The Silver Lake

by Fiona Patton

  He gave an eloquent shrug. “Perhaps not, but when the child of your oldest and dearest friend asks that you guard her sleep while she journeys in the realm of prophecy, you’re only too pleased to do so. However, I am tired,” he admitted. “It’s been a long time since I carried anything bigger than an ink brush in offense or defense. Military service is for the young.”

  “We’ll take in a large breakfast very soon and then you can return me to my mother and sleep the day away in her best guest suite,” she promised.

  “You got your answer, then?”

  “Most of it.” Crouching down, Panos watched a tiny turtle make its struggling way toward the water, trailing its past and its present along behind it in a series of sparkling, musical notes that seemed to bounce off her skin. The notes became drops of water breaking across a broken marble surface and she frowned thoughtfully. “Have you ever drawn a map of Gol-Beyaz?” she asked.

  “I have.”

  “Have you ever been there?”

  “When I was young. I traveled with King Pyrros to the mighty city of Anavatan and beyond.”

  “It’s said they have no king,” she observed.

  “That’s true. They follow the directives of their Gods only.”

  “But someone must lead them?”

  He shrugged. “Priests, for the most part.”

  “I should think that the lack of a centralized authority would be a weakness.”

  “They have a very great army.”

  “They’d have to.” Making a swift decision, she lifted the turtle, and, ignoring its indignant attempts to bite her, carried it the last few paces to the water.

  Her mother would not have approved, she mused. She would have admonished her in words that fell like purple grapes on the ground, that creatures, like people, must make their own way in this world, but Panos saw no reason to refuse aid when doing so gave her such a pleasant tactile experience. The turtle’s belly had been smooth and soft and sounded like cork trees whispering in the night. She never would have expected that. She watched as it disappeared into the waves with a splash of color and music, then stood.

  “I will travel to Anavatan and beyond myself this season,” she stated. “And you will come with me.”

  “Oh?”

  His lack of enthusiasm pattered against her thoughts like tiny footsteps and she laughed.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll be able to bring your inks and parchments with you.” Her expression grew serious. “Something’s happening in the midst of Gol-Beyaz, Hares, and the king will want an oracle nearby to determine whether it will be advantageous for the south, and the oracle will need a friend to help draw its deciphering.

  “Besides,” she added, pressing her hands to her cheeks, which had grown suddenly warm and scented like flowers, “there’s a tall stone tower in my dreams that keeps calling to me. I think I should like to see what it wants.”

  Hares gave her a look of amusement and alarm equally mixed. “It probably wants what all towers want,” he said in a warning tone of voice. “Be careful you don’t give it more than you want.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly,” she scoffed. “I’m not talking about sex. Sex is a pleasant ... tactile diversion, nothing more. I’m talking about power, the kind that plays deep and sinuous music in my head.”

  “Mm-hm. It’s obvious why I’m going now. Once your mother finds out about this, she’ll likely send me herself.” He glanced up at the great mansion perched on the hill above them. “And on that note, perhaps we should return to her.”

  “If you like.” Following him toward a small barge tied up beside the beach, she smiled secretly to herself. Power was as pleasantly diverting as sex, the more so if they were experienced together, and it was very likely they would be, whatever the combative, old woman in her dreams might be planning. Together, the tower and the Oracle would prevail. She didn’t need a dream to tell her that.

  4

  Brax

  HAVO’S SECOND MORNING was as peaceful as Havo’s Second Night had been violent. Drove’s corpse lay where it had been flung, one desiccated hand reaching out, the other clutching at his throat. Brax stared down at him for a long time, then swiftly searched through what was left of his clothing, finding five copper aspers in the remains of a shredded leather purse. Nothing else was salvageable. He turned away.

  He and Spar had crept out from beneath the fishing boat as soon as dawn had brought an end to the storm. Both had taken a dozen deep scratches to the back and neck and the wounds across Brax’s arm and face felt numb and tight.

  “But at least they’re not infected,” he muttered.

  Yet.

  Beneath the now constant buzz of Estavia’s lien he could feel the heat tickling at the edges of his injuries. Apparently, instant healing was not part of the Battle God’s bag of tricks.

  The buzz grew stronger, and he acknowledged the point with an exaggerated shrug. She’d provided the means to buy healing, and that was great, but ... He jiggled the money in his hand pointedly. Five aspers would buy them the necessary salve to doctor their injuries or feed them, but not both.

  The buzz became an impatient itch and suddenly something glinted just under the corpse’s right arm. Crouching, Brax pulled up Drove’s knife. It was heavier than his, and better made, with a smooth wooden handle and a carved jewel worked into the top. Worth a couple dozen aspers at least. He should have remembered it. With a nod, he tucked it through his belt.

  “Thanks.”

  The responding caress made him flush. It was going to take a while to remember that now when he talked about the Gods, one of them would be talking back—and loudly, too. Still—he glanced down at the knife with a grin—if he’d known that worshiping a God was going to be this profitable, he’d have joined him and Spar up a long time ago no matter what Cindar had wanted.

  His smile faded as he glanced over at the younger boy.

  Spar had taken one brief look at Drove—the second corpse he’d seen in as many days—then turned away with a shudder. Now he stood, staring out at the cold waters of the Halic-Salmanak, thin shoulders hunched under what was left of his jacket, waiting, as always, for the older boy to decide on their next move, for good fortune or bad.

  Brax joined him.

  “C‘mon,” he said gently. “We don’t wanna be anywhere near this place when the Watch finds Drove, and besides, we’ve got a long walk ahead of us.”

  Spar turned, a questioning frown on his face.

  “We have to get to Estavia-Sarayi,” Brax explained, feeling the imperative in the unfamiliar shifting pressure of the God’s touch. “And it’s a long way over ... there someplace.” He waved one hand toward the tall minarets of the Temple Precinct just visible to the southeast.

  Spar’s expression grew cynical.

  “Don’t worry,” Brax assured him. “They have to take us in. She rescued us, and it’s Her that’s sending us there. It won’t be like what Oristo’s temple does. They won’t try to put us to any menial work. We’ll be city guards, or maybe even ghazis or something.”

  Spar gave a very unchildlike snort.

  “Sure we will,” Brax insisted. “That’s what they do there. It doesn’t matter who we are, were,” he amended. “We’re Hers now, and She’s a Battle God so we’ll go into battle—with weapons and armor and everything. It’ll be great, you’ll see.” Draping one arm across the younger boy’s shoulders, Brax drew him past Drove’s body and up Liman-Caddesi. “I heard that when they’re not out killing people,” he began in a conspiratorial tone, “they eat huge mounds of lamb and fish and curried rice off golden plates. And those olives that you like so much, they eat them every day, sometimes two or three times a day if they want to.”

  Spar gave him a faint, disbelieving smile.

  “No, really,” Brax continued. “They’re rich, all of them. Nothing’s too good for the Warriors of Estavia ‘cause they risk their lives to protect the city from the Yuruk and all our other enemies—whoever they are,” he added.
“So when they’re not out killing people, they sleep on beds made of goose down covered with silk sheets, and they wear leather sandals on the street and satin slippers inside the temple. There’s rooms piled ten foot high with gold and jewels and, in the courtyards, the trees throw so much fruit that they can’t keep up with it and it falls into piles all over the place. They have special gardeners whose only job is to pick it up. I even heard a garrison guard once say that the kitchens alone were as big as Oristo-Cami. They could feed the entire city if they wanted to, so, don’t worry about anything, all right? We’re never gonna go hungry again. This is gonna be the best thing that’s ever happened to us. I promise.”

  Turning them toward the dockside market, Brax glanced up at the overcast sky. As long as you make it there in time, his mind observed darkly. So don’t mess around today or you’ll fail him again. He won’t survive another night of Havo’s Dance on the streets and neither will you.

  Brax clenched his teeth. We won’t have to, he retorted. We’re Estavia’s now and She won’t let those things touch us ever again. We’re not gonna end up like Drove and Graize, or even like Cindar either. We’re safe now, safe forever. So shut up and think about food.

  Leading them to the nearest stall, Brax pushed away the memory of Graize fighting off a dozen ravaging spirits as they dragged him into the air. I said, we aren’t going to end up that way, he repeated. “Not ever.”

  Spar gave him an inquiring glance and Brax shook his head.

  “Nothing. C‘mon, let’s eat.”

  Far away, crouched on the edge of a small rise on the Berbat-Dunya, Graize blinked at the strange thought that someone was thinking about him before staring out at wild lands, his pale eyes misty and unfocused, one pupil distinctly larger than the other, and a dazed expression on his face. His newly expanded abilities scrabbled to make some sense of the chaotic swirl of images called up by the vast expanse of power and possibility stretching out before him, but quickly became overwhelmed once more.

  “It’s like piles of yellow-and-green carpets,” he murmured. “But where’re the carpet sellers, hm? It’s long past dawn. They should be up and opening their stalls for the morning trade.”

  Looking down at the dead beetle clamped in his fist, he brought it up to his ear, then nodded.

  “Ah, the market’s closed today,” he said gravely. “There’s been a death in the family.”

  The beetle said no more and he closed his hand, pressing it to his chest. It was the only possession he had left and he didn’t want it to leave him, too. Everything had left him, even the buildings. His eyes narrowed as he tried to remember how that had happened. The night before was a confusing jumble of images and sensations; in fact everything before that morning was a confusing jumble of images and sensations. Everything except the spirits, he amended; he remembered the spirits. They had ... fed him? No, something had made them feed him, something cold, like ice water with a terrible consciousness behind it, something just beyond remembering. As he strained to bring the memory into focus, a dull ache began to throb behind his left temple and he abandoned the attempt. It didn’t matter anyway.

  Catching up one of the wispy creatures that still clung to his cheek; he pressed it against his teeth. Its tiny allotment of power and prophecy trickled down his throat and his eyes cleared for just an instant. Yes, they had ... fed him with their own shining, ice-cold life force. That morning. Slowly, his sense of time and space began to return.

  He’d come back to consciousness some time after dawn, lying facedown in a gully, knife gone, money gone, and his clothes hanging off him in bloody rags. The gout of power that had saved his life was long since used up and the path it had torn through his body spasmed every time he’d tried to move or even think. The pain had threatened to overwhelm his mind with a flood of cold, silvery shards that almost seemed to be alive, they were so bright. He shivered. They were alive, he’d realized. Alive and hungry, but so very tasty, like silvery sweetmeats on a confectioner’s tray.

  “They’re tasty, but they’re deadly,” he warned himself, feeling the truth of his words in the ebb and flow of the spirits’ power within his veins. “You can’t eat too many of them or you’ll go mad. You can’t even look at them for long or you’ll freeze to death. But, maybe, you could look for just a little while.”

  He stared at them until the silvery shards became the kaleidoscope of brilliant white lights he’d seen above the wild lands and he nodded triumphantly. He’d thought they’d been hiding back there.

  He bared his teeth at them experimentally, but they just twinkled back at him and he remembered. The silvery lights and the powerful new future he’d tasted had kept the spirits at bay until the dawn. Somehow weakened by the sunlight, the spirits could no longer attack him, but they still clung to him, unwilling to let go, covering his mouth and nose in a sticky, white mass. He breathed them in and felt their now familiar power flowing down his throat to warm his chest and limbs with potential. He’d begun to scoop them up from the pools of power all around him then, cramming them into his mouth and, after only a few minutes, he grew strong enough to scramble from the gully and clamber up the rise.

  But once there, there was nothing to see but miles of empty landscape and the vast, cloudy sky. Anavatan had disappeared. He was alone.

  He cocked his head to one side. Hadn’t he always been alone?

  The image of a dark-haired boy, watching as he was carried into the air on a tide of agony hovered before his eyes and he swiped at it impatiently. He didn’t know who that was. Scratching angrily at a dirt-smeared scab on his chin, he frowned. Or maybe he did know, but he didn’t care; it could be either.

  The dark-haired boy became an older, larger youth and Graize shook his fist at it.

  “No, no, no,” he whispered as he stared into its empty eye sockets. “Fly away, Drove. They ate you. You lost the game and you’re dead now. Fly away.”

  The image vanished in a puff of silver dust and Graize swayed dizzily in its wake. Sucking at a tiny spirit entwined around his fingers, he tasted moisture, then turned. There was a tall tower in the distance. He squinted. No, in the future, he amended, standing on a rocky ledge overlooking a storm-tossed sea. He licked his lips. The sea. Water. He needed water. He was so thirsty. But he couldn’t get water from the tower. Not yet. Nor from the sea. He had to find it somewhere else. With the allotment of prophecy he’d gained from the tiny spirit, he knew that water lay to the north and he began to make his way down the rise, his mind consumed with the need to drink.

  He wandered aimlessly until the cloud-obscured sun began its downward journey to the west, drinking from the rapidly shrinking puddles on the plains, then moving on to search for food, guided this way and that by the silvery lights and the new knowledge in his mind. The spirits swirled about him, whispering to each other in their own sibilant language, and every now and then, if he listened hard enough, he could almost understand them. But the concentration made his head ache, so after a while, he stopped trying. Then their world flowed over him like the tide, transforming the wild lands into a vast sea of darkly shaded dunes that looked like islands in the distance, islands dappled with pools of silvery orange and yellow light. He tasted the cast-off power of insects, birds, and burrowing creatures, felt the spirits’ insatiable hunger for the deeper, richer power growing stronger with every passing season behind its distant barriers of steel and stone, and knew their frustration as that power was denied to them over and over again by shepherds, warriors, and Gods. By the time the black dots on the horizon caught his attention, he’d forgotten that anything except the hunger had ever existed.

  The dots became a host of riders and, as his accompanying spirits fled, Graize stared fixedly down at them, feeling the growing interest of the silvery lights. The dots wavered in and out of his sight like distant waves sparkling in the sunlight, first near and then far away, many becoming few, than breaking up into many again. As they drew closer, he was able to discern ten figures dressed in blac
k boots and pantaloons, brown sheepskin jackets under boiled leather cuirasses, with iron-strengthened leather helmets on their heads and curved swords at their backs. They carried bone-and-wood bows with quivers of black-and-brown arrows at their hips, lances tipped with horsehair and nasty-looking iron hooks, and their shaggy little mounts wore braided feathers and tiny bells in their manes. A single memory came to him from the Anavatanon docks: Yuruk riders from the Berbat-Dunya, powerful, dangerous, and unpredictable, people to be feared and avoided, the greatest of all challenges to the game, but a challenge he’d never taken up. Until now.

  As he watched, one figure, riding before the others, carrying a tall stick with a white animal’s tail attached, became as familiar and yet as unknowable as tomorrow’s dawn, but it was the one who rode in the very center that drew his attention like a moth to a flame. His new vision saw strands of pale, multicolored power emanating from his chest like the spokes of a misty wagon wheel, ending at the chest of each of the other riders. The shining lights whispered his name: Kursk, their leader, their wyrdin—the word flowed over his tongue as if he had spoken it a hundred times—their seer. Captivated by the strength of his abilities, Graize reached out.

  The kazakin been riding all day, following the path of a small whirlwind that Kursk had called up just after day-break. The spirits of the wild lands were unsettled and distracted, unable to say more than that something portentous was still happening to the southeast. Alert to the signs from the night before, Kursk had sent several of his people fanning out ahead as they tracked the wake of the disturbance.

  It was Rayne who spotted the figure standing all alone in the middle of the plain. She gave the short, low whistle that meant unknown danger in the distance and, signaling the others to wait, Kursk joined her on a small hillock overlooking the strange creature. It stood as still as stone, giving no indication that it knew they were there, even after they began their approach, but Kursk could sense the chaotic swirls of power spinning about it like a cloud of spring flies. Whatever it was, this was the center of the disturbance on the plains.