The Silver Lake

by Fiona Patton

  Standing poised above the golden dome of Anavatan’s Derneke-Mahalle Citadel, the seat of the lake dwellers’ physical power, the God of Prophecy held His dice high above His head. The new deity needed a champion and a sacrifice to come into being, and Incasa Himself needed an agent of His will, a single loaded die, in case this new deity somehow managed to slip from the net of His control. It was time to see which one this boy was most likely to become. With a snap of His wrist, Incasa flung the dice into the air and Brax’s future rose up before Them.

  The young thief stood in the center of a broiling sea of blood-flecked mist, the body of another lying dead at his feet. As he fought to keep his balance, the waves crashed against him, trying to drive him down into the clutches of a hundred sharp-clawed creatures of power and need hovering just below the surface. Finally, they knocked him off his feet. As the creatures closed over his head, he managed one choked-off cry for help. His call shot through the mist like a blazing arrow and, drawn by the violence of his desperation, Estavia leaped forward as Incasa’d known She would, only to have him disappear before She could reach him.

  The streets of Anavatan grew still.

  Her red eyes glowing hotly, Estavia sheathed Her swords, then turned toward Her temple-fortress just visible in the dawn light. As the sun crested the Degisken-Dag Mountains to the east, She reached out.

  Behind Her, Incasa cast a mantle of obscuring mist across the darkened streets so fine that even the Battle God did not notice it, directing Her touch toward the mind of one of Her favorites, a mind receptive enough to help build the future Incasa Himself desired. Then, catching His dice back up in His fist, He, too, reached out for one of His favorites, Freyiz, First Oracle of Incasa-Sarayi, and fashioned His desire in the form of a cryptic and subtle prophecy. It wouldn’t do to give His seers too much knowledge all at once any more than it would do to give the other Gods knowledge of Their own birthing. Knowledge was power, and the God of Chance did not like to share power, even with His own temple.

  Behind Him, Oristo frowned, distracted by the spray of blood which marred the perfection of the city streets. Oristo did not like violence; it interfered with the order and tranquillity of the Home. Eyes narrowed, the bi-gender Hearth God too reached out for Neclan, Senior Abayos-Priest of Oristo-Sarayi, just as the God of Battles made contact with Her own.

  At Estavia-Sarayi, Ghazi-Priest Kemal of Her Most Loyal Cyan Infantry Company stirred restlessly in his sleep. His dreams merged and flowed, became the dark rain- and hail-drenched cobblestones of Anavatan on Havo’s Dance. He saw the shadowy outline of a child, saw it fall, then jerked awake with the knowledge that something was happening, something dangerous. Estavia’s presence thrummed through his mind like a distant drum, beating out a message he could barely hear and, rubbing at the short growth of beard along the side of his face, he frowned.

  Something was happening or something was going to happen? Something he was supposed to prevent or something he was supposed to aid?

  The darkened room made no reply. Beside him, his arkados, Yashar, slept on undisturbed, his snoring vying with that of Kemal’s dog Jaq, sprawled across their legs. Both had taken up far more than their fair share of the pallet as usual and, as Kemal worked one hand free of what little blanket they’d left him, both grumbled in sleepy annoyance but did not awaken. Reaching for his knife, he gripped the familiar wire-bound handle and his mind enough to understand Her message

  He didn’t hold out much hope.

  Kemal had served as a warrior and prie tle God’s main temple for eight years from the ranks of the Serin-Koy village m mand one of Her fighting units. Like mos officers he was not known for any partic metaphysical ability, and when Estavia cl his sleeping mind, Her messages were ge simple warnings of danger on the bat more cryptic and important pronounce usually saved for Her battle-seers, who h for prophetic dreaming.

  As soon as he formed the thought, he fel Her reaction, his mind insisting on giving was always a feeling rather than a dialogue

  NOT THIS TIME.

  He closed his eyes, reaching out through I the God, seeking clarity. There was no res the faintest tingle of impatience. Clearly, S given him all the information he needed trated, forming his confusion into a praye warded with a single image.

  ELIF.

  He nodded. Slowly removing Yashar’s arn his chest, he pressed one foot against Ja shoved him off the pallet. The dog rolled o then rose and shook himself with a reproachful grunt. After; using the pot, Kemal pulled a short tunic over his head, then he and Jaq slipped from the room.

  The long, inlaid marble corridor which separated the Cyan quarters from those of Estavia’s seven other temple companies was chilly this early in the morning, the high latticed windows still dark. Kemal walked quickly, following Jaq’s shadowy form and listening to the tick, tick of his toenails on the floor. Few of Estavia’s warriors would be up this early on Havo’s First Morning. Few except Elif, he amended. Elif would rise early during a hurricane. Reaching the far end of the hall, he silently acknowledged the salute of the dormitory guard before heading outside into the temple’s innermost courtyard.

  The air smelled of mulberry and magnolia trees, rain-soaked earth and stone. Kemal breathed in the sharp, spicy odor with pleasure, then followed Jaq as he took the ornately carved stone steps three at a time. Bounding across the graveled path, the dog shoved his nose under the hand of an old woman seated on an iron divan beneath a sweeping cinar tree. As he turned his ministering tongue to her face, one chestnut-colored hand emerged from the depths of a heavy, woolen blanket to grab his muzzle. Kemal chuckled.

  Elif, late of Sable Company, had served Estavia-Sarayi as the temple’s most powerful battle-seer for over sixty years until age and encroaching blindness had forced her to retire. Refusing the offer of a comfortable bed at Calmak-Koy—the nearby convalescent garden and hospital village—she’d chosen instead to spend her last days seated in the temple’s inner courtyards, speaking prophecy and being waited on by the many warriors she’d trained over the years. To one side, politely out of earshot, her ever-present attendant met Kemal’s gaze with the silent request not to tire her. Kemal nodded. As he approached, Elif turned her mist-shrouded, brown eyes in his direction.

  “Good morning, Ghazi.”

  “Good morning, Elif-Sayin.” Crouching beside her, he kissed her fingers, noting how thin and translucent they’d become since last autumn.

  “And why are you abroad so early?” she queried, her voice still strong despite her age. “Not even the most dedicated priest could tell the white thread from the black just yet.”

  “Except for the priests of Havo,” he allowed.

  “The priests of Havo are awakened by their God.”

  Kemal glanced over at the broken bits of multicolored tile scattered about the courtyard. “From the sound of last night’s storm, their God nearly tore the roof off,” he noted. “It’s a wonder Estavia didn’t rise in response.”

  The old woman gave a cackling laugh. “Now that would be a sight to see, yes? Estavia and Havo doing battle across the rooftops of Anavatan. Who do you think would win, eh?”

  “I know who would lose: anyone caught in the crossfire.”

  “You don’t believe Estavia would protect Her warriors?”

  Her voice was teasing, but Kemal could hear the steel beneath it. As she bent her head to accept one of Jaq’s increasingly boisterous kisses, he could see the glow of the Battle God’s painted protections across her cheeks. Only the most beloved of Estavia’s chosen were guided to draw Her wards where they could be seen. Elif had earned that privilege many times over.

  “I believe Estavia would allow anyone foolish enough to stand gawking at a God-Battle to reap the harvest of their own folly,” he answered piously.

  “Spoken like a true farmer.”

  He chuckled. “Perhaps.”

  “So, tell me, why are you here keeping the company of a mad, old seer instead of remaining in the warm arms of your arkados on this co
ld Havo’s Morning? Jaq, sit!” Pushing the dog’s head away, she straightened. “It can’t be for his sake,” she added, jerking her head toward the dog who gazed up at her reproachfully. “Nan deen told me she caught him pissing in the west wing conservatory not five hours ago.”

  “So that’s where he goes. No, I had a dream.”

  “A dream of encroaching danger?”

  He started. “Yes. Why, did you have it, too?”

  “No, but what else could it have been?”

  “It could have been a little more clear.”

  Deep in his mind, he felt Estavia’s response as a tingling warmth through his thoughts, a loving stroke mixed with a mental smack.

  “Serves you right,” Elif admonished absently, sensing the God’s answer as she always could. “Estavia has a lot of nerve making such a powerful ghazi as yourself use his brain instead of his arm, does She?”

  “Actually, She sent me to you.”

  “Figures.” The old woman hunkered more deeply into her blankets. “Well, She hasn’t seen fit to discuss anything but the weather with me this morning,” she sniffed, “and you’re right, She’s disgruntled about Her roofs, so you’ll just have to wait. Will you be representing us at Assembly this morning?”

  “Most likely. The duty will get passed down until there’s no one left to pass it down to.”

  “You could pass it down yourself.”

  “I don’t like to, it’s ...” He shrugged.

  “A duty?”

  “Yes.”

  “A civic duty.”

  “Still...”

  “Yes, still.” She chuckled. “Be careful, Kemin-Delin. Marshals have been appointed for less and the paperwork would kill you. However, come and see me afterward. Estavia may have gotten over Her pique about broken chimney pots and scattered roof tiles by then. Yes, Murad,” she added loudly as the last of Havo’s Invocation sounded in the distance. We’ll be going inside for breakfast now. Delon,“ she added, ”no stamina.“ As her attendant came forward to lift her, blankets and all, she gave Jaq one last pat on the head. ”Get the rabbit, Delin!“

  The dog took off straight through the burlap-wrapped rose gardens, scattering fallen hail as he went and, with a chuckle at his master’s disapproving expression, Elif allowed herself to be carried back inside. After he managed to drag Jaq away from his imaginary prey, Kemal followed.

  Yashar had already risen and gone when they returned; the shutters were thrown open with pale sunlight filtering in through the haze of morning incense. As Jaq clambered onto the rolled-up pallet, Kemal pulled off his tunic and crossed, naked, to the wall altar, his eyes watering. He preferred a lighter scent in the mornings, lily or lotus, but Yashar liked to use a heavy eastern sandalwood. He believed it cleared his mind so that he might more fully communicate with Estavia. Kemal believed it accomplished that by burning a scorching path up through the nose and into the brain. With a sigh, he lit a new sandalwood stick off the small devotion lamp, resisting the urge to sneeze as a fine trickle of smoke made for one nostril, then reached for a goat‘s-hair brush.

  Staring into the tiny red eyes of Estavia’s altar statue, he sank quickly into a receptive state, then, opening the nearby dye pot with one hand, dipped the brush inside by memory, feeling Her touch sizzle through his fingers. As usual, the tip touched his skin before he realized his hand had moved, painting the God’s daily protections over his body in a series of quick, simple strokes. Those for Anavatan and Serin-Koy traced themselves along his shield arm, with Estavia-Sarayi’s wrapped about Cyan Company’s on his sword arm. Another dip and his hand moved to his chest above his heart, adding his own symbol, Yashar‘s, his family’s, and one small, four-legged stick figure that made him smile. Estavia was particularly fond of dogs.

  Jaq woofed as if he could sense his master’s thoughts, leaping down to stuff his head under his hand as he came out of trance, and Kemal ruffled the dog’s huge, flopping ears with a smile.

  “Who knows why, eh?” he asked him fondly. “Come on, it’s time for breakfast.”

  The huge main refectory wing was filled to bursting when they arrived. Estavia’s warriors numbered nearly ten thousand at full strength, and although most were stationed at the nine village towers around Gol-Beyaz or at Anavatan’s many gates, there were usually upward of seven or eight hundred people taking meals at Estavia-Sarayi at any given time. The kitchens, staffed by dozens of Oristo’s stewards, were enormous.

  Lining up before the long, central table, Kemal tossed Jaq a slab of tripe before helping himself to a piece of flat bread liberally spread with quince jam, a slice of sheep’s cheese, and a handful of dried figs. Weaving his way through the crowds to the blue-and-gold-tiled Cyan dining hall, he glanced around for Yashar but didn’t see him. Kaptin Julide, however, saw Kemal, and pointed at an empty cushion across from her.

  “Good morning, Ghazi.”

  He took the seat with a resigned expression. “Kaptin.”

  “Tea?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Bazmin, tea.” She gestured and her delinkos caught up the large, silver urn from the center of the low table and poured Kemal a cup. Allowing him to take a single sip, she then caught him in a firm stare.

  “You’re to attend Assembly this morning.”

  He sighed. “Yes, Kaptin.”

  “There shouldn’t be much more than damage reports from across the city; Lazim-Hisar reports no signal from the lake towers, the walls are secure, and the city garrisons survived the night intact, so you’ll have no more to say than anyone else. You should be out of there in less than an hour.”

  “No movement from the north, Kaptin?”

  “The northern watchtowers report the strait’s empty of all movement—friend, foe, and fish alike. Which makes sense on Havo’s First Morning. We’ll know more about the smaller harbors when we hear from the coastal garrison later today, but it would take some pretty powerful magics to sail across the northern sea during Havo’s Dance. These first spring storms are always the worst once they push past the strait into open water. Relax and enjoy the boredom for a few more days, Ghazi. Cyan Company is being deployed south to Anahtar-Hisar next week, and there’ll be plenty there to keep you occupied.”

  “Yes, Kaptin.” Draining his cup, Kemal picked up his bread and jam with a distracted frown. Last season they’d driven several suspicious-acting ships away from the Bogazi-Isik Strait to the north—Estavia’s naval kaptins had been certain they were scout ships. Betting was three to one in the temple that the northern powers of Rostov and Volinsk were taking an interest in Anavatan and its profitable hold on the southern route through the walled-off and guarded silvery Gol-Beyaz Lake once again, but Elif and the temple-seers disagreed; Rostov and Volinsk had been at war for over two decades and showed no signs of mending their earlier alliance. The towers of Anahtar, Kapi and Kenor-Hisar, however, had reported increased activity on the Deniz-Hadi Sea to the south, and their traditional trading partners and sometime allies of Thasos and Ithos Islands had been distinctively nervous all winter. If a new power were rising to the south, they had to be ready to meet it. The bulk of the Battle God’s fighting companies would be stationed at the southernmost towers this season especially since their ancient enemies, the Yuruk nomads of the Berbat-Dunya wild lands to the north-west and the Petchan hill fighters of the Gurney-Dag Mountains to the southwest, had been defeated so thoroughly in the last decade that they were now at a fraction of their earlier numbers. But, like most of the rank and file drawn from the western villages, Kemal believed they were making a mistake in ignoring these regions.

  “But no one asks us, do they, Delin?” he asked Jaq, ruffling his ears.

  “Ghazi?”

  “Nothing, Kaptin.”

  “Then we’ll see you at the Invocation.” With a nod, Kaptin Julide withdrew, her delinkos in tow. Kemal was left to stare into his empty cup as if the few remaining tea leaves could show him the future. As he reached for the urn, the hazy form of a child outline
d against the city’s dark, cobblestone streets rose up before his eyes again, then winked out in a spray of mist. He nodded. Something was happening, it just wasn’t happening to the south.

  Nor to the north either, his mind supplied.

  No, he agreed, it was happening here. He just wished he knew what it was and what he was supposed to do about it. Suddenly no longer hungry, he tossed the rest of his breakfast to Jaq, then followed the kaptin from the hall.

  Across the city, as the rising sun painted the many battlements and minarets of Anavatan with broad streaks of fire, Brax and Spar scrambled onto a stone pier overlooking the Halic-Salmanak, the freshwater strait that separated the Northern from the Western Trisect. As a new set of priests began to sing, calling the sworn to the Morning Invocations, Brax handed the younger boy a piece of bread they’d managed to barter for yesterday’s purse.

  “The streets’ll be bare in a moment,” he observed, watching a school of mercan fish swim by. “Anyone not singing at Gods’ll be at breakfast.” Squinting up at the cloudy sky, his expression grew thoughtful. “We could sniff around the market and see what Havo left us.” He shot Spar a quick glance. The younger boy had been quiet and withdrawn all morning, but the dark circles under his eyes were fading and he’d attacked his breakfast with his usual appetite. “Or maybe slip in through some hostel’s back door and check out their kitchens? What do you think?” he continued.

  Spar stared out across the water, then nodded slowly.