by Fiona Patton
“What about the poor?” Jemil prodded.
“What about the poor? Don’t they have shutters of their own?”
“Do they?”
“How should I know? Bey Neclan?”
“Anyone in need of shelter during Havo’s Dance is welcome at Oristo’s temples,” she answered stiffly. “Whether they be rich, poor, Anavatanon or foreigner. This is known throughout the city.”
“Yes, but for a price, Sayin,” Jemil noted gently.
“Of course for a price, but no price higher than is possible to be paid,” she snapped back angrily. “Those who do not have money may offer service. All are protected on Havo’s Dance. Period.”
“So, what does it mean, then?” Aurad repeated.
“I don’t know, I’m not a seer.”
“Enough.” Freyiz frowned at all three of them. “Yusef?”
The delinkos started.
“Yes, Sayin?”
“You’ve been trying to speak for some time now, what is it that you wish to add?”
“Um, nothing of any real importance, Sayin, it’s just that Havo would not respond tonight anyway ...”
“I’m sure,” Neclan sniffed.
The delinkos flushed and Freyiz cast Oristo’s bey a reproving glance.
“Please, go on, Yusef.”
“Um ... it’s just that our God will be out in force tonight, and if anything is stirring on the streets of Anavatan, Havo will know of it. We can always petition for answers in the morning.”
“An excellent idea,” Aurad declared. “So, we inform our temples’ leaders—those leaders that aren’t already here today, of course,” he added, winking at Neclan who ignored him. “They petition the Gods, and we wait and see. Unless, of course, Bey Freyiz, there’s more?”
“No more at the moment.”
“Good. Then it’s settled.” Rubbing his hands together vigorously, he made to rise, but Neclan frowned him back into his seat.
“We still have the damage reports from across the city, Aurad-Delin,” she reminded him.
“Oh, right.” As the clerks came forward hesitantly, he made a resigned gesture at the steward to refill his cup.
Across from him, Kemal rubbed Jaq’s belly with one foot while he mulled over Incasa’s prophecy. The child in his own dream had been standing on the streets of Anavatan, but he hadn’t seen any dogs or weapons and Aurad was right, there were no unsworn, whether citizen or foreigner, vulnerable on Havo’s Dance. Were there? He frowned. What if the child were to be born during Havo’s Dance, but draw strength later? That would fit. Sort of. But again Aurad was right; everyone in Anavatan was sworn to one of the six Deities of Gol-Beyaz. Weren’t they? He rubbed his forehead as a faint throbbing began to make itself felt across his temples. He was no battle-seer and interpreting prophecy always gave him a headache. Knowing this, the Battle God rarely asked it of him.
A whisper of intimate power caressed his cheek, and with relief, he let it go. Something was happening, but Estavia would tell him when and where he should do something about it. In the meantime, he had other, less confusing things to concentrate on. Straightening his back, he tried to look interested in the damage reports.
Murad was waiting at the west wall gate when he returned.
“Elif-Sayin wants you, Ghazi. So does Marshal Brayazi.”
Estavia-Sarayi’s official audience-chamber-cum-armory had been built against the imposing central gatehouse tower which separated the temple’s living quarters from the long outer courtyard. Built to echo the city’s three great watchtowers of Lazim, Gerek, and Dovek-Hisar, which loomed over the northern strait, it presented a plain, blank facade for three stories, after which each wall was pierced by half a dozen thin, defensible windows. The shadowy interior walls were decorated with weapons and armor and devoid of furniture save for six daises which held various battle trophies. It was lit by several hanging lamps which, however, did nothing to alleviate the air of brooding menace. Murad led Kemal and Jaq through it quickly to the marshal’s private audience chamber beyond.
By comparison this much smaller structure was both bright and airy, made to resemble an outdoor kiosk or pavilion rather than a fortress. Built against the gatehouse’s eastern face, it was possible to open it to the elements on three sides—the walls made of slatted screens that could be moved to accommodate the weather—and filled with plants and small potted trees of every description. When they entered, Marshal Brayazi was standing before a brass mangel, speaking quietly with Elif, who was seated on a nearby divan. The marshal acknowledged Kemal’s salute with a distracted gesture and, as Jaq bounded over to shove his head under the seer’s elbow, she came straight to the point.
“We already know what you discussed in Assembly,” she said bluntly. “The God’s commanded a full Invocation for the duration of Havo’s Dance tonight. Messenger birds have already been sent to each of the village towers. We begin at dusk with a fully coordinated ritual which you will command from here.”
Kemal blinked. “Me, Marshal?”
Elif chuckled. “She came to you first, Ghazi. Officially, that makes this your God-quest.”
“But I’m not even a battle-seer.”
“You wield Her power through your company in the field,” the marshal countered. “This will be no different.”
“But ...”
“Estavia wills it, Kemal,” Elif said firmly. “She came to me mere moments after the Invocation. Something is happening and She requires all the strength and power of Her people to meet it. You are intimately involved, and although She did not see fit to tell me why or how, She was clear in Her orders that you were to command the ritual.”
The echo of Her touch at the Morning Invocation tingling through his groin, Kemal nodded in resignation.
“What do I do?”
“Sable Company will familiarize you with the command rituals,” the marshal answered. “They’re waiting for you in their shrine.”
“And you’d better get over there right away. It’ll likely take you all afternoon to get it right,” Elif added.
“Stop by the kitchens and have them wrap you up something to eat. And, Kemal?”
“Yes, Marshal?”
“Leave Jaq behind.”
Wistfully thinking of Yashar’s now to be broken promise, Kemal gave both women a glum salute before heading from the room, the dog in tow. Elif sent Murad for a hot salap and when they were alone again, the Marshal turned a concerned frown on her retired seer.
“Are you sure he can do this?”
Elif shrugged. “He has a strong physique and, as you said, he’s not unfamiliar with Her Power in the field. She loves him and will, probably, remember to be gentle with his mind. He should survive it with little more than a headache.”
“Still, this is Havo’s time,” the marshal reminded her. “The power drain will be enormous.”
Elif shrugged. “It really doesn’t matter, Brayazi-Delin. She wants him, and so She will have him.”
Watching Kemal cross the parade ground, the marshal nodded tightly. “Yes, She will.”
As Elif had predicted, it did indeed take the rest of the day for Kemal to gain a basic enough understanding of the command rituals to satisfy Her seers that his head wouldn’t explode that night. Kaptin Liel of Sable Company then reluctantly turned their shrine over to Kaptin Julide—as one of its officers, Kemal had the right to Cyan Company’s presence during the Invocation—with strict orders not to touch anything. Having already been excused duty for an early supper, the hundred-odd warriors began to file in with a buoyant air, most staring unabashedly around at the seers’ inner sanctum and grinning proudly at their ghazi-priest. As they took their places—each one pointedly touching whatever they could reach—Kemal looked up at the eight-foot-tall onyx statue of Estavia, twin swords gleaming in the lamplight, and began to clear his mind for the Invocation.
To the south, in her private bathing room at Oristo-Sarayi, Senior Abayos-Priest Neclan leaned back in a wide porcelain t
ub as her delinkos poured a vial of lavender oil into the water. The scent wafted up to her, smoothing the deep lines across her forehead, and bringing a small amount of calm in its wake. The day had been disturbing, more for what it had not revealed than for what it had, and she was feeling uncharacteris tically drained by it.
Outside, the wind began to whistle past, fluttering the lamplight despite the tightly closed shutters, while the faint sounds of the temple’s temporary guests filtered in to her, reminded her that she had less than an hour’s respite before the evening’s duties demanded her presence.
She sighed wearily. She had the monthy Anavatanon Cami Reception as well as the weekly Temple Luncheon tomorrow. She barely had time for Havo’s disruption to her schedule, never mind Incasa‘s, but Oristo was also feeling skittish and disturbed and had filled her dreams just before dawn with a vague sense of disorder and chaos, much more so than what Havo’s Dance usually stirred up. Neclan had hoped to gain some understanding of this disturbance at Assembly—all Oristo could send her was the traditional imagery of the Hearth God’s disquiet: stained linen and overcooked mutton—but Bey-Freyiz’s revelation had left her feeling more unsettled than when she’d arrived. She did not like cryptic visions at the best of times—they disturbed the city’s orderly flow—and despite her opinion of Aurad and his so-called sense of humor, she had to admit that the musician was right. It was bad for trade, and trade was the single most stabilizing influence on the city and its people.
As her delinkos began to wash her hair, she sank a little lower into the water. If truth be told, she admitted, it wasn’t cryptic visions she disliked so much as Incasa and His temple becoming involved in any aspect of the city’s day-to-day life at all. It was her experience that prophecies and prophets complicated things rather than clarifying them. Few of Oristo’s people had any kind of prophetic ability; they preferred to rely on the five simple physical senses and their accompanying needs. Take care of those and the metaphysical ones would take care of themselves.
And on that note ... Opening her eyes, she raised herself up slightly.
“Yorin.”
The scribe hovering just outside the bathing room door entered promptly. “Yes, Sayin?”
“Have messages sent to each temple chamberlain at once. I wish them to attend me in private consultation tomorrow in midafternoon. Stress the word private, no delinkon or servers to accompany them. They can expect this to occupy approximately one hour of their time and should readjust their daily schedules as necessary.” She paused. “Tea and confectionaries will be provided. They needn’t bring anything.”
“Yes, Sayin.”
The scribe withdrew and Neclan leaned back again. Seers and warriors were all very well for dealing with creation and destruction, she sniffed, but when it came right down to it, the only thing that really mattered was that the people of her city needed to be fed and sheltered every day, and nothing, certainly not cryptic prophecies, was going to interfere with that.
Deep within her mind, she felt Oristo’s satisfaction sweep away her sense of unease—with the comfortingly normal image of a large broom—and, invigorated once again, she closed her eyes, allowing the last moments of warm water to relax her muscles.
Outside, the sky began to darken as the God of the Seasons slowly rose to begin the Second Night of Havo’s Dance. A light spattering of rain began to fall upon the cobblestones of Anavatan, while the rising wind whistled through the streets, rattling the already closed shutters. In the Western Trisect dockyards, Brax and Spar sprinted for the protection of a temporary safe house, while in the depths of Gol-Beyaz the God of Prophecy watched the possibilities of their future unfold and nodded in satisfaction. They would do.
Out on the plains, the spirits of the Berbat-Dunya began to flock together like great, silvery birds, called by their smaller brethren who crouched before the newly bubbling stream of possibility on the streets of Anavatan, waiting impatiently for the coming of night and their opportunity for power.
3
Graize
ON THE BERBAT-DUNYA the air was thick with unrealized potential. As the sun began to set behind its mask of heavy storm clouds and the shining lake’s Deity of wind and rain began to stir, the spirits of the western wild lands drifted slowly from the hollows and crevices that made up their own places of power. Stretching themselves upon the winds, they passed over the Yuruk encampments along the small northern lake of Gol-Bardak, running feather-light fingers of need across the flocks of sheep and herds of goats until they were turned aside by a firm but gentle command from a nearby hilltop. Swirling about the head of the man who’d checked their progress, they accepted a small seed of his power to assuage their hunger, then sped off toward the central plains.
Wyrdin-Kazak Kurskili Ranisev of the Rus-Yuruk waited until they were out of range, then signaled the herders that all was safe with a single, shrill whistle. In the distance, his fourth child, fourteen-year-old Raynziern, waved the family’s white yak’s tail standard in response and Kursk smiled indulgently.
Traditionally the white standard was used only in battle—herders used red—but ever since she’d been made standard-bearer two years before, Rayne had refused to use anything else. She would be a powerful wyrdin and a dangerous raider one day if she learned to control her wayward nature. With a fond expression, Kursk watched her wheel her pony about with effortless grace to join her kardon—siblings—in gathering the few straggling sheep that had failed to keep up when the kazakin had brought the rest from their more sheltered winter pastures, then returned his gaze to the evening sky. These first spring storms were dangerous ones. The spirits were drawn by the chaos in the air, and although not usually a threat to adult livestock, they could still suck the life from a newborn lamb or kid in a heartbeat if the herders dropped their guard.
Closing his eyes, he tasted the warm scents of new life and growth on the wind, then frowned.
Something was happening.
Opening his eyes, he stared out at the distant horizon. The land was still, but there was a dark and heavy portent behind the clouds. Choosing a hawk fetish from the hide bag at his belt, he held it up. The three tied tail feathers wavered in the breeze. He added a plains fetish, four stalks of last year’s grasses still smelling sweetly of meadow flowers. They, too, began to tremble. He nodded, then took out a fine piece of hide with several knots tied at one end. Whistling quietly between his teeth, he slowly sliced through the smallest of them with the tip of his kinjal knife.
The spirit he’d summoned replied immediately, snatching the plains fetish from his fingers and flinging it away. It then made a grab for the hawk fetish. Kursk gave a sharp, commanding whistle and it settled for knocking the plains fetish farther down the hill before calling up a small whirlwind to whip about Kursk’s head. Reading the fine strands of prophecy that feathered out from the spirit’s wake, he nodded, then thanked it with another tiny seed of power. It sucked it from his fingertips, then sped away over the hills while Kursk retrieved his fetish with a thoughtful expression. Something would be born over the Berbat-Dunya tonight. He could not respond until morning, but at dawn he would take his kazakin out to see what the spirits had written on the land and try to divine what it foretold. Mounting up, he turning his pony toward the encampment, allowing it to find its own path, his mind still unsettled by the portents on the breeze.
Rayne met him at the bottom of the hill. Commanding her pony to a series of sidesteps with only the faintest pressure of her knees, she turned her head slyly to see if he was impressed, then, at his smile, fell into step beside him. Noting the plains fetish still held loosely in one hand, she gave him an eager, wide-eyed look.
“What did you see, Aba? Will the storm be worse than you foretold?”
Kursk gave a noncommittal shrug. “The strength of the storm hasn’t changed,” he allowed. “But there’s something else on the wind that could be many things.” He swept his hand before him. “Tell me what you think it might be, child. What do yo
u see?”
Shaking off her deep hide and woolen hood at once, she quickly scanned the horizon.
“The clouds are densely packed,” she observed, her voice taking on a lecturing tone. “And I can see the wild lands shivering in anticipation of the coming rains. The storm will be nurturing, but cold, and the force of it may shred the younger, more delicate grasses.
“Timur would say it was an omen of flooding, pestilence, and starvation,” she added, rolling her eyes.
“Yes. But Timur is...” Kursk searched for as respectful a word as possible, knowing that it was likely to be repeated to the Rus-Yuruk’s most venerable wyrdin. “An elder,” he said finally. “And a dense packing of years often sees different omens in a dense packing of clouds. What does youth see?”
“Not flooding,” she replied forcefully. “Strong rains maybe, but nothing the plains haven’t seen before and nothing they can’t recover from. Abia taught me that.”
“Your Abia’s very wise. So, no pestilence?”
Rayne snorted. “Nor starvation.”
“What, then?”
Turning her attention to the west, Rayne’s gaze clouded over as she reached out for a sense of the vast world of power and potential that lay just below the surface of the physical plains. “The spirits are rising from the hollows in the earth, drawn by the awakening power of spring,” she answered, her voice taking on a singsong tone. “But they do that every year,” she added impatiently, her eyes clearing. “Still ...”
“Still?” Kursk prodded.
“They’re ... agitated,” she decided after a moment. “Like they’re waiting for something to happen; something besides the storm.” She tugged thoughtfully at her yak’s tail standard. “Danjel says the spirits are made up of raw prophecy and that they sing songs of power to each other as they rise. If you can capture their words, you’ll gain the power to see the future, but if you capture too many, the song will drive you mad and you’ll chase after the rest of it forever.” She glanced over at him, a tinge of worry darkening her features. “Have you ever heard them sing, Aba?”