by Fiona Patton
The power of Her lien, sharp with gluttonous possession, blazed across his wrist where She’d carved the symbol of the God-Wall. It slapped across his mind with a crack of impatient reproach and he felt the warmth of understanding finally sizzle through his veins. He had not pledged his strength to Her that night, or his ability to fight, only his worship.
And his worship was everything to the Gods.
Within the circle of Spar’s arms, Brax raised his hand and, as he’d done that night, dropped all pretense of strength and courage, and allowed the frightening overpowering need he’d always kept hidden fill his gaze, then shouted two words into the spirit-filled waters of Anavatan’s great cistern.
“HELP ME!”
His words shot down his lien, and in the midst of Her Bronze Company cavalry in the fields before Yildiz-Koy, Estavia snapped Her head about. Her crimson gaze tracked north, then, with a single gesture, She hurled a bolt of pure power toward Anavatan. It shot down Her liens with Kemal and Yashar hard enough to knock them both off their feet, blazed along their lien with their delon, splattering against Spar and Graize—covering them both in a thick patina of silver power—before hitting Brax full force in the chest. It flung him to his feet and, armed and armored in the seeming of Kaptin Haldin, and surrounded in a nimbus of silver light so brilliant that it almost blinded him, he threw himself at the enemy without a second’s hesitation.
And stood on the featureless plain of his dream five years before. The spirits came at him in twos and threes and tens and hundreds, and he slaughtered each one. As power slammed down his arm and into the gem-encrusted sword She’d given him, he laughed out loud at the strength of it. He was her Champion; Kaptin of Her Warriors, builder of her temple and Protector of her city. Beloved and favored, he could fight forever with Her power burning through his veins like fire. And he would do.
As he screamed out Her battle cry, the atlas table shattered into a thousand pieces.
On the Volinski flagship deck, Illan jerked backward in surprise, his teeth snapping against his tongue. The fine spattering of blood that erupted from between his lips lit up the shattered atlas table with a new spray of possibilities that writhed out from its destruction like a nest of snakes.
Vyns stepped forward at once, but Illan snarled at him to keep back. Righting himself, he forced the image together, scrabbling through the wreckage to discover just what had occurred, and found a fine prophetic thread made of bronze-cast bells and gilded feathers leading his enemies toward a future he’d been certain they would never see.
A soft voice, thick with sadness, filled his ears.
“Missed opportunities taste like dust and the bitter, inner peel of citrus fruit, my love, and the blind ambition of kings and princes might as well be etched in stone.”
In the cistern, his eyes blazing as hotly as Brax’s, Graize howled in triumph, before turning on the spirits attacking Hisar.
Close to the bottom of the cistern now, the Young God continued to strike out at Its enemies, screaming in both fear and anger, but Its movements were growing noticeably weaker as the spirits spun about It furiously, churning the water into a silvery froth that flashed with gold and copper power.
“Blood and gold!” Graize shouted as the water began to warp under the force of his prophetic ability, “Feed the people! Not the spirits!”
Taking hold of the dawn sun, he squeezed it until it gutted out, then spun its ashes into the vision of a darkened sky, bloated with storm clouds. Below, the waters of Gol-Bardak Lake glimmered in the dim light, casting a faint glow over the tiny Yuruk encampment on its southern shore. As sheaves of rain began to course across his face, he threw his arms wide and leaped into the memory.
Lightning flashed continuously, sending out a dozen streaks of energy at a time to scatter across the rumbling clouds. As each one touched the air, it changed the spirits of the cistern to the tiny, newborn creatures Hisar had fed upon in Its infancy. Opening his mind as wide as he’d done in the past, Graize sucked them in, feeling them fill him up with the power he’d once feared might tear him into pieces. But he was not a delos this time, battered and raw from his encounter above the wild lands; this time he was a man, a prophet, a leader, and a priest sworn to the God of Creation and Destruction. Gathering the power inside him until he was almost blinded by the copper light pouring into his eyes, he turned and spewed it down the lien toward Hisar.
It hit the young God with an impact so hard it flung It from the cistern altogether, rending the surrounding spirits into a thousand glittering shards and scattering them like glass. Drawing these pieces into his body as well, Graize spewed them down the lien toward Hisar as the young God shot into the sky above Anavatan.
As the waters of the cistern grew still, Graize then turned his attention to Brax and Spar.
With their own battle over, the two of them stared back at him, the lien they shared with each other and the lien he’d forged with Brax so many years before undulating in the waters between them. The mist-covered cobblestones of Liman Caddesi disappeared to become a snow-clad mountain ridge and, as the three of them set foot upon the path, a dense fog rose up, coiling around Graize’s arms and legs until they covered him in a mantle of gray mist. The darkness behind them split apart, allowing a single tendril from Spar’s own place of power to clothe him all in black, while beside them, Brax’s oaths to Estavia surrounded him in a blinding silver light.
As the Gray, Black, and Silver Champions stood together for the first time in prophecy, a future stream appeared, becoming a mountain path that led to an ethereal tower flowing from golden to silver to gold again.
Graize moved toward it at once, only to lurch to a halt as a sharp pain scored his temple. He began to shake, the smell of chill, damp air assailed his nostrils, and a creeping cold began to worm its way up his limbs and pool inside his chest. He fell, to be caught in Brax’s arms and in the distance, he heard shouting and the sound of frantic barking.
Spar was the first to react. Eyes as black as the midnight sky, he turned and jerking his head at Brax, he disappeared back to the physical world. Brax nodded, then catching Graize around the chest, yanked them both off the mountain path and back into the alcove.
Physical sensation returned in a painful rush, making Graize gasp out loud. His eyes snapped open, and he found himself entangled in Brax’s arms. Beside him, Spar sat with his back against the wall, his own arms wrapped about the neck of a large, red dog his face pressed into its fur, while before them, a hooded youth pulled medical supplies from a wicker basket. He tried to rise, then fell back, fighting a wave of nausea as his injuries swept over him. His lien with Brax sent a fine tendril of strength to calm his mind, but in this world, his arms and legs trembled with fatigue and his head throbbed with pain as his own power continued to pour down his lien with Hisar as the young God began to manifest above the towers and minarets of Anavatan.
17
The God of Creation and Destruction
SNAPPING FROM SEEMING TO seeming, Hisar ricocheted across the clouds, then froze as a bolt of lightning hit a minaret directly in front of It. The flash of orange fire lit up Its face as It changed to Its golden-seeming, Spar’s blond hair sticking up in all directions and Graize’s gray eyes wide in Brax’s face. He spun slowly in midair, growing larger with every turn until His feet finally hit the ground, one landing on the roof of the cistern entrance, the other planted on His temple site, His head and shoulders a full ten feet above the tallest of the city’s minarets.
His expression suffused with hunger, He bent and drove His hand through the cistern roof, drawing up the last handful of spirits from the depths and pouring them into His mouth until they spilled down his chin and chest in rivulets of silver-and-copper light.
This time they fed him as they should, and sated for the moment, He turned to stare about Him with wondering eyes as the events taking place across the length of Gol-Beyaz came to Him in near painful clarity as if played out directly in front of Him.
/> Above, the sky rumbled with continuous thunder. Rain scored against His skin, sending burning trails of power along his legs to pool about His feet. Below, the alarm bells continued to toll as, in the strait, Illan’s brown-winged bird-ships spat flaming arrows at the penteconters of Anavatan, setting their decks alight, and far to the south, the white bird-ships of King Pyrros came in close to make the most of their bronze-cast rams, while on the western lands, the horses made of mist and grass engaged the militia and Warriors of Estavia.
Throughout, the Gods of Anavatan fought beside Their people, each one granting them the power of His other domain.
The God of Art and Music, Her silken gown whirling about Her like a multicolored maelstrom, sang one continuous note into the air, amplifying the Invocations of Her priests until their combined voices battered against the clouds in a thunderous call to arms.
The God of Seasonal Bounty, sides rippling with green and brown power, stalked the village pasturelands, drawing up the slender grasses to catch at the hooves of the Petchan and Yuruk ponies and snatch their riders from their backs.
The God of Healing darted here and there, pouring a power as blue as a summer sky into His physicians as they tended to the wounded on every battlefield, while the Hearth God raced from rooftop to rooftop, putting out the enemy fire with great gouts of water drawn up from Gol-Beyaz.
And through it all, the God of Battle’s spinning blades scythed a path of destruction through the enemy, north to south.
But the enemies were many, and, moment by moment, the fleets pushed farther into the silver lake and the charging horses drew closer to the God-Wall of stone and power.
Hisar’s golden brows pulled down into a deep vee as He swept His gaze from side to side and finally lit upon a single, ice-pale figure standing in the very center of Gol-Beyaz. Incasa.
The God of Prophecy stood immobile, a hundred feet above the glittering surface, His long white hair spread across His shoulders like a cloak, and His opalescent dice were held high in one fine-boned hand. Eddies of power swirled about His feet, like drifts of snow in a winter storm, and as He turned His frosted gaze upon Hisar, the young God felt a gust of frigid air puff across His cheek.
They stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity. The God of Prophecy’s expression remained impassive even as a catapulted shot from the midst of the Volinski rearguard fleet hit the watch fire atop Gerek-Hisar, showering the roof of the nearby Incasa-Cami with a spray of flaming coals.
Hisar reared back, His golden eyes blazing.
“DO SOMETHING,” He shouted, using the power of the spirits that still flowed through His seeming to launch His voice across the water.
Incasa jiggled the dice in His palm with deliberate care, then arched one pale eyebrow in the young God’s direction.
“YOU DO SOMETHING,” He countered.
“WHAT?!”
The older God’s expression grew bored, and He turned His head to watch, with apparent engrossed interest, the battle going on in the waters before Satos-Koy.
King Pyrros’ first line of triremes had come in hard in line ahead, counting on their superior size to drive a hole in the defensive force of lighter penteconters. A rain of arrow fire peppered them from Anahtar-Hisar, but then the lead trireme had rammed its counterpart and back oared to disengage. Its complement of hoplites had hurled their javelins into the defending oarsmen and then, with chaos erupting on the Anavatanon ship, the trireme had shot past toward the shore.
Hisar bared His teeth at Incasa in frustration, then swung His gaze down as the Volinski vanguard fleet, whistled orders flying thick and fast, sailed into the mouth of Gol-Beyaz. To Hisar’s left, the barge pulling the sea chain across the Halic hadn’t quite made it two thirds across, and as He watched, the Volinski catapults now turned its way.
Hisar took a step into the surf beyond His temple site, then jerked back as the sudden half-physical, half-ethereal shock of the Gods’ unwelcomingly cold water slapped against His calf.
The whistled order came again, the catapults were loaded, and Hisar snapped His head back and forth, unsure of what to do. His first instinct was to change seemings and flee down to the alcove and demand advice from Spar, or even Brax, but with the spirits of the cistern spent, and only two priests wholly sworn to send Him strength, He was afraid He’d never be able to manifest this powerfully again.
His gaze flickered to Incasa once more, but the older God was now watching the battle going on in the fields before Bahce-Koy, and did not return His gaze. Balling His hands into fists, Hisar stepped back into the water and, ignoring the freezing-then-burning sensations that traveled up His legs, He waded into Gol-Beyaz.
The Anavatanon penteconters were between Him and the Volinski dromon galleys, but as His eyes darted back and forth, He caught a glimmer of stone shining beneath the waves at His feet. Reaching down, He drew up a fist-sized chunk of blue-tinged yellow marble, the silver power of the Gods etched like a patina across its surface. Its weight felt heavy against His palm, and it took all His concentrated focus to hold it in midair. As the first of the catapults shot their payload at the barge, He almost dropped it, but the cries of alarm from the nearby penteconters steadied Him. Screwing up his face in concentration, He leaned back, then hurled the marble with all His might at the Volinski fleet.
It hit one of the lead ships with a crash, smashing into the steering oar mounted beneath the sterncastle.
Hisar showed His teeth in feral pleasure as the cries of alarm turned to cheers. Twisting His body, He reached out and, with as much care as possible, took hold of the barge pulling the sea chain and drew it forward until He beached it on the shore before the iron bollard. Then he reeled backward as the strength He’d used to accomplish both in the physical world left Him in a rush. His need for power shot down His lien with Spar, pulling as much as He dared from His First Priest as He staggered back out of the water, nearly spent. With His golden-seeming flickering dangerously, He reached out again, this time traveling down a familiar lien. Graize accepted His Presence with only the slightest hesitation and, with a grateful cry, Hisar caught his abayos’ injured mind up in His own and hurled them both into the clouds.
In the alcove, Graize collapsed like an unstrung puppet.
Out on the Volinski flagship, Illan snarled silently as Hisar’s latest move threatened to shatter his atlas table once again. The game was far from over, whatever the young God and Its champions might believe, he growled as he struggled to keep the pieces fused together. Panos’ interference had provided them with a few extra moves, but nothing more than that.
The thought of his lover’s betrayal caused the pieces to slide away from each other once again and, with a sharp gesture, he jerked them back into position. Whatever her reasons—and he would discover them soon enough—they would not change the endgame. That had been determined years ago. Volinsk would defeat Anavatan and the ghost of Duc Leold’s failure would forever be forgotten in the wake of Prince Illan’s victory.
Slamming the four pieces back onto the board, he scrutinized their new positions, then motioned Vyns to his side.
“My lord?”
“Inform Prince Pieter that prophecy has thrown up a new target, rich in possibilities, and that he should bring the van’s weapons to bear against it with all possible speed.”
“And the target, my lord?”
“I will direct him to it if he will attend me on the forecastle.”
“At once, my lord.”
After a swift consultation, the whistled orders went out again, and the main bulk of the Volinski vanguard fleet suddenly turned hard to stern, heading straight for the tip of the Western Trisect in line abreast. The weapons crews scrambled to load their catapults and, when the order was given, fired a full volley at a small area just north of Lazim-Hisar.
In the alcove, Kez spun about as a series of heavy explosions rocked the walls of the cistern. A line of dust and grit pattered down on them and Brax swiftly covered Graize’s face
with his cloak.
“What was that?” she demanded.
Spar turned, his eyes as white as Incasa’s own. “Illan of Volinsk,” he answered, his voice hollow. When she continued to stare at him, he shook his head to clear it. “A really powerful seer . . .”
“And a really personal enemy,” Brax added.
“From the beginning,” Spar agreed weakly. “He’s seen us in prophecy. He’s directed the attack . . . against us.” His head fell back against his arm.
“From the strait?”
Kez’s voice was incredulous and Brax shook his head. “From Gol-Beyaz by the sound of it. Ship-borne catapults couldn’t reach this far from the strait.”
“What about Estavia’s fleet? Why aren’t they stopping them?”
“They must have fallen back or been taken by surprise.” Brax placed his hand on his chest and closed his eyes. The God’s Presence buzzed against his fingertips and, in the far recesses of his mind, he saw the southern tower of Alev-Hisar. “The Skirosian fleet has broken through the line and is heading for the Ekmir-Koy. The Battle God’s joined the fighting there.”
“Wonderful,” Kez sneered. “Gods. There’s never one around when you need one.”
Brax opened his eyes as Spar made a faint noise.
“You all right?”
His kardos reached out blindly and, catching Jaq by the collar, used the dog’s stability to pull his head upright. “There is,” he slurred, his face paling almost as white as his eyes. “. . . a God here. Hisar’s here. Drawin” power. Needs power . . .” his voice trailed off.
“Hisar?”
“Fightin’ the Volinski fleet. He . . . we . . . need to help him.”
“We need to get out of here, is what we need to do,” Kez snapped as a second series of explosions sounded even closer than the last. As another rain of dust and grit spattered over them, she ran to the entrance and peered out cautiously. “Can we get out of range?” she asked, glancing back at Brax with a strained expression.