Yuruk named you as one of us and our ways flow through your veins, just like they do in mine. When your blood and Rayne’s run through the veins of a child, you’ll be anchored in our world forever.”
“Anchored,” Graize whispered.
“Anchored.” Turning, Danjel swept his arm out to encompass the land around them. “What do you see, Kardos,” he demanded suddenly.
Graize frowned at him. “The wild lands?” he hazarded in an exaggerated tone.
“Yes, the wild lands. It’s different here, and here you can be different, too.”
“Now it’s your turn to be confusing, Kardos,” Graize accused. “And you aren’t very good at it—it takes years of practice—so please speak plainly.”
Danjel chuckled. “The streets of Anavatan were laid out by the Gods, yes? So the people, seers and nonseers alike, walk the paths the Gods choose for them?”
When Graize gave him a suspicious nod, Danjel took a satisfied drag on his pipe. “And the Petchan’s mountain paths were carved out by centuries of sheep and goats picking out the right path in safety and the people follow those, too, just as obediently. Even the plains are crisscrossed with thin tracks as the herds and ponies of the Yuruk follow the same, time-worn routes to winter pastures and back again, year after year.
“And all of these places have left their mark on you.
“But here, Kardos,” Danjel stabbed one finger into the grass at their feet, “where you made your first stand and fought yourself free of the spirits so long ago, here where you bled into the waters that kept you alive before Kursk and Rayne bought you to safety, here in my wild lands where there are no paths because nothing ever walks the same way twice, you can make a second stand against destiny. The swath we cut through the grasses at dawn will close up again by nightfall because we’ll never set foot there again. Here there are no paths worn by time, so here you can walk any path, straight or crooked, wide or narrow, as you choose, whatever your anchor.”
Graize gave him an impatient frown. “And your point is what?”
“That the ways of the wild lands are in your prophecy as surely as the ways of seer, sayer, or wyrdin, and no matter where you make your home you can never truly leave the Berbat-Dunya either. Its domain is in unpredictable movement and so is yours.”
Tapping his pipe clean on a flat rock, Danjel rose, his features flowing smoothly from the male to the female. “Now, I’m going to get some sleep, Kardos,” she said. “I’ll leave you to sort out what that means for your destiny and your prophecy by yourself.”
Heading down the rise, she and her dogs left Graize alone with his own thoughts. As the darkness closed around him like a cloak, the sound of water filled his mind. Deep within it, he could see a thousand tiny, sparkling lights and he licked his lips, suddenly hungry. The cavernous darkness awaited and, suddenly he was impatient to be there.
They reached the plains two days later in a spring downpour that covered everything in a cold, gray mist. Sheep dotted the landscape and, as they urged their ponies forward, a tiny spirit spun about Danjel’s head, then shot away into the storm as he gifted it with a seed of power. Moments later, a high whistle sounded on the wind.
“They’ve recognized us,” Danjel said. Standing in the saddle, he looked down on his people’s lands with a smile, then began driving the ponies forward at an eager pace. “We’ve been gone for far too long, Kardos,” he called over his shoulder.
Graize found himself smiling as well as the memories of his time with the Rus-Yuruk flooded over him, but as a tall, deeply-tanned woman rode forward to meet them, her pony’s hooves splashing through standing puddles of water and the white yak’s tail standard of a Yuruk shepherd held loosely in the crook of one arm, he felt his mouth go inexplicably dry. She reined up before them, barely gifting their companions with a haughty glance, before turning her familiar scowl upon him.
He attempted a disarming smile.
“Hello, Rayne.”
She cast a jaundiced eye in his direction, then uttered the words both he and Danjel had been expecting.
“It’s about time you two shiftless wyrdin got home. There’s work to be done.”
As Danjel pointed defensively at his herd of ponies, Graize found himself releasing a tension he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying for so long. He was home. Whatever stream he might navigate in the future, he could tarry here for just a little while in the safe anchorage of Rayne and the Rus-Yuruk. As the sky above them began to darken with rain, he urged his pony forward.
5
Councils
“YOU’RE FOR ASSEMBLY, GHAZI.”
The day had dawned wet, raining steadily through the Morning Invocations. The cobblestone streets of Anavatan were slick and dotted with puddles; by the time, Kemal reached the Derneke-Mahalle Citadel, he was soaked through and grumbling. Stalking down the flagstone path that wound its way through the ornate orchards and gardens that surrounded the Citadel proper, he observed darkly that what had once been an occasional duty had somehow become a title: Proxy-Bey Kemal of Estavia-Sarayi to Anavatan’s Governing Assembly.
Yashar had snorted cynically when he’d mentioned this observation over breakfast. Seated at their usual table in the Cyan Company Dining Hall, the older man had added an unsympathetic expression to the snort.
“There’ll be nothing but proxy-beys there until the day the enemy attacks; a silver asper on it,” he stated, stabbing a dried date at the other man for emphasis. “Because proxy-beys can only give assurances passed down from their superiors. They can’t make actual promises or take actual responsibility for anything. If any true beys show up today it’ll be because they want something specific. You mark my words.”
Kemal nodded glumly. “I counted it last week,” he said, tearing a piece of bread from the loaf in front of them and dipping it in a bowl of saffron-scented oil. “If we send every reinforcement to every village, tower, and Trisect, that’s demanding them, we’d empty the temple three times over.”
He sat back, staring morosely into his coffee cup before draining it in one swallow. “We don’t have enough trained warriors to present a powerful enough defense everywhere at once,” he observed. “We have to outnumber them somewhere, but I don’t think we can.”
Yashar gave a dismissive sniff. “The village militia can handle the Yuruk. The Petchans, too, for that matter; their muting effect won’t mean much right beside the God-Wall. And the navy can bottleneck the Volinski fleet in the Bogazi-Isik Strait. For my money, what we need to concentrate on is the Skirosians. That king of theirs is ambitious and dangerous. Before you know it, he’ll be sailing up Gol-Beyaz. We should’ve put a stop to his plotting before he landed on Thasos.”
“Apparently, the governing council of Thasos requested his presence when they found themselves without a leader,” Kemal noted sarcastically, accepting a new cup of coffee from a server.
“Yes, and how did they end up without a leader?” Yashar demanded. “She fell off a cliff while riding. Leaders don’t just fall off cliffs, Kem. They’re pushed or thrown.”
Kemal shrugged.
“You should send Brax to Assembly,” Yashar continued, finishing the rest of the bread. “He’d go if you asked him to. He’s done it before.”
“I would, but he’d draw too much attention right now.”
“To what?”
“To his relationship with Hisar.”
Handing his wet cloak to a server, Kemal made his way along the Citadel’s spiraling marble hallways, adding his own set of wet footprints to those who’d arrived before him. The Assembly had been making demands about Hisar ever since they’d returned from the grasslands. So far, Estavia
’s temple had managed to put them off, but Anavatan’s three Trisect beys were becoming increasingly insistent. Spar had been traipsing the city streets with Brax and the young God in tow all season, and the beys wanted to know why.
The first time Kemal had asked Spar that question directly, the youth had given one of his patented one-shouldered shrugs, his blue eyes staring up at his abayos with a guiless expression.
“Hisar needs to understand Its place among the people, Aba, and they need to understand it, too.”
“And what is Its place, Delin?”
“We don’t know yet. That’s why we go out.”
“And Brax?”
“Brax’s place is beside us.”
“FIND A TEMPLE FOR HISAR AND GET IT OUT OF MINE.”
As Kemal made for the huge double doors of the Central Assembly Chamber, the echo of Estavia’s words reverberated in his mind. He wasn’t sure which was more worrisome, Estavia’s words or Spar’s.
Roused from sleep by the intensity of Her command, he’d thrown on an old training tunic at once and headed for Estavia-Sarayi’s central dormitory wing at a brisk trot. The marshal had met him at the door to her private chambers, giving him a flat, irritated look before jerking her head down the corridor.
“My audience room. Ten minutes.”
“Yes, Marshal.”
“Find a temple,” the marshal growled after a sleepy-eyed server had brought them a carafe of strong, black tea and a hastily piled plate of flatbread smeared with mint-flavored honey. As the late night wind sent a whisper of chilled air through the room’s three screened walls, she flicked a braid off one shoulder before accepting a cup of tea from Kemal, and leaning back with a grimace.
He echoed her position with a frown. “Find a temple,” he repeated, scrubbing at the short growth of beard at the side of his face. “Does Estavia mean build a temple, do you think?” he asked.
“On the eve of invasion?” The marshal jerked one hand up in a frustrated gesture. “If She does, She must have a strategic reason for it. I just wish She’d mentioned the reason,” she added, “in the morning.” Turning her head, the marshal regarded the small, mosaic-tiled map of the city that adorned the one stone wall of the audience chamber.
“Anavatan didn’t just grow on its own,” she observed with a grimace. “It was laid out by the Gods, with the walls of all six temples butting up against each other to provide protection for the southeastern shoreline. The most appropriate place for a new temple should be along that shoreline, but there’s no room, and we can’t banish the creature to some outer area of the city. Much as I’d like to,” she added in a dark mutter.
Kemal smiled tiredly. “So whose temple lands do we try to appropriate, Marshal?” he asked.
She glared at him. “None, Ghazi. Each temple controls roughly the same amount of property. No one’s going to be willing to give up any of it.”
Kemal glanced over at the map thoughtfully, a memory prodding at the back of his mind. “What about the area northwest of Lazim-Hisar?” he asked.
The marshal raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m not sure that Admiral Gulun would appreciate you appropriating Estavia’s naval dockyards,” she said dryly.
“Most of the naval dockyards are on the Eastern Trisect, south of Dovek-Hisar,” he answered. “The Western Trisect lands are mostly used for storage.”
“That’s outside the temple perimeter,” she pointed out. “Although only just,” she amended. “Hisar’s temple would be separated from Estavia-Sarayi by Lazim-Hisar itself.”
“Perhaps that’s for the best. Many delon are happiest close but not in the pockets of their elders. Why should the Gods be any different?”
“Why, indeed?” Setting her cup down, the marshal stood with a yawn. “The storage buildings would have to be demolished and their goods redistributed, but the area around Lazim-Hisar seems to be the only available location, so, it looks like we’re going to build young Hisar a temple. I’ll inform the command council in the morning after which you can inform Anavatan’s governing council.”
“Me?”
“It was your proposal.” She smiled triumphantly at him. “You’re for Assembly, Ghazi. You’ll need to be briefed on the day’s agenda. Come and see me after breakfast.”
As Kemal reached the end of the hallway, he noted sourly that his proposal seemed to have volunteered him for far more than just the announcement of a new temple. Taking a deep breath, he strode into the room with as confident an air as he could muster.
The Citadel’s Central Assembly Chamber was a vast, domed hall wrapped with delicately wrought marble viewing galleries and tall, latticed windows. A study in contrasts, on a sunny day enough natural light flooded into the space to fill the room with a golden brilliance; on an overcast day, it was draped in shadow, prudently lit with an eye to the cost of lamp oil and candles. Today, however, each of the twelve candelabra which ringed the walls and the six hanging lamps which hung over the wide, mahogany council table had been drafted into service to try and chase away the gloom that had affected everyone’s mood. As Kemal entered, he wondered how Senior Abayos-Priest Neclan of Oristo-Sarayi would view the added expense; Neclan was notoriously frugal, she did not believe in giving in to moods, and the Citadel’s Chamberlain had been her own personal delinkos.
Over half the Assembly beys had already arrived before him and, shaking his head to clear the water from his face and beard, he glanced about the room to see if Yashar had won himself a silver asper. A usual Closed Assembly Day could expect to see mostly proxy representatives from the six temples and the three civic Trisects with no more than one or two of the twelve villages along Gol-Beyaz in attendance. Since the threat of invasion, however, the villages had been attending regularly, and it looked as if today would be no exception. Eight seats were already occupied, one of them by a full bey. However, Yashar was in no danger of losing his silver asper.
Across from them, Bey Neclan sat speaking quietly with a junior oracle from Incasa-Sarayi. The older woman’s lean features held a stern expression, and Kemal felt a twinge of pity for the young seer. Since Bey Freyiz’s death last year, the Prophecy God’s temple rarely sent anyone of rank to Assembly. It personified Yashar’s cynical theory on ducking responsibility.
As did Oristo-Sarayi, Kemal noted. Bey Neclan always wanted something and never sent a junior to speak for her or for her temple.
Nodding to them both, Kemal crossed the room to the long table of food and drink which dominated the west wall. Proxy-Bey Jemil of Usara-Sarayi and Proxy-Bey Aurad of Ystazia-Sarayi stood nearby and, as Kemal approached, the bi-gender physician raised one fine hand in greeting.
“A squalid day, Ghazi. You looked soaked through.”
“I am.”
“Have a cup of broth, then. It should warm you up.”
As Jemil ladled a cupful from a large, silver tureen in the center of the table, Kemal noted a similar cup in Aurad’s hand with amusement.
The master musician chuckled as he spotted Kemal’s expression. “I don’t argue with physicians,” he explained. “It doesn’t get you anywhere.”
“I’m delighted to hear that you’ve finally gained some wisdom in your old age,” Jemil answered. “Now, how about drinking some of it?”
“In due time when it cools a little.” Aurad leaned toward Kemal. “Don’t expect to get out of here anytime soon,” he warned him. “My delos, Bagh, has been singing at Havo-Sarayi this season and told me this morning that First Cultivar Adrian was definitely coming today. You know what that means?”
“They want more protection on the western fields. I know, the marshal briefed me on their latest concerns.”
“Hm.” Aurad glanced past him as Anavatan’s three civic beys entered, First Cultivar Adrian in their midst. As they took their seats, all four clumping together at the far end of the table, he gave Kemal a sympathetic look. “I think their concerns may have just increased, my old friend,” he noted.
The Assembly began a few mom
ents later, with a full twenty-one beys in attendance. The upper galleries were dark and still, but Kemal did not fool himself into thinking that a Closed Assembly Day actually meant that they would have some privacy. A dozen servers of Oristo would be coming and going all morning, filling cups and glasses, fetching supplies for the council scribes, and generally seeing to everyone’s needs. It guaranteed that any important information would sweep down Gol-Beyaz with all the speed of a winter storm.
And today it would move particularly swiftly, he observed. Sipping his broth, he schooled his expression to one of polite neutrality as the Citadel’s senior scribe called the Assembly to order.
Bey Reese of the Northern Trisect was the first to speak. It was believed that his people had worked the lands north of the Halic-Salmanak since before the Gods had built Anavatan, and he’d been a passionate representative of their interests at Assembly since he’d taken over the position from his oldest kardos at age sixteen. That he’d managed to keep their concerns on the table for the last three years despite being the youngest bey on a Council heavily weighted toward subtle and senior political manipulators said as much about his stamina as about his abilities.
Now, he fixed Kemal with an intense stare.
“We need more people guarding the northern approach,” he said bluntly. “Both ghazon and battle-seers.”
Kemal gave no reaction as the gathered began to murmur their consternation at this unorthodox approach.
“You have Gerek-Hisar,” Bey Pashim of Ekmir-Koy pointed out at once. “A well-fortified sea wall, and half Estavia’s navy.”
“Yes, Sayin,” Reese answered, emphasizing the title with an exaggerated formality that caused the elderly potter’s eyes to narrow dangerously. “We need no added protections by water; but we’re highly vulnerable should the enemy land a force of any size off the coast and move inland.”