by Fiona Patton
Satisfied, Brax stood, dusting invisible crumbs off his tunic before leaping from the pier to the soft, white sand below. “Meyhane-Kopek’s the closest,” he observed. “We could see if anything’s been left lying around and if not, we could always beg some work at Ystazia-Cami. All those outdoor stalls in the main courtyard must have gotten tossed around pretty well last night. They might need help putting them back together, yeah?”
Spar nodded. Work wasn’t as profitable as lifting, but it was safer. He was glad Brax was keeping their options open. As the singing ended, he clambered down and followed the older boy through the deserted streets toward Meyhane-Kopek, his eyes darting this way and that, alert for any sign of danger. As Anavatan began to shimmer with a faint silvery-yellow glow as the sworn evoked the power of their Gods, he shivered. Gods were a frightening unknown and the unknown was always a danger.
In Estavia-Sarayi’s huge central parade ground, Kemal, now fully dressed in deep blue tunic, sandals, and leather armor, stood beside Yashar, the fingers of his right hand resting easily against the pommel of his sword. Around him, the Battle God’s warriors stood as still as statues, each company occupying the position it would hold on the battlefield: archers from Verdant and Turquoise Companies on the flanks, Sable Company, with its many powerful seers, to the rear protecting the long line of delinkon behind them, the lines of mounted Bronze Company cavalry on their huge warhorses at the vanguard, and the four infantry companies of Azure, Cyan, Sapphire, and Indigo in the center. Those who no longer actively served the God through age or infirmity rested on long, marble benches beneath the encircling line of cinar and poplar trees to one side. Kemal could just make out Elif seated with her hands resting on Jaq’s broad shoulders, but she too, like the rest, remained motionless, waiting.
The muted notes of Usara’s Invocation filtered out to them from different parts of the temple complex. Both the Hearth and Healing Gods maintained contingents of followers at Estavia-Sarayi to support the warriors in their protection of the city. The Battle God’s song would not begin until first one and then the other had ended. But it would be soon. As the last note faded, a single mounted figure crossed the courtyard. The waiting companies tensed.
Marshal Brayazi had served as the temple’s supreme commander for over a decade and as kaptin and ghazi-priest in Bronze Company for thirty years before that. Her long black hair, bound in several thick braids, was streaked with gray, and her face, nearly as dark as the Battle God’s own, was deeply lined, but she still carried herself as stiff and straight as an arrow. Her black eyes swept across the assembled companies; then, in one swift motion, she drew her sword, standing up in the saddle to call out the first, loud note of Estavia’s Invocation. A moment later they heard the answering call from far out on the Bogazi-Isik Strait as the admiral of Her Battle Fleet joined in. Across the city and from every tower along the shores of Gol-Beyaz, each kaptin took up the call, adding the strength of their voices to their marshal’s.
Estavia’s power rippled through the assembled warriors. Another call, another thread of power, and Kemal felt a chill run up his spine. His sword arm tensed. She was near; he could feel Her hovering just beneath the surface of his awareness. Another note, this time deeper and richer than the two before it, and he saw Yashar’s head tip back, the tendons in his neck standing out with the strain, his teeth shining brightly through the dark thickness of his beard. His own chin began to lift. Around him, the warriors shifted and moved as their God’s presence began to flow through them. A third note, a fourth, and his muscles began to shake with the steady buildup of power. As always, he felt his own will begin to wash away under the overwhelming need to do Her bidding as a blood-red fog washed across his vision, and his fists clenched with the sudden fierce desire to do battle, to kill and maim the bodies of Her enemies in Her name. Finally, the power grew too strong to be contained, and he and every other warrior in the courtyard jerked their weapons free as Estavia burst into being above them with a crack of displaced air.
Red eyes blazing, She spun Her swords above their heads and, as one, Her people raised their own weapons to meet them, bolts of deep-red energy crackling down the blades like gouts of fire. Kemal jerked as his own sword sent a rush of power shooting through his arm and it was all he could do not to turn his blade on the others. Instead, he rode the sensation, feeling his entire body stiffen in response to Her power. He felt invulnerable, unstoppable, and drunk on the power of Her touch. The feeling grew, became almost unbearable. Then, as fast as She’d come, Estavia’s presence exploded into the morning sun and vanished. Around him, the others staggered about the courtyard before discipline brought them back into formation. But Kemal was left reeling from the violence of Her passing, unable to speak, his vision spinning with the knowledge that something hovered just beyond his understanding, something he was supposed to know, something he was supposed to do. Before he could reach out for it, Marshal Brayazi held her sword aloft for one more heartbeat, then shot it back into its scabbard. The Invocation was over.
Breathing hard, Yashar threw one arm over Kemal’s shoulders to support himself as the assembled broke into a hundred ragged groups, many of then heading for a private corner. “That was better than sex,” he panted. “I hope we get to kill something soon. I don’t think I can take many more of these peacetime Invocations.”
Kemal could only hold his head groggily as Jaq bounded across the courtyard to swipe his tongue across his face.
“She’s angry about something, anyway,” his arkados continued. “Get down, Jaq. I swear She nearly blew my head off. That’s a good sign.”
“Your head?”
“Both heads,” the older man chuckled. “And on that note...” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
Kemal shook his head, his eyes still glassy and unfocused. “I can’t ... I have to do something.” He frowned. “I have to ... go to Assembly?”
Yashar’s dark eyes showed a flash of annoyance, then he shrugged. “Well, better you than me. Find me later—Cyan’s on the east wall today—and you know they fixed the lock on the second sentinel box door.” His hand caressed the back of Kemal’s neck. “So if that bloodless lot at the Citadel doesn’t suck all the vitality out of you,” he whispered, “I soon will.” After kissing him fiercely on the palm, the older man then strode off with a jaunty whistle, pleased by the growing flush of desire on his arkados’ face. Breathing hard, Kemal bent his head to his knees, his sense of confusion fading before the familiar ache in his groin caused by Estavia and exploited by Yashar. He wasn’t too sure he could survive many more peacetime Invocations either, he admitted. The afterimage of Her presence still burning brightly behind his eyes, he made himself straighten, then headed for the west gate stables at as fast a pace as he was able, Jaq at his heels. If Kaptin Julide was right, he’d be back from Assembly before he lost his erection. After that, he would worry about whatever else he was supposed to do.
In the very center of the capital, Anavatan’s governing assembly met once a week in the ancient and ornate Derneke-Mahalle Citadel. Built by the Gods, its latticed stone walls encompassed five acres of lush, cinar-tree-shaded rose and rhododendron gardens, sparkling fountains, and rows of sweet-smelling apple, cherry, peach, and pear trees. The building itself formed a series of spiraling halls eventually leading to the massive central assembly chamber. Its swirling white marble floors and deep blue, green, and silver painted walls represented Gol-Beyaz, with the huge vaulted blue-and-golden-tiled dome, wrapped by white marble viewing galleries, acting as the sky above. Richly embroidered divans sat against the south wall while long tables laden with bowls of nuts and dried fruit and great silver carafes of both tea and imported coffee stood to the east and west and a huge mosaic-tiled map of Gol-Beyaz, bordered by two seas, twelve villages, and one great city dominated the north. A dozen golden candelabra chased away the gloom of Havo’s First Day, while in the center, a low, inlaid mahogany table made up of six separate, interlocking pieces, legs carved t
o resemble lion paws and fish tails, stood on a thick, azure carpet surrounded by crimson-colored cushions. It was a fitting place from which to govern the richest nation in the known world.
On Open Assembly Days, the room would be bursting with people. Twenty-one beys made up the Senior Council: six for the Gods’ main temples, twelve for the villages, and one for each of Anavatan’s three main Trisects. With the addition of junior beys, aides, delinkon, scribes, stewards, visiting dignitaries, and anyone who had business with the Assembly that day or just wanted to watch, the hall was often crowded with as many as a hundred and fifty people below and up to a thousand in the galleries above. This morning, however, there were only ten: an ancient steward filling teacups by the side table, three clerks clutching the city’s damage reports, a single scribe already seated to one side, and five of the six temple representatives. Kemal tossed Jaq a candied date before glancing around to see who the others were today.
The temples of Usara, God of Healing, and Ystazia, God of the Arts, were each represented by proxy-beys of equal rank to Kemal himself, and, not surprisingly, Havo’s temple had sent a junior bey’s delinkos. Only Oristo was represented by a true bey: Neclan, Senior Abayos-Priest at Oristo-Sarayi—the Hearth God’s people took all Assemblies very seriously. A gaunt woman, whose features generally lent themselves to expressions of disapproval, Bey Neclan’s face seemed particularly lined this morning, her stiff posture revealing both annoyance and suspicion. As Jaq padded over to stuff his nose under the scribe’s arm and Kemal took his own seat, she looked down her long, thin nose at him.
“You’re late,” she noted coldly. “Even Havo’s temple has seen fit to send someone on time.”
“Havo’s temple is indeed most devout in their civic duty, Sayin,” Kemal agreed, ignoring the reproof. “Yusef, isn’t it?”
His hands wrapped tightly about a porcelain teacup, Havo’s delinkos smiled painfully back at him.
“My seniors send their regrets, Sayin. They are ... indisposed this morning.”
“You mean hung over,” Neclan sniffed.
“Yes, Sayin. This First Night was a wild one within Havo-Sarayi as well as without.” Starting slightly, he reached down as Jaq, finished with the scribe, thrust his nose into his lap. “Um, good dog, please move.”
Aurad, one of Ystazia’s master musicians, leaned his heavily muscled forearms on the table. “Shall I send some drummers over to keep time with the beating in their skulls?” he asked with an evil grin.
Yusef laughed carefully. “If it were up to me, I would say, yes, please. I was drafted to help Tahir-Sayin up a rickety flight of minaret stairs this morning and she puked on my shoes.”
“Then she deserves drummers; I’ll see to it.”
“No, you won’t.” Jemil, Usara’s representative turned a firm stare on both of them. Of medium height and build with thinning light brown hair and smooth, fluidly androgynous features, the bi-gender physician to the God of Healing was not an imposing figure, but nonetheless, Ystazia’s proxy-bey shrugged sheepishly.
“I was only joking ...”
Jemil raised one arched eyebrow.
“Mostly. Physicians, no sense of humor,” Aurad muttered, winking at Neclan.
“Musicians, no sense of propriety,” she retorted.
Jemil raised a hand to forestall further argument. “Dorn, more tea for everyone please. No, Jaq, I do not have anything for you. Please remove your head from my knee.”
As the dog shuffled away, Kemal glanced at the empty place at the head of the table. “Don’t tell me Incasa’s people are hung over as well,” he asked, accepting a cup from the steward. “Their festival was months ago.”
“Maybe they couldn’t wait,” Aurad chuckled. “Get your nose out of there, Jaq.”
“I imagine their representative is merely late as well. The streets are treacherous this morning,” Jemil surmised.
The musician leaned across the table. “Ten aspers says it’s Bessic,” he offered Kemal in a loud stage whisper. “He wouldn’t miss the chance to attend Assembly.”
“Done. He hates being out in poor weather.”
“But he’s ambitious and what other day could we expect Freyiz-Sayin to be absent?”
“Point.”
“An unseemly point,” Neclan snapped peevishly. “Incasa-Sarayi will send whoever is appropriate to their God’s desire. Down, Jaq.” She shoved the dog’s head away. “Kemal, control your animal or leave him outside.”
“Jaq, come.”
The dog sighed deeply and, having ascertained that no one at the table would feed him, obeyed, slumping against Kemal’s leg with a disconsolate expression.
Aurad grinned. Opening his mouth to say something else guaranteed to annoy Neclan again, he was interrupted as Freyiz, Incasa’s First Oracle and Anavatan’s most senior bey, entered the room on the arm of a delinkos. As one, the Assembly rose in surprise.
No one knew how long Freyiz had served at Incasa’s temple; she’d been the God of Prophecy’s most favored seer for as long as anyone there could remember. Slight and frail, her body bent, and her hair as well as her eyes long ago turned white from the strength of Incasa’s vision-gifts, she was bundled in layer upon layer of heavy woolens to keep out the damp. Even so, she gave off an air of earthly fragility combined with immense unearthly power. It was said that she ruled Incasa’s temple with an iron fist and even the God trod lightly when she was angered. No one at that table would have dared to disagree. After allowing her delinkos to help her onto her cushion, she swept her inward gaze across the table, taking in the gathered representatives despite her outer blindness. She gestured.
“Please sit.”
When everyone had returned to their seats, she turned her milky-white gaze on Kemal. “Something is happening,” she said firmly.
He started.
“Incasa has sent this image to me in a dream,” she continued, turning her head slightly to address the entire council, “a child of great potential still unformed standing on the streets of Anavatan. The twin dogs of creation and destruction crouch at its feet. The child is ringed by silver swords and golden knives and its eyes are filled with fire. It draws strength from Anavatan’s unsworn and will be born tonight under the cover of Havo’s Dance.”
There was silence across the assembly table. When she did not elaborate further, Jemil stirred.
“What does it mean, Sayin?”
She gave an eloquent shrug. “The God is being ... cryptic,” she replied with a grimace. “But the simplest answer would be that something of great potential for either good or ill will begin tonight.”
“Some thing or some one?”
“The image of the child could be either literal or symbolic. Incasa has not seen fit to enlighten me regarding which it may be. Yet.”
Her tone was one of annoyance and Kemal stifled a smile. Remembering his own dream, he made to speak and suddenly felt himself silenced as if a cloud of mist had taken hold of his tongue. Startled, he closed his mouth.
“Did Incasa indicate what He wishes done about this ... delon?” Jemil continued, using the more urban word for child.
“No.”
“Then why ... ?”
“I have no idea.”
“What could we do, anyway?” Aurad interjected with an impatient wave of his teacup. “We can’t go out looking for it, whether it’s real or symbolic, not on Havo’s Second Night. We’d all be swept into the strait.”
“Perhaps Incasa has left the decision up to each one of us whether to risk that or not,” Neclan countered stiffly.
Freyiz inclined her head toward her. “Possibly.”
“Or perhaps we’re simply to recognize that it’s happening and act at a later date,” Jemil offered.
“Again, possibly.”
Aurad frowned. “Well, that’s all fine and good, but if the choice is mine I choose to remain indoors tonight.”
Jemil took a sip of tea before nodding in agreement. “I’m concerned about the these i
mages of swords and knives, however, as well as the ... what was it?”
“Twin dogs of creation and destruction,” Aurad supplied, watching as Jaq padded around the table to lie beside Freyiz, his head resting gently against one white-clad knee. She reached down to stroke his ears absently.
“Yes. I like the former well enough, just not the latter, and I don’t like that it’s happening on the streets of Anavatan,” Jemil continued.
“It’s bad for trade,” Aurad agreed.
“It’s bad for the security of Anavatan’s citizens,” Neclan snapped. “Oristo’s and Usara’s temples are responsible for the well-being of the city and Estavia’s for its safety,” she added, giving a stiff jerk of a nod in Kemal’s direction. “If nothing else, we should at least petition our own Gods for answers to this riddle.”
Freyiz inclined her head. “Yes, that would be the wis est course of action at this time, Neclan-Delin, even if these weapons are merely symbolic of something else entirely.”
“Nice to see that’s sorted out, then,” Aurad noted. “Now what’s all this nonsense about the unsworn; what’s that symbolic of?”
“Perhaps it’s just as it seems,” Jemil answered mildly.
“Bollocks. There are no unsworn in Anavatan. It’s the City of the Gods; everyone follows one Deity or another here.”
Jemil raised an eyebrow at him.
“Well, apart from the odd foreigner ...”
“Apart from all foreigners,” the physician retorted. “Of whom there are a great many, even in springtime. The docks are teeming with Rostovics, Volinski, Petchans,Tha sosians, and many others, not to mention the Yuruk, all of whom have no relationship with the Gods of Gol-Beyaz.”
“No, but they must have a relationship with some God or another. Besides, on Havo’s Dance there isn’t so much as a rat’s arse to be seen on the streets of Anavatan. The citizens are all locked safely behind their own shutters and the foreigners are all holed up in hostels or taverns.”