by Fiona Patton
Oristo’s priests fell silent while in Anavatan’s hospitals and infirmaries Usara’s physicians and orderlies stood by the bedsides of the sick and began their song of healing and respite. Usara sang with them, holding His handful of medicinal herbs out to Incasa with an expectant expression.
Incasa nodded. Healing and respite began with care and nurture; from the first vision of Hisar’s birth that had heralded every event that had followed, care and nurture had begun with two ghazi-priests of Estavia.
And at Estavia-Sarayi, Chamberlain Tanay stared thoughtfully at her larder, the faintest line of white mist crossing in front of her vision. Then, after curtly telling Jaq to stop his pacing, she crossed the kitchen to a small nook holding Usara’s statue and began to fill a wicker basket with medical supplies.
At Estavia-Sarayi, Kemal and Yashar made their way to the temple’s central shrine. Rarely visited by anyone except Brax, it was quiet and dark and smelled of wood polish, stale incense, and stone. Only the wall sconce by the door was lit. As Yashar moved around the room, lighting the rest, Kemal set their supplies to one side and then felt his way to the far end. The six-foot-tall onyx statue of Estavia seemed to watch him advance, Her ruby eyes glittering in the flickering lamplight.
Pulling his sword, he kissed the blade, then laid it across the altar and stepped back, one hand pressed against his chest where Her lien glowed as warmly as a hearth of banked coals.
Yashar lit the mangel in the corner, and once it was sending out a comforting amount of heat, he joined Kemal at the altar. After laying his sword beside the other man’s, he glanced over at the polished, black marble slab that covered Kaptin Haldin’s tomb.
“The last time we came here together it was to tuck Brax and Spar out of harm’s reach five years ago,” he observed. “Do you remember?”
Kemal nodded.
“You don’t suppose that Spar’s just done the same to us, do you?”
The younger man chuckled. “It had occurred to me,” he admitted.
“Hm.” Crossing his arms, Yashar planted his feet more comfortably on the stone floor. “So, what do we do now?” he asked.
“We practice patience as you once told me to do, and we wait.”
“For?”
“Some signal from Spar, or from Estavia.”
“We should stay vigilant, then?”
“Yes.”
“So, no chance of sex, then?”
Kemal laughed. “Later, when we’re off duty.”
Dropping into parade rest, he closed his eyes. Once his mind and body were equally still, he reached out along his lien to Estavia. Beside him, he felt Yashar do the same, while in Her temple, and in every Estavia-Cami, watchtower, and village courtyard, on the decks of every fighting ship, and braced on the stone trough of the great aqueduct, every Warrior, militia, and delinkos sworn to Estavia stood to attention waiting for their marshal to begin the Battle God’s Invocation.
To the south, at Incasa-Sarayi, First Oracle Bessic felt Estavia’s rise as a maddening scratch across his prophecy. He and his senior oracles had been sequestered in the central arzhane chamber all night, tracking the progress of their enemies in vision and following Incasa’s movements as He cast His dice into the waves, forming, destroying, and re-forming stream after stream in His own vision questing.
Now, banishing the Battle God’s distraction as well as the fleeting wish for hot water and cool sheets, Bessic sank back into prophecy waiting for his turn to Invoke his own God.
In the silver lake, Incasa sent a loving caress along the lien He shared with His First Oracle as Ystazia rose from the waves beside Him in response to Her own Invocation. Weaving and spinning in time with the music that swelled from every home, workshop, and studio along the shores of Gol-Beyaz, the God of Arts and Dancing cast handfuls of rainbows into the air, laughing with delight despite the gravity of the situation as they sparkled in the rain all around Her.
The spray of multicolored light reflected in Incasa’s ice-white gaze, warming it for the briefest of moments. He studied the patterns they made as they fell; then, dipping one hand into their midst, He brought a palmful to His lips. More than any other, the power of Ystazia tasted of Creation and Destruction and, as He wove it into His plans for Hisar, Incasa felt the young God’s future grow both stronger and brighter with their addition.
Then, accepting the Art God’s outstretched hand, Incasa joined in Her dance, allowing Himself a moment’s respite within the circle of Her arms until Her song faded and His own began. Then, with the added power gleaned from the worship of every priest and follower with even the slightest gift for Prophecy, He sent His First Oracle the clear-cut image of a fleet of warships.
Moments later, the bronze bell atop Incasa-Sarayi’s highest tower rang out.
Estavia-Sarayi’s bell tolled next, then Oristo’s, Ystazia’s, Usara’s, and Havo’s, followed by the bells of Gerek, Dovek, and Lazim-Hisar. Finally, the great bell atop the Derneke-Mahalle Citadel, which rang only in times of the greatest danger, began to sound. People streamed into the streets, making for any ground high enough to see the Bogazi-Isik and the Gods arose to stand on Their temple battlements, each one mirroring the position of Their guardian statues. The ships of Volinsk fleet had been sighted in the strait. The invasion of Anavatan had begun.
13
The Northern Market
IN THE CENTER OF the Northern Trisect marketplace, Hisar stood under a wine merchant’s awning, listening to the sound of alarm bells ringing as much inside His head as outside it. All around Him, people spilled into the rain, most of them heading for the strong walls of Gerek-Hisar. He could feel their panic scrabbling at His juvenile sensibilities, calling up His own need to respond, but their ties of worship and obligation were not to Him, so he was able, with some effort, to set them aside.
The approach of Illan’s fleet of brown bird-ships beat against His prophecy in a rush of wings, and deep within Himself, He could feel Anavatan’s priests in the temple shrines offering up the power their Gods required to defend the city. He could feel the Gods’ response as a dark and feral hunger, greedy for all that power. He could feel His own hunger rising and again, with some effort, forced it aside as well. If he was going to have all that power, He was going to have to bring more than just Brax and Graize together; He was going to have to bring His only two priests, Spar and Graize, together at a temple. At His temple.
The yellow-green tunic He’d wrapped about His golden-seeming today remained untouched by the driving rain as He stepped into the street. If He’d had a real physical body, He knew His heart would have been pounding against His chest like a hammer. As it was, He could feel a growing anxiety sizzling through Him like lightning.
As if on cue, the sky lit up as a bolt hit the top of Gerek-Hisar with a crack of fire. The need to follow it back into the clouds traveled up and along His back and shoulders in a stretching of unformed wings, and He shook Himself with a grimace of irritation. There was power in lightning, but that was not the kind of power He wanted. When the accompanying roll of thunder signaled that His chance had come and gone, He laid a hand against His chest as He’d seen Brax do so many times before, then reached out ever so gently along the lien, to find Graize.
The faint smell of burning followed the lightning strike to the south, and Graize resisted the urge to press himself against the wall of a nearby cattle pen. He’d never liked lightning. The power it threw around muddied his sight, and right now he needed as much clarity as possible. Just setting foot on Anavatanon soil again had been enough to send a spray of unhappy memories splattering across his stability; memories of hunger and of loss. The last thing he needed was to allow memories of pain and fear to follow in their wake. The spirits of the wild lands that had gained access to the city in such a storm; the spirits that had killed Drove and flung Graize far from his home in their attempt to destroy him had met their destruction at his hands instead. He’d spent the last six years reminding himself of that. He would not
allow a little rain and wind to undermine what should be a memory of victory and triumph. With a savage gesture, he thrust all memories—whatever their kind—aside and bore down upon the present.
His small party of Yuruk and Skirosians had gained access through the North-Cattle gate as easily as he’d predicted once the alarm bells had begun to toll. Skirting the rows of animal pens and granaries that made up this corner of the marketplace, they’d joined the crowds of people streaming into the streets. No one looked twice at them; they were just another clump of people trying to find safety.
Now they bunched up behind him as he paused.
Beside him, Danjel made an inquiring noise. The Yuruk wyrdin had held the male form since early that morning and already a fine speckling of black whiskers, sparkling with raindrops, graced the length of his jaw. Graize stared at him, using his face as a focus, before giving a sharp gesture with his chin in reply.
“For now we go southeast until we reach the shore wall northeast of Gerek-Hisar. That’s where Illan will stage his first attack,” he said with unusual simplicity.
“Not at the sea chain’s housing?”
“The sea chain’ll be protected by the Anavatanon fleet. He’ll attack the most vulnerable spot first; the merchants and farmers of the Northern Trisect. That’ll create panic and draw most of the militia away from Gerek-Hisar. After that, he’ll go for the sea chain.”
Danjel nodded. Gesturing for the others to move out, he glanced back at his kardos as a faint thrill of unusual anxiety caused Graize to remain where he stood.
“Something?” he asked.
His eyes narrowed, Graize scanned the nearby row of stalls and barrows, then shook his head slowly. “No,” he answered. “Just memories trying to chase down my attention.”
“Bad memories?”
“There was little else here.”
“Then we should quicken our pace and outdistance them.”
“Yes.”
As Danjel splashed his way through a line of puddles growing ever wider in the hoof-rutted ground, Graize glanced about once more, his expression wary, then reluctantly allowed himself to be drawn after him.
Peering around a stack of crates and barrels, Hisar carefully withdrew His presence from the lien. He hadn’t realized that Graize would be that sensitive to His touch. He’d have to be careful. But, He amended, He’d also have to be quick. Graize was headed in exactly the wrong direction. Hisar needed him heading northwest toward Brax not southeast toward Illan.
Scanning the rest of Graize’s party, the young God sized them up as they passed. The Petchan woman, Yal, and Panos’ Skirosian bodyguards could safely be ignored; they were all too busy gawking at the unfamiliar sights and sounds around them, and Hares had his hands full trying to keep them all together. Panos carried herself stiffly as if she walked in a dream, or more likely in a vision that was consuming her attention. It was Danjel that He’d have to be wary of. Despite the crowds pressing in on them from all sides, the Yuruk wyrdin kept his attention fixed on Graize. If His plan was to succeed, Hisar would first have to get His abayos away from Danjel.
Imitating the deep breath He’d seen both Brax and Spar take before beginning an enterprise, Hisar darkened His hair and His eyes, changed His yellow-green tunic to one of blue and added a black leather cuirass with Estavia’s eyes gleaming with crimson fire in the center. As He stepped out into the crowd, He sent the tiniest seed of power pulsing down the lien.
Graize’s head snapped around at once, but before they could make eye contact Hisar jerked back behind a cart piled high with citrus fruits.
He waited, slowly counting to ten to steady the renewed sense of anxiety traveling through Him, then peered out again. Danjel was leaning close to Graize, speaking in his ear; one hand raised, poised to catch hold of him if necessary, the other gripping the pommel of his dagger. The young God bared his teeth at him. Changing to the seeming of the youth who’d spoken to him at His temple site, He moved off in a tight circle to come upon them, unregarded, from the opposite flank.
“What is it, Kardos, memories again?”
Danjel’s jade-green eyes peered into his as Graize shook his head, his expression distant.
“Memories,” he echoed in a singsong whisper. “Memories flitting about like tiny white moths around a lamp flame.” He found himself tapping the fingers of his left hand against his thigh—a habit he hadn’t fallen into for years—and, with a grimace, thrust his hand through his belt to stop it. “Unwanted memories are like unwanted moths,” he chided in a stronger voice more to himself than to Danjel. “An irritant, nothing more.”
He jerked his head to the east. “The fish market in this part of the Northern Trisect offers small, local catches of fresh crabs, scallops, and whelks,” he continued, forcing himself back to clarity. “The shore wall’s at its lowest there, and it’s pockmarked with gates and wharfs to allow the fishmongers easy passage. We should reach it soon.”
He headed off at once, trusting Danjel and the others to follow him. The crowds here seemed to press in on him even more tightly and he shook off the growing need to fight his way through them. A thin whisper of sea air, smelling of clean water and seaweed, flitted through his hair, tempting him to move even faster, and he deliberately slowed his pace. All his life he’d been driven by his own prophetic abilities; he would not now be driven by anxiety or fear on the eve of achieving his goals. Focusing his gaze on a gap between a table piled high with cucumbers and aubergines and a barrel of pickled herring, he moved forward.
And saw Drove.
Hisar felt Graize’s reaction shoot up the lien and caught Himself before He could instinctively send a pulse of comfort back to him. He watched as His abayos jerked to a halt, a white mist filling his gray eyes until he stood frozen, staring at nothing. Ahead of him, Danjel had yet to notice and the young God made a swift decision. Snapping back into His Brax seeming, He stepped into Graize’s line of sight.
His abayos’ eyes cleared.
Drove became Brax. The dark eyes of his old enemy widened in recognition, then he turned and vanished into the crowd.
Graize leaped forward at once ignoring Danjel’s shout of alarm.
A few of the merchants had hung covered oil lanterns within the recesses of their stalls to try and chase away the gloom, but it only added a new sense of shadowy oppression as a strong wind began to pick up, blowing down from the strait. The line between the physical and the prophetic grew faint, then began to merge as a troop of militia passed by. For a moment, Graize thought he saw the distinctive cuirass of the Warriors of Estavia among them, but the crowd, now wavelike and indistinct, parted, then re-formed too swiftly for him to be sure.
A protectorate of Oristo, arms laden with bundles, turned to stare at him. The bundles became a map of Anavatan which tore down the middle and then mended itself again before the man moved on.
Two boys, one slight, the other heavyset, stole a purse right in front of him. As he watched, the former vanished into the rain, leaving the latter to stare deliberately back at him before he disappeared as well.
Far away, he thought he heard Danjel call his name, but ignored it as the air above his head crackled with power. A streak of lightning hit a nearby minaret, sending a flock of storks flapping into the air. They filled his mind with the sound of rushing alarm bells in the form of wings. His nostrils filled with the smell of burning. Everything felt heavy and portentous, and for just an instant, he tasted blood and salt upon his lips.
Hisar could feel Graize’s sudden descent into prophecy and, sending a hard pulse of power snapping down the lien, jerked him back to the present, then spun out of sight again.
Graize felt the pulse like a hard slap against his mind, but before he could identify where it came from, a flash of black hair disappearing behind a whelkmonger’s barrow caught and held his attention. He threw his abilities out like a net, seeking any sense that it might be his quarry.
And the past rolled over him like a dense fog.
Hisar narrowed His eyes in frustration as Graize’s mind slipped away from Him again. He sent another pulse of power down the lien, but as He prepared to show Himself, Drove stepped between them, made so real by the power of Graize’s abilities that Hisar could see the dirt under his fingernails.
Drove appeared again, but this time Graize shook his head with a savage gesture. Snapping his fingers in front of his face to force himself to focus, he gained just enough clarity to banish the ghost of his fellow lifter—he would not be driven by guilt any more than by anxiety or fear. The fog began to lift from his mind, but in its place the black sand beach, dark tower, and blond-haired youth of his earlier vision rose up before him.
He snarled at it, refusing to be distracted by someone else’s prophecy either; using Drove as an anchor, he caught hold of another memory: a warm and peaceful autumn afternoon at Havo-Cami in the Northern Trisect.
The image held for a single moment, then twisted under his control to become water raging through a cavernous darkness, swarms of spirits tearing at his hands and face. He fought them off, forcing the cavern to become a cool, dark place smelling of damp rock and lamp oil and a Petchan Sayer wearing the muting effect of the Gurney-Dag Mountains like a cloak.
But all too soon, the air grew heavy and portentous once again. The scents of blood and salt filled his nostrils while above him, the dawn sun peeked above the wild lands like a great, fiery insect. As he struggled to free himself from its regard, he sensed a familiar presence hovering in the distance.
He reached for it.
Standing so close He could have laid a hand on Graize’s shoulder if He’d wanted to, Hisar threw caution to the wind and, reaching out along the lien, jerked His abayos’ attention forward again. Again Graize’s eyes cleared.