by Fiona Patton
Lying on his side, he inched himself through the hole like a snake, twisting a little to allow his new breadth of shoulder to squeeze through. Jaq wriggled in a moment later and then Hisar, in Its mouse-seeming, crept in as well. He changed back at once and the three of them stood quietly together until Spar’s eyes could adjust to the dim light filtering in through the shutter slats, then moved apart to explore.
The shed was made up of a single room filled with storage crates and barrels stacked randomly about. Someone had cleared the space around one wall, and as they approached, Hisar gave a sudden gasp. Carved into the wall were dozens of tower symbols, some big, some small, some crude, some incredibly ornate. The young God moved toward them like a sleepwalker and, when His fingertips touched the first of the symbols, His eyes fluttered closed in pleasure.
“There’s so many power seeds here,” He breathed, running His hands greedily up and down the wall. “What is this place?”
Spar made a quick circuit of the room, Jaq trotting obediently at his heels, until he came upon a small pallet made up of loose straw and a single tattered blanket tucked behind a stack of barrels. Eyes wide, he backed away slowly. “It’s a hide,” he said in a hushed voice.
“A what?”
“A hide. You know, a place to hide. A safe place.” He made for the hole at once. C’mon, we need to get out of here.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s somebody else’s safe place, not ours.”
“But . . .” Hisar pointed indignantly at the tower symbols, half of which were still buzzing with unharvested power.
“All the more reason,” Spar argued. “This is a private place, Hisar. Maybe even a sacred place.”
“Yes.” The young God nodded emphatically. “Sacred for me. These are me, Spar, my symbols, and they’re all over the place. Why are they all over the place if they aren’t for me?”
Spar paused. “I dunno. Do they feel like that one did last night did? Expectant?”
Hisar frowned thoughtfully. “No,” He said after a long pause. “Not . . . yet.”
“Then it’s like I said before, it’s somebody else’s place, not ours. Not yet, anyway,” he added in acknowledgment of the young God’s aggrieved expression. “C’mon. We’re leaving. Now.” He and Jaq worked their way out again with Hisar following very reluctantly behind.
The rain had eased off since they’d been inside, and as a thin shaft of sunlight broke from the clouds, the extra power He’d consumed caused Hisar to glow with an almost incandescent light. He stretched His arms wide, preparing to fly as Spar retrieved his tunic and sandals, but when Jaq gave a soft woof of warning, they both turned.
Three youths in the patched clothes of the dockside lifters stood off to one side watching them with carefully neutral expressions, hands draped loosely over worn knife handles, postures alert but nonthreatening. For now. Spar schooled his own stance to match, and they stood for a long moment, not speaking or moving, until he glanced over in Hisar’s direction, his expression bored.
“Getting on time to get goin’,” he said casually, his dockside accent thicker than it had been for some years. “You wanna go to the bookmongers?”
Hisar’s eyes sparkled, but He carefully mimicked Spar’s demeanor, shrugging one shoulder with an expression of complete disinterest. “Sure whatever.”
“C’mon Jaq.”
The three of them sauntered past the bollard, keeping the youths in their peripheral vision until they passed out of sight. Hisar made to speak, but Spar lifted one finger in warning.
“Not yet.”
Once they’d made their way into dockside, merging with the crowds of porters and tradespeople who’d become used to the young God’s presence in the last nine months, Spar nodded the all clear, and Hisar gave him a puzzled frown.
“What was that all about?” He demanded.
“Manners. That shed was probably their hide. We were in their territory, so we had to let them see that we weren’t any threat.”
“Their territory? That’s going to be my temple site,” Hisar pointed out.
“Going to be. Isn’t yet. We might have to oust them when we start building, so it pays to stay polite for now.”
“Hm.”
“What?”
The young God shook His head. “Nothing, it just seems like today’s all about being polite and having manners.”
Spar shrugged. “Some days are. C’mon, let’s go see Alesan.”
Hisar grinned at him. “Sure, whatever,” He repeated proudly.
Spar just rolled his eyes.
The western dockside market was much as it had always been; a collection of shabby stalls and carts drawn together to form a rough semicircle around the wharfs that serviced the northern trade. The southernmost tip was the most respectable section, built up against Ystazia-Cami. It was here that the small collection of booksellers and bookbinders plied their trade. Spar had been coming here, mostly to stare longingly at the books themselves, since he’d been four years old. They had been the only things he’d never even considered lifting.
Now he breathed in the familiar aroma of old parchment and cheap leather as he ran his hands lovingly over a small volume of pastoral poetry in his favorite stall. Four years ago, the library at Estavia-Sarayi had boasted twelve thin volumes, predominantly involving military tactics. In the last few months, Spar had swelled its ranks by another dozen, choosing them at random as the mood took him. The dockside bookmongers mostly carried works of gory fiction and bawdy romances written in heavily stylized verse, but every now and then they threw up something more delicate, like a piece of fine driftwood found on the pebbled beaches of Gol-Beyaz: the history of Adasi-Koy’s glass-making industry, the mythology of the people of the Eastern Degisken-Dag Mountains, a medical treatise on illnesses of the mind, or a dozen architectural drawings from the earliest days of Anavatan bound together with a piece of faded blue ribbon.
Beside him, Hisar lounged bonelessly against the stall’s front pole with all the grace of a bored fifteen year old, but His gray eyes tracked greedily across the stacks of books. Spar’s old teacher, Ihsan, had taught Hisar to read that winter and the young God often wheedled the first read away from him.
Alesan, the elderly bookmonger who owned the stall, had been watching Spar’s progress from grubby underfed street lifter to seer-delinkos to First Priest with all the anxiety of a hen watching a needy chick. Now she gestured at the book as she tossed Jaq a heel of old bread.
“That has a lovely piece about the aqueduct,” she said. “Quite the poet’s best work.”
Hisar straightened at once, and noting His sudden interest, Spar nodded.
“We’ll take it.”
“I’ll carry it,” Hisar offered.
The bookmonger smiled. “That’s four copper aspers. I’ll wrap it up for you in a bit of oilcloth; it looks like it’s going to rain again.”
She handed it to Hisar. “Word is that the ice is breaking up on the coast of the Deniz-Siya early this year,” she noted, watching both of them for a reaction. “Old Hazim says this warm weather means calm seas to the north, and any invasion fleet that sets out within the month could be here in less than a fortnight.”
“I’ve heard that, too,” Spar agreed. “But I haven’t seen it.” He emphasized the word “seen,” and she nodded sagely.
“My oldest, Estill, says the priests of Ystazia are certain the sea chain will be ready in time.”
“We saw them making it a few days ago,” Hisar piped up, eager to be part of the conversation. “It looks almost done.”
“Good.” She regarded the young God seriously. “Send the metal the power of your domain,” she said. “The strength of Creation for the chain and the weakness of Destruction for the enemy it defies.”
Hisar’s golden eyebrows drew down in an anxious frown. “The chainsmiths asked me for that, too,” he said. “And I would if I knew how.” He slumped. “I think. Maybe.” He turned to Spar. “Can I?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Even though Ystazia’s priests are in charge of it?”
“Ystazia won’t mind the help,” Alesan assured him. “Of all the Gods, Ystazia shares the best.”
She turned and caught Spar’s fingers up in her own. “You’ve done well for yourself, Delin,” she said. “We couldn’t be more proud of you, every one of us here. We all believe in you. We know you’ll do your part to send that filthy northern fleet to the bottom of the strait, you and Hisar both. When you get that temple of yours built, we’ll stock it with as fine a library as you could ask for.”
Spar ducked his head, suddenly embarrassed. “We have to go,” he muttered.
“Give my thoughts to Ihsan.”
“I will.”
He headed off at once, Hisar’s laughter echoing in his ears, but once they were well past the market, the young God glanced over at him.
“She knew about the temple already?” He asked.
Spar snorted. “Everyone knows about the temple already. Next to the invasion, it’s the biggest piece of news all season.”
He glanced at the book cradled in the crook of Hisar’s arm. “The aqueduct?” he asked.
Hisar nodded. “That Priest of Havo saw water in darkness. You’ve seen it and I’ve seen it again in a dream. There were lots more details this time.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about it before?”
“It was too confusing. I had to think about it for a while.”
“Fair enough.” As it started to rain again, Spar tucked himself into a doorway. Jaq joined him, pressing up against his knees, and he gestured. “So tell me now.”
Hisar took up a position in front of them hovering a few inches above the ground. “I saw a long . . . troughlike thing made of stone high up, and I heard running water, but I couldn’t see it. Is that an aqueduct?”
“Yes.”
“First Cultivar Adrian says it provides most of Anavatan west of the Temple Precinct with clean drinking water. How does it do that?”
“Its trough carries fresh water from the northern hills down to the city.”
“Does it have big, sweeping arches made of stone and covered in vines?”
“Probably. I don’t know. I’ve never seen it.”
“That’s how it looked in my dream. The arches disappeared into a deep, dark place, and when I followed, I found myself in a huge, echoing cavern this full of water.” Hisar cut one palm along His upper thighs. “Is that part of the aqueduct?”
Spar shook his head. “That’s the cistern that’s supposed to be under the western half of the city. Ihsan says it’s over a mile long.”
“It was cold.” Hisar shivered. “So very cold and black, like your dark place only more . . . physical. It had yellow-brown pillars of brick and stone reaching up to a vaulted ceiling so far above me that I could hardly see it. Half-formed spirits swam all around me, sparkling like tiny candles. When I moved, I made rivulets of water and spirits that tried to swirl around and catch me as I moved. But I ate them instead and they tasted like . . .” He frowned. “Copper.”
“Copper or blood?”
Hisar considered the question, heedless of Spar’s concerned expression. “Copper for now,” He said finally. “Maybe blood later. These spirits were a lot less formed than the ones on the wild lands and they were a bit . . . drowned. Waterlogged,” He amended after a moment’s thought. “They might not become anything at all.”
“But they might become as strong as the wild land spirits?” Spar pressed.
“Maybe. I guess. I didn’t dream that part.” Hisar cocked His head to one side. “It wasn’t like my other dream. You said I saw birds because I’d never seen an invasion fleet. So how come I can dream about the cistern and the aqueduct if I’ve never seen them either?”
“I don’t know.”
“It was dark. It was hard to see. And so very cold.”
Spar frowned. “Physically cold or prophetically cold?”
Hisar shrugged impatiently. “How can you tell one from the other?” He demanded.
“From the inside.” Spar laid a hand against his chest. “Did it feel cold on the inside or on the outside?”
Hisar considered the question seriously. “Both I think. Maybe.”
“Hm.”
“Hm, what?”
“Just hm for now. I have to think about it.”
“Well, there was more,” Hisar continued in a quieter tone. “I wasn’t alone. Graize was with me and Brax and you, too.”
Spar grew very still. “Did you actually see us there? With your eyes?”
Hisar frowned. “I think so. Sort of. Maybe it was more of a sensing of you close by. I’m not sure. Did you see Graize in your vision in the dark place?”
Now it was Spar’s turn to frown. “No,” he said reluctantly. “I reached out for a sense of him, but . . .”
“But?”
“But Panos got in my way.”
Hisar blinked. “Panos? Of Amatus? My Panos?”
“Graize’s Panos anyway. The golden-haired oracle you showed me at Cvet Tower years ago.”
“I remember. We vision-traveled together and watched her and Illan having sex.” The young God sniffed in amusement. “It didn’t interest you very much. You were a lot younger then.”
“So were you.”
“I suppose.” Hisar cocked His head to one side. “So, why would Panos of Amatus block your vision of Graize,” He wondered out loud.
Spar shot Him a cold glare. “I didn’t say she blocked me,” he replied stiffly. “I said she got in my way.”
“Oh. Why would she get in your way?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh.” Hisar stared inwardly for a moment. “So, where is it?” He asked finally.
“Where is what?”
The young God bared His teeth at him. “The aqueduct?”
“Oh. West of here.” Spar gave a vague wave. “It starts in the hills past the Northern Trisect and ends up somewhere in the Tannery Precinct, I think.”
“Don’t you know?”
Spar shook his head. “I’ve never seen it.”
“You’ve been all the way to the Gurney-Dag foothills, but you’ve never been past the western docks of your own city?”
Hisar’s tone was both exasperated and amused, and Spar glared at Him again. “I never had reason to,” he shot back. “No one lifts in the Tannery Precinct unless they’re desperate. It’s too poor.” His expression grew somber. “Even Cindar never fell that far.
“And the garrison guards maintain the watch there, not the Warriors of Estavia,” he added, shaking off the mood with a sharp jerk of his head. “But if you’ve seen us there, I think we need to go there and see it for ourselves,” he said, coming to a sudden decision. Glancing up at the sky, his brows drew down thoughtfully. “But not today.”
Hisar blinked. “Why not today?”
“It’s too far. It would take us the rest of the day just to get there, and then we’d be stuck there overnight. You don’t want to be stuck in the Tannery Precinct overnight.”
Hisar sniffed at him. “I wouldn’t be stuck,” He said dismissively. “I can fly.”
“Well, then, I don’t want to be stuck there overnight. We’ll go tomorrow. Besides,” he added. “We have to tell Brax about your vision. I don’t want Graize coming on him without warning. After last year, Brax’d attack first and not ask questions later.”
He stood as Jaq began to paw at him with an anxious whine at the sound of Brax’s name. “Come on, Jaq needs to get back to stand guard over Brax this afternoon anyway, and it’s getting near his time.”
Hisar frowned. “Why?”
Spar shrugged. “I’ve no idea, he just does. He’s been like that lately and I don’t argue with him.” He glanced down at the animal fondly. “You should never argue with your protectors.”
“You argue with Brax?”
Spar gave a faint snort. “He’s not my protector, I’m his. Besides,”
he added, glancing up at the sky with a squint. “The rain’s not going to let up any time soon, and we need to get your book indoors, yeah?”
Hisar started, suddenly remembering the package tucked under His arm. With a worried glance to make sure the oilcloth was still keeping it safe and dry, He nodded.
“But we’ll go tomorrow?” He pressed.
“Tomorrow.”
“Even if it rains?”
“Even if it rains.”
“And find out if I saw Graize with us there actually, with my eyes?”
Spar nodded.
“ ’Cause we need Graize to be with us, actually, physically,” the young God added in an anxious tone. “ ’Cause it’s the only way to keep him and Brax safe, even if the mountain challenges are . . . mountainous? Remember?”
“I remember.”
Hisar’s feet touched the ground with obvious reluctance. “All right, then,” He said, glancing pensively at the sky. “Tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow.”
Together, they headed back toward Estavia-Sarayi, Spar and Hisar mulling over the future and Jaq purposely aiming for the present.
In Gol-Beyaz, Incasa watched His new prophecy grow with satisfaction. It had branched out nicely, touching a number of sensitive minds at once, including Spar’s as it was meant to. With Hisar’s help, the young First Priest had waded into the proper stream far enough so that he could be safely left to his own devices for now.
Brax and Graize would be harder to manipulate, but it could be done. The wild Skirosian seer, Panos of Amatus, had already incorporated Incasa’s vision into an agenda of her own, following a stream that the God Himself had prepared many, many years ago. Recognizing where it led, she had already sent a seed of awareness toward Brax. It would only take the tiniest nudge to help it take root in the ghazi’s mind. He was not as sensitive or as well suited to such imagery as Graize, but because of this, he was not as suspicious or as recalcitrant either. Yes, Incasa mused, just the tiniest nudge would see Brax maneuvered into position. After that, Incasa and Panos could both return their attention to Graize.