The Silver Lake

by Fiona Patton

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1 - Anavatan

  Chapter 2 - Kemal

  Chapter 3 - Graize

  Chapter 4 - Brax

  Chapter 5 - Spar

  Chapter 6 - Abayon

  Chapter 7 - Kardon

  Chapter 8 - Gol-Beyaz

  Chapter 9 - The Tower

  Chapter 10 - Seers

  Chapter 11 - The Wall

  Chapter 12 - Serin-Koy

  Chapter 13 - Battle

  Chapter 14 - Visions

  Chapter 15 - Champions

  Chapter 16 - Preparations

  Chapter 17 - The Twin Dogs of Creation and Destruction

  Raves for The Silver Lake:

  “In this bold first of a new fantasy series from Canadian Patton, six gods, who originated from spirits that mated with humans and who can take corporeal form at will, rule the magical city of Anavatan. Court intrigues enrich the story, as do many made-up words that lend color but whose meanings readers must figure out in context. The smashing climax neatly sets up events for volume two.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “The best aspect of this explosive series opener is Patton’s take on relations between gods and men.”

  —Booklist

  “From Fiona Patton comes the first volume of an exciting fantasy series about a City of the Gods and the immortal patrons that protect it. Breakneck-paced, vividly described, and thoroughly captivating, The Silver Lake is easily Patton’s best work to date. A masterwork of imagination, this is epic fantasy at its very best.”

  —The Barnes & Noble Review

  “Patton begins a new series set in an exotic world reminiscent of medieval Turkey. This fluidly paced fantasy adventure belongs in most libraries.”—Library Journal

  “Detailed worldbuilding sets the stage for an intriguing plot ... Fans of multifaceted epic fantasy will enjoy this introduction to a unique world.”—Romantic Times

  Also by

  FIONA PATTON

  The Novels of the Branion Realm:

  THE STONE PRINCE

  THE PAINTER KNIGHT

  THE GRANITE SHIELD

  THE GOLDEN SWORD

  Copyright © 2005 by Fiona Patton.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-07813-6

  All rights reserved.

  DAW Book Collectors No. 1343.

  DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the In- ternet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  First Paperback Printing, February 2007

  DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED

  U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES

  —MARCA REGISTRADA

  HECHO EN U.S.A.

  S.A.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For my sister Isabelle, for the years together.

  Acknowledgments

  The author would like to thank Ozan Yigit and Ihsan Pala for sharing their wonderful stories and memories of Turkey, which helped Anavatan come alive, and Shihan Kenzo Dozono of the Belleville Karate School for his wisdom and training.

  ANAVATAN AND THE LAKE OF POWER IN THE AGE OF CREATION AND DESTRUCTION

  1

  Anavatan

  To come upon Anavatan, City of the Gods, from the south is to make a peaceful and leisurely journey up the shining Gol-Beyaz Lake, past its twelve prosperous villages, to the bustling wharves of the city’s Temple Precinct. To come upon Anavatan from the north, however, is to make the more dramatic voyage. The dark and narrow Bogazi-Isik Strait with its three massive watchtowers gives over to the bare cliffs of the Degisken-Dag Mountains to the east and to the high walls of the city proper to the west. Statues of Anavatan’s six Immortal Patrons, formed from multicolored marbles drawn up from the lake bed, stand sentinel along the wall, marking the position of each of its great temples. Estavia, crimson-eyed midnight God of Battles, points Her silver swords both north and west; blue-painted Usara, God of Healing, reaches out to any who might need His skills; while icy-pale Incasa, God of Prophecy, oldest and most mysterious of all the Gods, holds a pair of opalescent dice in one hand as if He were about to hurl them into the waters of Gol-Beyaz for good or for ill. Oristo, ruddy-brown, bi-gender God of Hearth and Home, carries a flaming torch in one hand and a loaf of bread in the other; while many-colored Ystazia, God of the Arts, holds a fine reed pipe to Her lips; and finally, leaf-green and earth-brown Havo, bi-gender God of Seasonal Bounty, looks out upon the fields and orchards along the western shores of Gol-Beyaz.

  It’s said that to feel the Gods’ touch is to be blessed beyond words, but to earn Their love is to be cursed for They’re both fickle and dangerous.

  -Anise Rostov, 11th Duc of Volinsk

  “The life of a God is inexplicable even to Its most intimate followers. Its birth, however, is more easily definable and by its very nature, violent. Its midwives would do well to remember this.”

  -The Chronicles of Anavatan: City of the Gods.

  Book twenty-eight: The Age of

  Creation and Destruction.

  By: Ihsan, First Scribe to Ystazia, God of the Arts

  “Gods are big, and They’ll do you if you let Them.”

  -Found scrawled on a Western Trisect pier,

  author unknown

  THE singing began just before dawn. From the hun-Tdred lofty minarets which graced the skyline of the capital city to the nine village towers which guarded Gol-Beyaz, the priests of Havo gathered to call forth the sun for another day. As their joined voices rose, the shadows which had been building in every comer like heavy spiderwebbing grudgingly withdrew. But they did not vanish. The rising wind and the heavy, concealing bank of storm clouds which had brought them from the western wild lands of the Berbat-Dunya plains whispered to them of power and potential and they stirred hungrily, impatient for the coming of night.

  The strength of their desire sent ripples of disquiet through Gol-Beyaz, disturbing the vision-filled slumber of Incasa, pale-haired God of Prophecy and Probability. A frown marring the smooth perfection of His features, He opened His snow-white eyes to stare into the depths. Something was happening. Raising one delicate, fine-boned hand, He blew a line of icy breath across the pair of opalescent dice nestled in His palm, then flung them into the waters.

  A dozen rippling streams formed in their wake, each one leading to a single, familiar destination and Incasa bared His silvery-white teeth in displeasure. Three times before, the shadowy spirits of the Berbat-Dunya had risen to challenge the supremacy of the Gods, and three times before they’d been defeated so utterly that their shattered potential had been reformed to Incasa’s own desire without a flicker of resistance. And so it would be. again. The great wall of stone and power erected about Gol-Beyaz when its twelve villages had been in their infancy was still strong and the champions who kept it so had been in place for more than a millennium. The spirits could not win through, not now, not ever.

  As if in agreement, a cold breath of wind scored the surface of the lake and Incasa smiled. It was the final day of Low Spring, the final day before Usara, God of Healing, gave dominion over the land to Havo who heralded the coming of High Spring with three nights of violent wind, rain, and hailstorms, known as Havo’s Dance. Nothing stirred when the God of Wind and Rain wreake
d havoc above the world; nothing the spirits of the wild lands could lay claim to or draw strength from. With a flick of His hand, Incasa swept the streams aside, then returned to His slumber in the depths of Gol-Beyaz, secure in His power and in His defenses.

  Once free from His regard, the spirits crept forward to gather about a single, fragile stream sparkling like a line of tiny raindrops on the dark streets of Anavatan; a line so small it had been missed by the God of Prophecy; a line that relied upon a single, desperate decision, yet unmade, to take form. Rustling excitedly in their nest of shadows, the spirits peered up at the ones who might make that decision, knowing, as Incasa did, that such things could not be forced, they could only be manipulated. But during Havo’s violent Dance above the capital a great many manipulations might be possible and a great many decisions made by those who held the true power in the City of the Gods.

  Above them, two boys, one dark-haired, the other blond, crouched on a dilapidated rooftop in Anavatan’s western dockyards, unaware of the battle about to be fought on the streets of their city, watching as the sun struggled to breach the heavy bank of clouds on the horizon. As a single shaft of light broke free to bathe their faces in a pale saffron glow, the younger of the two boys dropped his gaze to the dark drifts of shadow clinging to the buildings like moss. They seemed to stare back at him. He shivered and the older boy’s head snapped around at once.

  “You all right, Spar?”

  He gave a distracted nod.

  “You sure?”

  “I’m just cold, Brax,” he answered vaguely, his blue eyes unusually pale.

  The older boy frowned. “You need a new jacket; the winter really did that one in. Hey, maybe if you look really sick today Usara’s lot’ll give you a new one.” Spar shot him a cynical glance and he snickered. “Right, the God Himself s as likely to give you a golden cloak as His priests are to give you anything more useful than a packet of moldy powder today. Piss-heads.” He spat, then made himself smile reassuringly. “But don’t worry, all right? We’ll get you one.” After Spar nodded, he returned his gaze to the horizon, taking in a deep breath of the chilly, predawn air. “Looks like the rain’s gonna keep on,” he observed. “You might figure that’d keep people inside, but a hailstorm of snakes and lizards wouldn’t stop half the city from jamming into Usara’s temples today, would it? Not with all that free ...” he paused dramatically, “... medicine just lying around for the taking.”

  He laughed at his own joke as Spar gave a very unchildlike snort in reply. On the last morning of Low Spring, the priests of Usara traditionally doled out free advice and medicines to the poor. Or rather, emptied their cabinets and trunks of all the leftover stale herbs and rancid salves that were no longer worth the exorbitant prices they charged. But even knowing that, Usara’s temple courtyards would be bursting with people today, the poor and the not so poor alike, all pushing and shoving and fighting for their share of the Healer God’s charity.

  And none of them paying enough attention to their own pockets.

  “Still, you gotta watch it,” Brax continued, the predatory gleam in his eyes replaced by an expression of caution. “Greedy people are careless, but they’re also really ugly if they catch you lifting their shine, so you gotta be careful and you gotta be fast. Use the crowds; keep hidden.”

  Spar nodded absently.

  “An’ Cindar’ll want us at the dockside Usara-Cami this morning,” Brax continued. “That’ll help. The pickings won’t be so rich as at the bigger temples but there’ll be a lot more people and a lot fewer guards.” Cocking his head to catch the faint sounds of snoring coming through the broken shutters behind them, he grimaced. “If Cindar ever wakes up,” he added with a sneer.

  Spar rolled his eyes in agreement. Cindar was their abayos, a lakeside village word that had come to mean either parent, employer, or one who acted as guardian in exchange for service as delinkon—apprentices—in this case two undersized children able to maneuver through the city’s crowded marketplaces without being detected. Cindar had taken Spar in five years ago when Brax had grown too big to squeeze through the narrow windows and openings their profession demanded. Slight, quiet, and small, he usually distracted their potential victims while Brax and Cindar cut their purses or robbed their stalls by day, and acted as a lookout while they plundered local businesses and warehouses by night. They were a team, a family, and as long as each one of them did his part, a successful one.

  Now Brax interrupted his reverie with an inquisitive noise. “So, what do you figure?” he asked. “Is it safe to go, or will the Battle God’s arse-pickers be out nosing for a quick snatch today?”

  Spar considered the question seriously despite the older boy’s scornful remarks. The city garrisons that patrolled Anavatan’s streets were the traditional soldiers of Estavia, God of Battles, and although the best and the brightest of them served at Her main temple, those that were left were still a force to be reckoned with. Brax knew this, whatever he might say, but what he didn’t know was whether they’d be a force to be reckoned with today. And Spar would. Although Spar was five years younger than the fourteen-year-old Brax, the older boy always asked him what he thought—what he felt—be fore making any decision because Spar knew things. He could sense a patrol coming within half a mile and he often dreamed of dangers that came true later. And although Cindar would be sure to ask him, too, Cindar drank, and so every morning Brax and Sparcame up here to watch the dawn sun paint the city streets with orange fire and get a feel for the day’s trade. It wouldn’t be the first time Brax had refused to follow some raki addled plan of Cindar’s because of what Spar had said up here and it likely wouldn’t be the last time either.

  But not today. Spar shrugged in response to Brax’s impatient cough. Despite his earlier disquiet, he couldn’t sense any immediate danger around the morning’s trade other than the usual hazards in picking pockets inside a God’s temple courtyard, but the risks there were actually pretty small. They were unsworn, among the very few—mostly poorer—citizens in the City of the Gods who refused to worship any of its six divine patrons and so the three of them could plunder an entire temple and it would be the fault of the sworn for not guarding it properly. If Brax and Cindar wanted to rob Usara’s prayer niches this morning, Spar would help them unhook the wall lamps; it was all the same to him. As long as it felt safe. And it did. Mostly. There was something happening on the very edge of his senses, something dark and frightening, but it was not happening today. When it did, he’d be ready for it.

  A crash behind him interrupted his thoughts and a familiar voice slurred by sleep and drink shouted out a string of incoherent curses before finally making sense.

  “Brax! Spar! Where the ... get in here!”

  Shaking his head, Brax stood. “The way he was pourin’ it down his throat last night, I figured he’d be out for at least another half an hour,” he said in disgust as he pushed open the dilapidated shutters. “Good thing we lifted the last of his shine early, yeah?” With a grin, he tossed Spar one of the two copper aspers he’d taken from Cindar’s purse before throwing a leg over the windowsill. “We’re done here anyway, right?”

  Spar nodded slowly.

  “Good, then. C‘mon, before he shouts himself into a fit.”

  Together, they returned inside as, across the city, Havo’s Invocation song ended and Oristo’s began.

  By the time they reached the small, second-floor room they shared with their abayos, Cindarwas up and trying with little success to scrape the last four days’ worth of stubble off his face, his hands shaking visibly. He was not a tall man, but he still towered over the two boys. He had Brax’s dark hair and eyes, a pockmarked, dissipated face, and a twisted, poorly healed scar that ran along one comer of his mouth where a garrison guard’s spear had caught him last summer as he’d come out of a silver smithy late one night. His eyes were red-rimmed and deeply suspicious, but when Brax held out his hand for the knife, he grudgingly gave it up.

  “Don’t thin
k this means squat,” he growled as he dropped heavily on the lumpy pallet behind him. “I can still outlift either one of you any buggerin’ day of any buggerin’ God’s month you can name.”

  “Not if you slit your own throat first,” Brax sneered back at him as he began to carefully scrape the coarse, curly hair from the man’s cheeks. “Why’re you botherin’ with this anyway?” he asked.

  Cindar spat a gob of spittle at the wall. “We gotta look respectable, don’t we?” he growled in reply. “Poor but respectable, so those second-rate butchers at Usara-Cami’ ll give us what we want and don’t go reporting me to the buggerin’ priests of Oristo just because you two ain’t eating offa golden plates.”

  Seated by the room’s tiny, dirt-encrusted window, Spar rolled his eyes. The priests of Oristo were the self appointed guardians of the young in Anavatan and the priests of the Dockside Precinct where they made their home were particularly aggressive in their duty. They knew about Cindar’s profession and they disapproved of it, and although they’d never been able to gather up enough proof to send the Battle God’s garrisons after him, that didn’t stop them from making daily attempts to convince him to surrender his delinkon into their keeping. But Cindar had been brought up by Oristo’s abayos-priests himself and had raised Brax and Spar to despise the yellow-clad Protectorates that huddled in the Hearth God’s temple, trading menial labor for flatbread and boza, a thick, brownish drink made of fermented wheat. He’d raised them to hate the priests they served as well.