by Fiona Patton
Brax nodded. “The sword’s a part of me,” he answered. “And it’s part of Estavia; consecrated to Her service. When I use it, I’m using the physical representative of Her own weapons in the field and so Her power travels from Her swords to mine along our lien.”
He lifted the sword, allowing the sun to catch the blade in a flash of light. “A Warrior’s sword—my sword—is more than a weapon, more than just an extension of my arm, it’s an extensions of my oaths and their lien going straight to Estavia. It knows if I’m not being honest with it, or with myself, and it’ll turn against my hand if I don’t treat it with the highest respect; as I would treat Her weapons themselves.”
He held the sword straight out, sighting along the blade, the muscles of his forearm standing out with the effort. “But it’s also a physical tool. It’s used for attack, not for defense. I don’t parry or block with it if I can help it. That’s what a shield is for: to keep the sword free to attack. But, with the right move, a warrior could disarm an enemy, or even break their weapon with a shield if they had to. But that takes years of practice.” He lowered it.
Hisar stared at him, His gray eyes wide. “Could you do it?” he asked as Brax began to hone the blade once more.
Brax grimaced. “No. The injury to my left elbow throws me off-balance and I have to compensate for it. I don’t have the luxury of adding fancy moves on the battlefield. I have to concentrate on the simple ones: to attack with the sword and protect with the shield. But even that’s compromised. I don’t have the strength in the joint to hold a shield properly. I have to have it strapped on. Thanks to Graize,” he added.
“Do you hate him for that?” Hisar asked in a quiet voice.
Brax regarded the young God with a serious expression, recognizing an opening but a little unsure of how to proceed. “I could say no,” he replied. “I could say that he got lucky or that it’s the risk every warrior takes and pretend that I’m fine with it.” He paused, and Spar opened his eyes to watch him silently from the shadows of his cloak. “But yeah,” Brax said, opting for honesty. “I hate him for it.”
“Will you kill him for it?”
Brax returned his attention to his weapon, considering and discarding a number of answers. “No,” he said after a moment. “Not for that.” He regarded the young God seriously. “I could say that there are more reasons not to kill him than to kill him, but I’m not sure that’s true. Your love for him may be one reason, but I don’t know if that’s reason enough. It might be. You stopped him from killing me on the grasslands last year, and I owe You. That might be reason enough, too. I know You’ll try to stop me from killing him if I try.” His dark eyes narrowed. “That’s not really a reason, but it is a consideration.
“Now that’s a lot of reasons,” he continued. “But they don’t add up to the single reason there is to kill him: he’s committed to the downfall of Anavatan. If You want him to stay alive, You’ll have to convince him, if not to change sides, then at least to lay down his arms.”
“Me?” Hisar demanded.
Brax just shrugged. “He swore oaths to You. If he’ll listen to anyone, it might be You. I’ll give You the chance anyway. I’m going to get him here, regardless, because I can’t have him running around loose plotting against the city; and we both know he’ll come if I give him an opening. After that, it’ll be up to You to save his life.”
Hisar’s gray eyes widened again at Brax’s uncharacteristic speech and, as the warrior sighted along the length of the sword blade, it was the young God’s turn to regard him seriously.
“Have you killed a lot of people with that weapon?” He asked, changing the subject for now.
“Some.”
“Is it heavy?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think that maybe, I could . . . try it?”
Spar sat up with a slight frown, but as Brax held the weapon out with a carefully blank expression, he lifted the red bead from his neck and placed it about Hisar’s. The young God’s form grew more substantial, but it took a concerted effort on Spar’s part to send power to Hisar, and on Hisar’s part to accept it, for His fingers to finally grip the hilt with any degree of strength. As the young God drew it from Brax’s hand, His expression changed to one of surprise.
“It is heavy,” He breathed, holding it gingerly as if He were afraid He might break it.
“It’s metal,” Brax agreed.
“It tingles against My hand.”
“That’s because it’s sworn to another God’s service.” Brax’s lip quirked up in a reluctant smile. “So, if You were to use it, You’d have to use it in Estavia’s name.”
Hisar’s golden brows drew down once again. “Not in My own?”
“Not with that weapon, no. Another weapon, maybe. If You had weapons sworn to Your service,” he added, accepting it back.
Both Hisar and Spar slumped slightly in fatigue.
“Do any of the other Gods have weapons sworn to their service?” Hisar asked, staring at His palm.
“I don’t think so. Ystazia’s artisans probably consecrate their tools to Her; brushes and hammers; that sort of thing. Most of Havo’s people are farmers, so they’d have sacred flails and hoes maybe, and Usara’s would probably consecrate their medical tools.”
“What about Oristo’s?”
“Sacred knives and forks,” Spar said dryly, pulling a small bottle of cold tea from the depths of his cloak.
They all chuckled, relieved that the tension had eased.
“And Incasa?” Hisar asked.
The others grew serious once again. Brax glanced over at Spar who just shrugged. “I don’t know if the Oracles of Incasa use tools in their augury,” he said honestly. He took a long pull from the bottle before recorking it and tossing it to Brax.
“The street seers use dice,” Brax observed, catching it one-handed.
“So do the street tricksters and half of the first are the second.”
“Incasa uses dice,” Hisar pointed out.
“That’s ’cause He’s the God of street tricksters,” Spar answered, his upper lip curled in disdain.
“And you gave me a pair of dice that He gave to you.”
“That Yashar gave to me,” Spar corrected. “I lost them, and Incasa got them back to me.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask Him.”
“Why not?”
“Because I wouldn’t have trusted His answer.”
“Gods are big, and They’ll do you if you let Them,” Brax intoned after emptying the bottle in one swallow.
“I wouldn’t,” Hisar protested indignantly.
“Glad to hear it.”
“Do you think Estavia would?”
“Not on purpose.”
“Graize uses dice. He’s a seer. Is he a street trickster, too?”
“He was. Now he’s an enemy commander.” Standing, Brax sheathed his sword in a single, smooth motion. “It’s getting late,” he said. “We should get back.” Without waiting for an answer, he headed for the main gate.
Hisar glanced over at Spar. “Is he being pissy again?” He asked.
Spar snickered. “No,” he answered, pushing Jaq off his ankles as he stood up. “Now he’s just being bossy. C’mon.” Accepting the red bead back, he followed after Brax with a shake of his head.
They hired another boat to take them back to the Western Trisect, but this time Brax directed the boat-master to take them down the Halic-Salmanak, all the way past the Dockside Precinct to Estavia-Sarayi’s temple wharfs on the southern shore of Gol-Beyaz. A school of dolphins caught up to them from the Bogazi-Isik Strait, and Hisar watched them enviously, noting how the silver shimmer of the Gods’ Power sparkled along their dorsal fins with a much stronger light that the spirits’ power in the aqueduct had done to Him. As they passed Its new temple site, dark and still in the growing twilight, She returned to Her Rayne-seeming.
“Why would anyone walk if they could take a boat,” She wondered out l
oud, running her fingers along the tiny tower symbol carved into the side.
“An excellent question, God-Delin,” the boat-master laughed. “And one we keep asking the good citizens of Anavatan.”
Brax shrugged. “It doesn’t cost anything to walk,” he answered.
“Except time,” Hisar pointed out.
“Yeah, except time.”
The boat put in at Estavia’s kitchen wharf a few moments later, and Brax vaulted over the side immediately after Jaq. Spar followed, and as Hisar rose gracefully into the air behind them, the boat-master waved at Her cheerfully.
“Mention it to yonder priests up there, anyway, God-Delin,” she said with a wink. “And while You’re at it, You could send our trade the power of Your domain; the strength of Creation to our vessels and the weakness of Destruction to the tightness of their purses.”
Hisar gave her a startled look, and then smiled shyly as a trickle of unbound power feathered willingly from the boat-master to Herself. “I will,” She promised. Changing to the dragonfly-seeming, It flew after the others, soaring into the air, past Estavia’s statue, to alight upon the top of the armory tower as they disappeared inside the door. As the setting sun cast a metallic shine across Its flanks, the boat-master waved cheerfully again before heading back out into Gol-Beyaz.
Later that night, Hisar took wing over the city, flying along the length of the aqueduct. The moonlight reflected off the spirits in the water, casting a faint white sparkle over the silver of their natural essence. Alighting on the edge of the reservoir, the young God stared intently into its depths. Somehow, down there, the water and the spirits within it traveled into the deep place It had envisioned; the great cistern.
The spirits were changing down there, It could feel it, their silvery taste turning to copper. Silver was the taste of the Gods; copper was the taste of the people, of their blood and of their power. It was the taste of the physical. And if the spirits in the deep place were becoming physical, then they would be growing as hungry for power as It had been; as hungry as It still was.
Its eyes flashed angrily. There wasn’t enough power available to sate Hisar’s own hunger, never mind anything else’s; therefore the spirits in the cistern would have to be destroyed.
Settling back down again, It tucked Its wings tightly against Its body. Although Graize probably didn’t know that yet, It admitted reluctantly. Right now Graize would be coming after Brax just like he always did. And if Brax set a trap for him like he planned to, Graize would fall right into it. Brax was right; he wouldn’t be able to help himself.
Hisar shuddered, remembering the tingling feeling of Brax’s consecrated sword against Its hand. Brax had said he would give Hisar a chance to save Graize’s life, to make him lay down his arms. But if It couldn’t convince him to do that, could the young God physically stop Brax from using the representation of Estavia’s weapons against Graize? Was It strong enough to do that?
As the lien tingled through Its body in response, It realized It had to be. Hisar and Graize were tied together by bonds of power and obligation; God and follower. Ihsan had said so, Kemal had said so, and Hisar felt it to be true. The young God would not allow Brax to kill Graize. Again, the lien would not permit it. Again, it would break them both if It tried.
Shaking out Its feathers in a disgruntled gesture, Hisar stared morosely into the dark water. They had all seen Brax and Graize standing together; even Spar had seen it. Why couldn’t the two of them just accept it and do it for the good of everyone involved? Why did Hisar have to do all the work? In the wild lands, Panos had said to be patient. Spar had said the same thing, but It was tired of being patient. Nobody else had to be patient. What It needed, It grumbled to Itself, was more followers then just two seers who didn’t like each other, tied together by a soldier sworn to a different God. That’s what It needed.
The young God shot the water lapping against the reservoir’s sides a belligerent glare. That and to go down into that cistern and eat every last spirit that dared to try and be physical in Its city, It added. The water sparkled a challenge in return, daring Hisar to dive in, to follow its path down into the darkness. Hisar was tempted, very tempted, but It could feel that it wasn’t time. It didn’t have the strength, not yet. But soon.
Stretching out Its wings until they brushed against the buildings to either side of the reservoir, It leaped into the air, then turned and headed out across the Tannery Precinct and the western market toward Its own new temple site. It would have the strength soon, but for now, It still had to be patient.
8
Abayon and Delon
OUT IN THE BERBAT-DUNYA wild lands, the days passed swiftly. Danjel and Graize joined their family in driving the last of the flocks and herds to their summer pastures while Panos and her entourage took their ease in the encampments as honored guests.
On their last night among the Rus-Yuruk, Rayne threw herself down beside Graize at the fireside. Passing him a goat’s meat skewer, she chewed on one of her own with a reflective expression.
“Danjel tells me that last mare finally foaled this afternoon,” she said in a conversational tone.
Sitting comfortably with his back against a rock covered in sheepskins, Graize nodded. These few days with the Yuruk had finally solidified the nine months of mental and emotional stability that Danjel had labored to create for him. His mind still tipped back and forth like a boat listing in the waves, but at least it was no longer taking on water. For now. He felt warm and sleepy and gazed at Rayne with a contented expression, seeing her intent before she spoke it.
“Yes, twins,” he answered easily. “Both female.”
“Strong?”
“Very.” He waved his Petchan bow in the air. “A cloud of spirits rose up around the smaller of the two and were driven back by the larger.”
“A good sign. That kind of bond will bring strength to the herd.” Stretching her feet toward the fire, she gave him a speculative glance. “Years ago we talked about strength. Do you remember?”
Graize nodded. “And Danjel talked about strength just this very morning,” he replied with an innocent air.
She made a wry face in the direction of her kardos seated across from them. “Danjel’s chosen to find strength with Yal. Whether that strengthens the Rus-Yuruk in the future will depend on whether Yal chooses to keep it among us. It’ll do us little good if she whisks Danjel’s seed off to strengthen the Petchans.”
“It’s not Danjel’s seed that she’s interested in,” Graize pointed out.
“Maybe not now. But if she wants a child one day, she’ll have the option of choosing Danjel’s seed if she wants it. I’ve chosen yours.”
Graize pulled a piece of meat from his skewer with a discerning air. “Danjel warned me you were planning to line your nest with my exotic feathers this season,” he observed in a dry tone.
“That’s all my nest is waiting for,” she agreed. “You came home in good time. My body’s ready; the child will be born in midwinter. It won’t be a burden during this year’s raiding season and it’ll be old enough to leave with my abia during next year’s.”
“You have it all planned out, then? Down to the very day?”
“Yes.”
“So, are we going to start now, or do I have time to finish my food?”
She laughed. “By all means finish. I want you strong and well rested.” She leaned back, hands behind her head. “Caleb owes me a lamb,” she said with some satisfaction. “He bet you’d play coy with me and make me work for it.”
Graize just shrugged. “There isn’t time,” he answered, dispensing with his usual banter. “We ride out tomorrow, and the future’s covered in mist and spray.”
“You told Kursk once that the future was covered in blood and gold.”
“It still is, except now the blood and gold are covered in mist and spray.”
“You also told Kursk that he wouldn’t live to see it. It was the first prophecy you ever made among us.”
&nb
sp; “I remember. His death became more clear the longer I remained with the Rus-Yuruk.”
“Is mine?” she asked bluntly.
He gave her a neutral look. “No.”
“Would you tell me if it was?”
He stared into the fire, watching its many, ever-changing prophecies merge and shift with the movement of the flames as his eyes struggled to maintain their focus on the present. “Maybe,” he allowed. “If you demanded it.”
“When we have a child together, I will demand it. I’ll need to know how long I have to protect it.”
“Place your shine, place your shine,” Graize whispered. “What’s the game, what’s the prize?”
“What?”
He just shook his head. “If I see your death, I’ll tell you.”
“Good.” Rayne stood. “Then let’s go make a baby.”
He glanced up at her in some amusement as the Yuruk seated around them laughed out loud. “I thought you said I had time to finish my food,” he complained.
She scowled down at him. “I changed my mind. Like you said, there isn’t time; the future’s covered in mist and spray, and I want mine locked down by the time the skies clear.”
“And what if the skies never clear?”
“Then we’ll waterproof the tent.”
“Very practical.”
“Yes. So, are you coming or not?” She thrust her hand out to him. He stared at it for a long moment, watching the shadows play across her palm, merging and shifting in time with the firelight. She wanted a child, not a mate; the future was still malleable. He took it.
They broke camp the next morning with Rayne and Caleb leading the Yuruk raiding party that was to accompany them to the edge of their lands. Keeping an eye on the weather, they followed the southern shore of the Halic-Salmanak, riding single file with the Skirosian party tucked safely in the middle.
On the last night they were to be together, in a driving rain sweeping down from the north, Graize dreamed.